Page 12 of Forbidden Desire

“That pretty little mouth,” he murmured, hooking his arms beneath hers, around her shoulders, pulling her against him. “Your daddy know how dirty it gets in bed?”

“I reserve some things for the lucky few.” She accepted his kiss as he slanted her back, balancing her weight on his forearms, increasing the pressure between their linked bodies. “Connel McDade…” Clenching her teeth, the pulse of lingering orgasm teetered so close it threatened to ruin her. “You don’t finish me this second, I’m going to get that damn gun and force you to do it with your fucking talented tongue.”

A deep, rough laugh left his lips as they sampled hers again. Continuing his theme of keeping her off-kilter, he shoved her onto her back and drove into her again a couple of times, delivering a climax so powerful that her lungs froze.

She couldn’t take air in. Couldn’t expel it or feel anything except the flood of hormones rushing through every inch of her, gathering in the clench of her inner muscles.

Heat. Satisfaction. Desperation. Every atom of her being was alive, taut in the frozen moment of delight.

Shit. He was good. Too good. More than any woman would be able to handle alone.

That wasn’t the point.

They were sating a need. Satisfying a curiosity. Pleasing each other with what nature gave them.

It wasn’t about tomorrow or what came next. It was about that moment. The hedonistic satisfaction of two people enticed by a potent magnetism so powerful it hadn’t needed words. It went unsaid. Yet, they’d both let it take them over. Only time would tell if either of them would live to regret it.

SIX

“YOU’VE GOT ISSUES.”

“You have no idea, Steeple,” she said, sitting opposite her boss at his desk the next day. “No idea.”

“What’s with him?” he asked, looking toward the glass panels in his wall that showcased the bullpen beyond.

More specifically, to the guy standing guard, blocking the panel by the door. That she’d kept him on the other side of it was a small mercy. One not to be taken for granted.

“That’s Daly.”

“Yeah, and according to my sources, he works for the McDades.”

She laughed. “You sit behind your desk and leave all the hard work to us. What sources do you have?”

“You know the golden rule,” he said, swinging left to right in his chair.

“I don’t give up sources because mine are real. Yours are imaginary, less chance they’ll get in trouble.”

“I paid my dues for plenty of years. My sources haven’t dried up yet,” he said. “Am I wrong?”

“About Daly? No. He’s on McDade payroll.”

“And his interest in you?”

“Is this why you called me in here?” she asked. “To quiz me about Daly?”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“Is this something to do with the flowers that show up three times a week?”

“Are you asking about my personal life?”

Everyone noticed. Of course their natures were to get to the bottom of mysteries. Her colleagues couldn’t have missed the bouquets, but this was the first time Steeple asked her straight out.

Her boss wasn’t confrontational. How many times had he reminded his reporters that honey often reaped more bees? This was less interrogation and more curious sparring. Still, she wasn’t sure Steeple was ready to hear the truth. Or that she was ready to tell it.

“That what the McDades are to you?” he asked. “Personal?”

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