Page 44 of Kandie Shoppe

“It’s not like I can get away. And even if I do, all you are going to do is chase me down, anyway.” I tug, but he only snatches me back.

“You’re damn right.” He pulls me through the rear door.

We step into a dark room that smells of pine cleaner. He flips the light on and bright illumination pours in. There are six shower stalls, bright and gleaming. Everything in here looks new as well.

“Well, I see you’re at least making good use of the county funds,” I quip snidely.

“Strip.” Finally letting me go, pulling his shirt over his head, he places it on a nearby bench.

The bench is cold on my naked bottom cheeks where he ripped my shorts off. When I sit to remove my boots, the metal sticks to my bottom. Standing, I untie my shirt, pulling it off. The back is full of grass stains. The same can be said of my spaghetti strap T-shirt that follows. My bra — the most expensive thing I’m wearing is still in good shape. It better be being nearly fifty dollars. It held up fine to his big strong hands, tugging and pulling on it like a mean baby wanting to be fed.

“You need some scissors to get those tight ass shorts off?” The sarcasm is deep as he stands naked like a blond adonis before me. His dick is hard again, and it takes everything in me not to drop to my knees and take it in my mouth like a lollipop.

“Funny, just because your eager beaver ass couldn’t wait doesn’t mean they are too tight. They fit perfectly. In fact, I got a lot of compliments.” I know I’m playing with fire the minute I see his gaze darken with rage.

I don’t back down. In fact, I take my own sweet time wiggling the torn shorts down over my hips. Then just as I reach the crest of my bottom, I turn, bending over to work them the rest of the way down, looking at the hunger in his gaze as he watches me.

“You’re buying me new ones,” I say, dropping them in the trash as I sashay by him to the shower.

Turning the nozzle, I step back to give the water a chance to warm. I hit a hard chest and feel an even harder dick pressed against my ass.

“Eep,” I gasp as his hand snakes around my middle. “Go to your own shower,” I whisper over my shoulder.

“No,” he says, dropping a shower cap over my hair and pushing me under the water.

The hot water hits my face. I tilt my head back into his chest, letting the spray soothe me. It must feel good to him too. He must have grabbed a clean washcloth from somewhere, soaps it, then starts washing me with long sure sweeps of his hands.

Resting against him, I relax, letting him bathe me like he’s in worship. All my aches seem to melt away under the strokes of his hands. His breath is steady, the rise and fall of his chest a meditation. For some strange reason, I feel so safe with him. Safer than I have ever felt since the time before my family was torn apart. Not even then, I suddenly realize, because my parents were under constant scrutiny, having to prove themselves worthy of us. So in actuality now and that brief time before when he came home on leave is the only time I felt safe and protected. Something lodges in my throat, making me turn into his chest. Strong arms still encasing me, he makes broad strokes along my spine. He dips to his hunches, making my lower half clean before rising. Tugging me close, he holds me for a long time, seeming to sense what I can’t say. In this moment I don’t feel judge for my drinking and wild ways. I just feel cherished and protected.

I grab the other cloth he left on the inset caddy and begin to return the favor, washing him in return. My circles are smaller, but just as thorough.

When his upper body is covered in sudsy goodness, I push his shoulders, making him turn so I can clean his broad back. Dropping low, I wash his legs, then with a nudge I have him turn. Starting at his feet, I make my way up his muscled legs and thighs. When I reach his dick, I take my time torturing him. With deft hands I clean his shaft and sac, taking my time to roll them in my fingers before using my nails to wash the dark blond thatch of hair at the base.

“All clean.” The words are soft, almost hesitant in their invitation.

“Wildcat—”

“Rinse off, U,” I command.

His brow quirks, dragging me under the shower. “You don’t boss me, woman.”

But he doesn’t say a word when I drop to my haunches and demand that he fuck my mouth. In fact, he does exactly what I say.

Chapter

Thirteen

Kandie

The cell doorslams in my face. Dense doesn’t even cover how I feel. Deep down, I knew he was going to do it. But arson? That’s a class A felony. Ulysses knows good and well when he let me go down on him in the shower, then took me against the wall before eating me out in the same shower that he was going to charge me with arson.

“Dirty ass motherfucking cop,” I spit the words out with all the hate I wish was in my heart instead of the hurt that’s threatening to cleave it in two.

Disbelief has given way to pure, unadulterated rage. He didn’t need to fingerprint me, but he did and took my picture after making me put on a white felon jumpsuit.

“It’s Sheriff,” he snaps cuttingly. “You were driving under the influence, and while doing so, you threw a fucking Molotov cocktail into the bed of my truck. Then you led me on a high-speed chase, driving recklessly and breaking every speed law in the state. With at least a hundred people looking on. So yeah, my little menace to society, your ass is arrested for every offense.”Anger rides high on the sharp angles of his jaw by the time he finishes the litany of alleged crimes.

“And you chase me down, breaking those same laws, probably not even bothering to wear a seatbelt. Then you chase me down and fucked me, then again here. You’re just as wrong, U. A felony? I could lose my business.” Pain makes my voice raw.

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