Page 72 of The Wrong Side of the Law

Time is suspended around us. My vision narrows in a rush of adrenaline. I see nothing but Gabriel Cooper’s face in front of me, and the distant sounds of crashing surf and far-below traffic are drowned by my heartbeat, pounding in my ears like an entire herd of stampeding wild horses.

Our lips touch, lighter than a feather at first, sweet and innocent. Did he lean forward? Did I? Does it matter?

My hand on the fork is suddenly on his forearm instead; my other hand grips the edge of the table for balance. A low moaning fills my head even over my racing pulse, the whispered sigh of wind through cypress trees.

My eyes drift shut as the pressure in the kiss grows, and the moaning sound grows deeper, hungrier. Is the sound real? I think it is. I think I’m making it.

Our lips part and suddenly our tongues touch, dancing and twining together. I’m running out of air, and I couldn’t care less. The only thing in the world that matters is this kiss.

Only the instinct for self-preservation breaks our lips apart. Our bodies force us to separate; to breathe.

Outside sensation forces its way back into my perception as I gasp for much-needed air. I’d started the kiss sitting on my heels, one hand on the table, the other on Gabriel’s forearm. Now, grit from the concrete digs into my knees, both of my arms are locked around his neck. Somehow my ponytail has come undone. Strong fingers are twisted and tangled in my hair; Gabriel’s other hand is in the small of my back, pressing my body hard against his.

Gabriel speaks first.

“Wow,” is all he can say at first.

“Uh-huh,” I agree. I’m too busy gasping for air to speak even in words, let alone sentences.

“I think,” Gabriel finally says, when he’s caught his breath, “that I’ve wanted to do that since the second I laid eyes on you, though.”

His hand in my hair still cups the back of my head, the other is on the small of my back, caressing slowly up and down my spine. Gabriel makes no move to let me go; I make no attempt to break away from him.

“Uh-huh.”

“This was a bad idea,” he finally says, when he’s caught his breath.

“Holy shit, yes,” I agree. “Terrible.”

“And we can’t do it again,” he says. “We can’t let that happen.”

“No,” I say. “I mean yes. I mean, I don’t know what I mean. You’re right, though. Never again.” The words tumble out of my mouth, uncontrolled.

But all our good intentions go right out the window. Gabriel’s strong arms crush my body against his, and my arms around his neck have no intention of letting go either. Again our lips meet, then our tongues, and again, the urgency and overwhelming need holds us together far longer than I ever imagined possible.

“I don’t think I feel like working anymore tonight,” I say.

“Me neither,” Gabriel says. “Lisa’s been after me to take a night off. Relax a little.”

He stands without letting go of me, effortlessly carrying me with him as he rises to his feet.

“Yeah. That’s a good idea,” I whisper, looking up at him, lost in his deep brown eyes. “I don’t think we’d have gotten much done anyway.”

Another kiss, and now that we’re standing I can feel him growing hard against my belly.

When Gabriel’s hands leave my body I almost cry out for the loss of his touch, but he’s only shifting his grip, boosting me up with his hands at my waist, lifting me off the ground and carrying me inside the condo.

I mentally curse this morning’s rushed routine: laziness and lack of time had put me in mismatched underwear. The moment of concern passes quickly, though, with another—far more thrilling—realization: it doesn’t matter if my bra and panties match.

I’m not going to be wearing them for long.

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