Page 10 of Misadventures in Blue
But I underestimate him.
“Don’t you ever, ever, leave your fucking door unlocked,” he whispers against my ear. “Ever fucking again.”
Without waiting for a response, he pulls out and steps away, leaving my entire body wet and empty and cold. I hear the clang of the kitchen trash can lid as he throws the condom away, and the purr of his zipper, and then his footsteps to the front door. It opens.
I hear the pointed, deliberate sound of the lock turning and then the door closing behind him.
Jace is gone, having left me bruised and flushed and happy—and safer than how he found me.
And I stay bent over that table for much longer than necessary, smiling into the wood because that unsettled itch from earlier is finally, finally scratched.
Chapter Four
Jace
I’m edgy as hell as I walk into the station.
I barely slept, could hardly eat this morning, and even the usual grind of weights and cardio at the gym wasn’t enough to sharpen my focus. All I could think about was her.
Catherine.
Cat.
She was catlike indeed last night, all purrs and sinuous, needy arches. I wonder if she bites. I wonder if she scratches.
I think I might die if I don’t find out.
The problem is that I’m not sure I’ll have the chance—and even I see the irony of that, because ever since I’ve come home to Hocker Grove, I haven’t exactly been a “find out more” kind of guy.
I left the army, expecting to marry my high school sweetheart, and came home to find that she’d been sweethearting plenty of other guys while I was away. It hurt less than it should have, and I think we’d been nothing more than friends with benefits for a while. But it still made me wary of anything lasting longer than a couple of hours. Once bitten and all that.
Except I want more than a couple of hours with Cat. I want much, much more, and it was only respect for what I thought she needed from our encounter that made me leave. I wasn’t going to force myself on her for longer if all she wanted was a nice little fuck to finish off the day.
Not that our fuck was nice. Or little.
My dick swells as I remember how rough my ice queen wanted it. How she moaned as I pulled her hair and spanked her ass. How fucking sexy and sluttish she looked with that prim skirt over her ass and her pricy garters framing her cunt.
I get to the locker room and lean against my locker, my mind crammed full of last night, my body aching with the memory of it.
What is it about her?
Is it that she’s older? Elegant? Mysterious?
Was it the bewitching discovery that if you bent her over a table, all that good breeding disappeared?
I’m not sure. It’s all of it combined, maybe. All of it plus seeing her at work last night, so fearless and intelligent and methodical. Knowing her slender, wanton body came paired with steel resolve and a sharp mind.
I’m still chewing over this as I get to roll call and take a chair. Russo goes over the normal beginning of shift stuff—traffic assignments for the afternoon, new slides from vice about a drug ring up north—and then swivels her chair toward me. “Investigations is asking for a uniform to help with the television robberies. I volunteered you.”
I’m only half paying attention, my thoughts still fixated on a certain detective. “Pardon?”
“You did a good job last night,” Russo says honestly, and it’s one of the things I like best about her. She’s fair, and while she doesn’t effusively praise her squad the way some sergeants do, she consistently recognizes good work. “I was impressed, and Captain Kim in investigations was impressed. We both agree you’d be a good fit to help Day with some of the investigation grunt work.”
Hearing her name out loud is like a shot of adrenaline. I sit up straighter, alert. “I’d be working with Detective Day?”
Russo tilts her head at me. “Yeah. That’s what I said. That a problem?”
It’s the furthest fucking thing in the world from a problem. “No, of course not. Do I need to change shifts?”
