Undercover Heat (8 page)

“You look sad,” he commented.

“I'm not. Not right now.”

• • •

He stared into her eyes for a few moments, seeing her surprise when they'd run into each other at the church, her determination when they wrestled in the basement. Her need to solve this case, the case he so badly wanted to help her solve. While he didn't know why, he understood it was important to her on some emotional level. Most importantly, he saw in her eyes everything she now knew about his past, what his father had done, and how Quinn had been unable to stop it.

What he didn't see was pity, or condemnation. Only—acceptance.

She was everything he should not want, everything he believed he did not deserve.

And everything he craved.

He had never felt so strongly about wanting to bed a woman before. Sure, he was a guy, and guys had needs, but he had never associated the word crave in relation to sex. Yet that was exactly how he felt at this moment.

She knows.

He should be furious that she'd sneaked into his files. He should want to go to Nico and demand he take Quinn off this case, maybe even ask him to send her back to Dallas, where she would never, ever be a part of his life again.

He should, but he wasn't, he didn't. Instead of feeling any negativity whatsoever, there was room for only one thought.
I want her more now than I did when I kissed her that second time and she actually participated.
He was baffled by his own response, yet when she looked at him with sadness in her eyes even though she insisted she wasn't, all he wanted was to bring her pleasure, give her nothing but positive memories in connection to what they were about to do.

He pushed himself down her body until he was eye level with her breasts. Then he set about lavishing attention on them. They were beautiful, flawless, small globes of pliable flesh that, whether they were meant for him, brought him nearly as much pleasure as his attentions brought her. She arched underneath him, threading her fingers into his hair and holding his head in place. Clearly, she liked what he was doing. Which was good, because he liked it too.

He was distracted when she tugged on his hair. He glanced up and she pulled again, so he crawled up her body until he hovered over her, his knuckles pressed into the blanket.

“Kiss me,” she murmured.

He complied, leaning down and slanting his mouth over hers, gently biting her lower lip before thrusting his tongue between her lips. She pulled one hand out of his hair and a moment later, his entire body went rigid when she stroked his manhood through his jeans.

“Ah hell,” he said, and rolled to the side.

“What's wrong?” she asked, her eyes now filled with concern.

He shook his head and snagged the condom that she'd dropped onto the bed. “I've been so fucking hot for you since we sparred down in the basement, I feel like I'm about to explode here.” He shimmied out of his pants and sheathed himself.

She lay on her back and watched him, a catlike smile on her lips. “You say the sweetest things,” she quipped. He reached for her panties but then paused.

“I'm sorry for what I said, when you punched me. I didn't mean it.” Holy hell, did he just apologize? Shit, he really did want this woman.
Bad
.

“I know you didn't mean it.” She touched his jaw with her fingertips, traced the outline of the bruise. “I'm sorry I hit you so hard.”

“No, you aren't. And you shouldn't be. I deserved it.”

“Quinn?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we stop talking about it now?”

He got the hint. He grabbed her panties, pulled them down her legs. Then he rolled over on top of her. “What do you want?”

She lifted her knees, splayed her hands on his back. “You.”

He thrust. She arched and cried out as he groaned and closed his eyes, fighting against the very real urge to begin pumping like a goddamned rabbit.

Slow
.
Make it last
. There was a small voice in the back of his head telling him this was probably the one and only time he'd get this lucky with Kyra.
You aren't good enough for the likes of her
, the voice whispered.
You and your fucked-up past.
The voice was gravelly and deep, a lifetime chain smoker.

He forced his eyes open and looked down at the woman who was squirming beneath him. She blinked at him and smiled uncertainly. She was so beautiful, fresh-faced, with that mussed blond ponytail. He reached up and tugged the hairband out of her hair.

So beautiful.

The voice could go to hell. He was going to focus on the woman who was currently the center of his world.

Quinn rolled his hips. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as her mouth formed a perfect O. He smiled. If all he got was one time with Kyra Sanders, he was going to make it damned unforgettable. He grabbed her hips and twisted his body so that she ended up on top, straddling him. She sat up and placed her palms on his chest. Then she took control of the situation, and he was lost, lost in the sensations, lost in the moment, lost to everything except the way she felt, the way she made him feel.

She made a sexy little squeaking noise as her inner muscles squeezed and then she climaxed, and he roared through his own orgasm, his hands clutching her hips as he thrust desperately and urgently until he finally collapsed back onto the bed, his heart racing, breathing as heavily as he'd expected.

He spared a thought to hoping this really, truly would not be the only time, and then he slept like the dead.

• • •

“Quinn. Quinn, your phone's ringing.”

He woke to the sound of a woman calling his name, to the feel of someone nudging his arm. Kyra. He blinked to open his eyes and noticed that dusk had fallen. He was in bed in the master bedroom, and Kyra was lying next to him.

“I have voicemail,” he mumbled, because he was not quite ready to burst whatever bubble they were still living in. He rolled to the side, intent on wrapping his arm around her and pulling her snuggly against his body. Could he persuade her to go another round? He didn't feel drunk anymore, but hopefully that wouldn't matter.

But she was gone, already up and off the bed and pulling his cell phone out of the pocket of the pants lying on the floor. She looked at the screen and then thrust the phone at him, a stricken look on her face.

“It's the Jackson Prison,” she blurted, and he cursed as he pulled the phone out of her hand and accepted the call, rolling away from her as he did so.

“Heard you're working on a hot new case,” his father's gravelly voice commented.

“How the hell do you have access to that sort of information?” Quinn demanded.

His father chuckled. “When you're as good as I am, you have ways.”

“Not that good,” Quinn said automatically. “Otherwise you wouldn't be behind bars.”

“A tactical error,” Larry Daniels replied. “Thanks to your good-for-nothing mother and a son who confused his loyalties.”

“My loyalties have never been confused. I'm loyal to the law. Period.”

“Blood should be thicker than that stupid shiny badge on your belt,” Larry snapped.

Quinn tried to shrug Kyra's hands off his back, but she persisted, and began massaging his shoulders. It felt damn good and admittedly helped pull away the tension that always resulted from a call with his father.

“What do you want?” Quinn asked abruptly, wanting to end the call. It was clear by Kyra's actions at the moment that she wasn't quite ready to leave their little bubble either. He needed to shift his focus to her, before she lost interest.

“You're never going to solve this one, boy. Trust me on this.”

“I stopped caring about what you thought a long time ago, and I've never trusted you a day in my life. If that's all you have to say, I have to go. I have better things to do at the moment.” Like Kyra, whose massage was turning erotic.

His father started to speak again, but Quinn disconnected the call and tossed the phone to the side as he rolled over onto his back, allowing Kyra better access to that part of his body she seemed determined to massage.

“Who was that?” she asked casually, as her hands stroked his very attentive erection.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he said on a gasp, and then he groaned, “Oh yeah,” when she dipped her head and proceeded to massage him—with her mouth.

The doorbell rang. Kyra's head shot up.

“Ignore it,” he commanded, and he tried to push her head down again.

She batted his arm away and climbed off the bed. “No way. It might be Whitney.”

They heard the knock on the door, through the open window.

“That's the back door,” Kyra said as she began pulling on clothing. “It's her, I'm sure of it.”

“I don't give a flying fuck about the case right now. Come back to bed. She'll still be there tomorrow.”

She shot him an irritated look. “We're here, in this position, because of this case. I'm not ignoring it.” She strode from the room.

“I doubt very much we were supposed to end up in
this
position because of the case,” he complained to the empty condom wrapper lying on the bedside table. And then he reluctantly climbed out of bed and got dressed.

• • •

It was her. Whitney Bianca, looking as put together and sexy as ever, standing at the back door holding a bottle of wine and a binder full of financial information. Her timing could only have been worse if she'd interrupted earlier in the day, while they were having sex for the first time. At least Kyra hoped it was the first time and not the last. It had been damned obvious he was enjoying her blowjob, which only made
her
enjoy it more. And if she could take his mind off the call from the prison, well, that only made her want to try harder.

Quinn had a horrible life thus far. She was amazed, frankly, that he was able to handle his past as well as he did. She now understood what Raquel meant when she said he hid behind the booze. Kyra couldn't say she wouldn't do the same thing, in the same situation. She felt lucky to have had an idealistic childhood, even though her experiences—and his—had been completely outside of their control. She only wished Quinn would come to that same realization. He could do nothing about where he came from, but he could control where he went in life, how he managed his own choices.

Speaking of managing choices, he was doing a lousy job of hiding his irritation with Whitney at the moment.

“I think we'll pass,” he said, nodding at the bottle of wine. Kyra glanced toward the kitchen. The open bottle of Jack Daniels still sat on the counter. If he'd had a condom handy, they probably would have ended up having sex on that counter. Maybe he'd be interested in trying that out later.

When the hell had she become so wanton?

“Do you have some time anyway?” Whitney asked in her sugary sweet voice. Kyra knew that voice was reserved for Quinn. There was a distinct change in the woman's speech patterns every time she addressed Kyra directly.

“Not really,” he replied. Kyra elbowed him in the side. He grunted, gave her a side-eyed glare, and then waved at the flowered wicker furniture. “Have a seat.” His tone was resigned.

“I'm going to grab some water. You want some?” he asked without looking at Kyra.

“Yes, please.”

Whitney perched on the edge of a seat cushion, her already short skirt riding into dangerously inappropriate territory. She made no move to tug it over her thighs. Quinn returned with two bottles of water, a wine glass, and a corkscrew.

“I don't want to drink if you aren't going to join me,” Whitney said. Her red painted lips curved into a pout.

Quinn shrugged and returned to the kitchen. When he stepped back into the room, he held three bottles of water in his hands. Whitney's pout turned into a frown as she accepted one of the bottles.

“You seem edgy,” she said. “Are you arguing again?”

Was it Kyra's imagination, or did she sound hopeful?

“Nope. We were in the middle of something.”

Kyra knew her cheeks flamed. He couldn't have been more obvious had he announced, “She was giving me a blowjob and frankly, I wanted her to finish.”

Whitney narrowed her eyes. “You told me to stop by any time.”

“Yeah, well—”

Kyra cut him off. “What can we do for you, Whitney?” she asked, ignoring Quinn's glare.

Whitney indicated the folder she'd brought with her. “I thought we could go over some of my ideas about investing your money.” She turned slightly in her seat, obviously angling for Quinn's attention, and Kyra had to watch as the other woman's shirt gaped open and her breasts practically spilled out into his lap. He spared a quick glance down at the sight and then shifted his gaze up to Whitney's face.

She knew damn well he was comparing the two women, right at that moment. Kyra's hair was still down around her shoulders, and all she'd managed to do was finger comb it as she rushed down the stairs to answer Whitney's summons. What little makeup she'd had on had been worn off by their lovemaking and the impromptu nap afterward. She'd thrown on a T-shirt and a pair of khaki pants. Her toenails, painted a pale peach color, were chipped and in need of a new pedicure.

Whitney, on the other hand, was cool and suave. She had an aura of sexuality Kyra could never hope to obtain. While their neighbor talked about her grand financial plans, Kyra sat there smarting over Keith Oshard, the man she'd thought she loved and then subsequently lost to Whitney Bianca, who had been Whitney White back then.

“You were sleeping with her?” Kyra's voice had been incredulous, shocked, mortified.

Keith had shrugged and waved his hand in a general fashion, indicating the glossy photograph of Whitney that she was holding in her hand at the time. “Shit, Kyra, what did you expect? The woman is hot as hell. Do you see those tits? And she's pushy too. No way could I resist when she started hitting on me.”