Page 24 of Misadventures in Blue
I look at you and I think you might be capable of breaking my heart.
I think of those words—and let’s be honest, I’ve probably thought of them every ten minutes since she said them—and this fierce, strange urgency comes over me, like I’m at the top of the roller coaster and ready for the plunge straight into danger. It makes my stomach twist up into my chest. And then something vital in my chest twists up into my throat. And then I just want to throw her over my shoulder and do something drastic. Abduct her like a Viking. Marry her. Hell, even cuddle her on the couch, which is something I haven’t done in years and never thought I’d want to do again.
For now, though, I’m taking care of her. Whatever she needs is what I’ll give, for as long as she’ll let me.
“You’re in uniform,” I remark as Cat pulls out onto the street and angles the car toward my apartment. “I’ve never seen you in uniform.”
“I had range today,” she says, not taking her eyes from the road. “I’ll wear the utility uniform for training and, you know, the dress uniform for the official department stuff.” Her mouth gives a self-conscious twist. “I wear it so rarely that it almost feels like a costume now.”
“When I first saw you standing there, I thought I was going to come in my pants.”
My words are so surprising that she snorts out a very unladylike laugh, which makes me smile. I like seeing these cracks in her control, these glimpses of the warm, funny woman underneath her shell.
But I’m also not kidding. Cat in her silk shirts and high heels is a wet dream come to life, but Cat in uniform? I don’t even have the words. It’s like all that strength and resolve she normally hides under a veneer of cold dignity is even more on display, stripped down to the essential power and discipline she exudes.
The fitted lines of the shirt highlight her delicately squared shoulders and reveal the tight swells of muscle in her arms. The pants cling to her taut ass and legs. And her hair in that ponytail—without the gentle, Hollywood-starlet curtain of it softening her features, you can see exactly how ethereal she is. High cheekbones and big, fragile eyes. A comely jawline that ends in a pointed, adorable chin. Coupled with that booted, confident stance of hers and her svelte form, she could be one of those elves from the fantasy novels. Otherworldly and lethal. Deceptive beauty concealing deadly dominance.
God, what man doesn’t want to tangle with that?
It only takes a few minutes to get to my house, which is one of the reasons I like the Dirty Nickel. It’s a short ride home or only a medium walk, and while I’m not hung up on things being convenient in my life, I do like simple. Straightforward.
So what are you doing right now, then?
We park and get out, and then I lead her up the stairs to my door. It’s only as I’m letting her in that I have a burst of sudden self-consciousness about how she will see my place. She of the flawlessly decorated bungalow. She of the kitchen piled with fresh fruit and flowers. She of the real-ass art hanging above her sofa.
What is she going to think when she sees my Craigslist couch and inherited recliner? My collection of signed baseballs and the empty QuikTrip cup on my counter I forgot to throw away this morning? I keep the place pretty tidy, but for all that, it’s undecorated and shabby, and it looks like it belongs to a twenty-four-year-old guy without a girlfriend.
My cheeks flame as we walk inside, and I’m waiting for her to say something, waiting for her to raise a sculpted eyebrow at the place, but instead she just turns to me and goes straight into my arms. Without asking, without hesitation, as if she belongs there. And whatever has been twisting from my chest into my throat now twists so hard that the back of my eyelids are burning.
“Are you ready to talk about it? About what made you come find me?” I whisper into her hair.
Her face is buried in my chest, and she just shakes her head, a swish swish of that tempting ponytail.
“Can I take care of you, then? Without talking?”
A bob of the ponytail. Yes.
I wrap my arms around her slim frame, just taking a moment to relish the feeling of her crushed to me, so elegant yet so strong. And then I walk her backward in slow, careful steps to my bathroom, where I flick on the light and pick her up to set her on the counter.
She watches me with wide, red-rimmed eyes. She hasn’t cried yet, but I can feel the force of her tears pushing against her restraint, flooding her control.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
“I’ll stop when you say. Always.”
She blinks up at me, suddenly looking very young and very, very lost. “I know.”
I take in a deep, shivering breath as I reach for her.
The thing is that our first time, and our second, Cat initiated. Cat told me her address or purred that she wanted to get fucked again, and then I followed where she led. I knew exactly what she wanted out of me, which was a big cock and a dirty mouth.
But now? Now when she’s sought me out, looking like the sun’s been darkened to ash? It’s different. This isn’t just a quick, hungry screw. This isn’t a
primitive urge let out to play. This is me giving something to her, not us trying to take from each other in a frenzied embrace, and I want to get it right. I want to get it so right that she trusts me to give it to her again and again.
I want her to always find me when she needs something. I want to always fix anything that’s hurting her.
