hands all over her, my lips, my dick rubbing up against her. Christ. I feel like pulling my hair out. Pacing back and forth on that dark road didn’t help any. Truth is, I’m scared shitless I fucked things up.
When we work, she’s Harper. Last night, she was the girl of my dreams. I know better, yet I couldn’t fucking keep my hands to myself. Hell, whom am I kidding? I got hard just looking at her standing in front of her bedroom mirror, her hair all mussed and cheeks flushed…and those almond-shaped eyes and long lashes, perfect feminine curves in all the right places. Goddammit. I had to haul ass so she wouldn’t catch a glimpse of my hard-on.
She’s my partner and my best friend. But like everything else, I knew sooner or later, I’d fuck it up. I gotta clear this up, and soon. I can’t keep my hands off her anymore. It’s getting harder and harder to maintain my self-control. Yesterday morning was pure hell, but so is anytime I watch her work out. And what a work of art it is to watch her hit that bag.
All I wanted to do was lick every inch of her body, which is why I had to look away before she did it . Once she’s done punching, she reaches for the top of the bag, hoists herself up, and wraps those powerful legs around it to do fucking sit-ups. A groan escapes me just thinking about it.
She’s like an instrument I’m dying to play. I want to know the right key I need to hit to make her sing. I want to see what her face looks like when she finally let's go. I want to witness it, take it all in. I’m done hiding; it’s fucking with my head. Every day I have to look at her delicate, flawless neck, her plump red lips, I have to rein myself in. Every fucking day it’s more difficult to keep my hands off her skin, my fingers from brushing those loose stray curls off her beautiful heart-shaped face, my lips from diving in and consuming her mouth. Daily, I have to fight my urge to taste her and it is not fair to either of us. It’s messing with my head and affecting our work together.
The woman still has one hell of an instinct. She always has. Even in Afghanistan, she’d get these weird vibes, and she’d be right on. It bailed us out of trouble and kept us safe for two tours in the sandbox. I got hurt and shot in Iraq, but with her and that Spidey sense of hers, we escaped some serious shit more times than I care to count.
Damn local cop thought he could pull that sexist bullshit on my watch like I was gonna play along. As soon as Harper left for the coffee run, I reamed his sorry ass. He better not be disrespecting Harper or he’ll have to deal with me. Back in the Army, enlisted men thought they could talk back or mock her behind her back just because she was female. Never fucking mind she was smarter and stronger than all of them. I put a stop to that crap. Even now, some think that because Harper takes care of the paperwork and I’m the mouthpiece, she’s my secretary or something. But she’s not. It’s just how we work.
I finally arrive at my place and take a quick shower. This is it. I'm going to do it. As soon as we find this guy, we're going to talk. I'm going to tell her and fuck the consequences. I can't keep it in anymore. Nothing can bring me down today. I feel like I'm on top of the world. I'm so wired I won't even wait for her call. Fuck the nap. There will be plenty of time to rest later. There's a lot I have to make up for; it’s time I take care of her instead of the other way around. We’re going to catch this fucker today if it's the last thing I do.
I jump out of the shower, throw on some faded jeans, an old T-shirt, and my jacket. I go through my fridge and find cold pizza. Perfect. I grab a slice, grab my gear, and I'm out the door. My hair still wet, I climb in my car and haul ass back to the scene in Bloomingfield.
Chapter 9
Blue. Everything is blue. Am I dead?
I'm sprawled on my back, looking at nothing but blue, and feel as if I'm floating. Blinking a few
When we work, she’s Harper. Last night, she was the girl of my dreams. I know better, yet I couldn’t fucking keep my hands to myself. Hell, whom am I kidding? I got hard just looking at her standing in front of her bedroom mirror, her hair all mussed and cheeks flushed…and those almond-shaped eyes and long lashes, perfect feminine curves in all the right places. Goddammit. I had to haul ass so she wouldn’t catch a glimpse of my hard-on.
She’s my partner and my best friend. But like everything else, I knew sooner or later, I’d fuck it up. I gotta clear this up, and soon. I can’t keep my hands off her anymore. It’s getting harder and harder to maintain my self-control. Yesterday morning was pure hell, but so is anytime I watch her work out. And what a work of art it is to watch her hit that bag.
All I wanted to do was lick every inch of her body, which is why I had to look away before she did it . Once she’s done punching, she reaches for the top of the bag, hoists herself up, and wraps those powerful legs around it to do fucking sit-ups. A groan escapes me just thinking about it.
She’s like an instrument I’m dying to play. I want to know the right key I need to hit to make her sing. I want to see what her face looks like when she finally let's go. I want to witness it, take it all in. I’m done hiding; it’s fucking with my head. Every day I have to look at her delicate, flawless neck, her plump red lips, I have to rein myself in. Every fucking day it’s more difficult to keep my hands off her skin, my fingers from brushing those loose stray curls off her beautiful heart-shaped face, my lips from diving in and consuming her mouth. Daily, I have to fight my urge to taste her and it is not fair to either of us. It’s messing with my head and affecting our work together.
The woman still has one hell of an instinct. She always has. Even in Afghanistan, she’d get these weird vibes, and she’d be right on. It bailed us out of trouble and kept us safe for two tours in the sandbox. I got hurt and shot in Iraq, but with her and that Spidey sense of hers, we escaped some serious shit more times than I care to count.
Damn local cop thought he could pull that sexist bullshit on my watch like I was gonna play along. As soon as Harper left for the coffee run, I reamed his sorry ass. He better not be disrespecting Harper or he’ll have to deal with me. Back in the Army, enlisted men thought they could talk back or mock her behind her back just because she was female. Never fucking mind she was smarter and stronger than all of them. I put a stop to that crap. Even now, some think that because Harper takes care of the paperwork and I’m the mouthpiece, she’s my secretary or something. But she’s not. It’s just how we work.
I finally arrive at my place and take a quick shower. This is it. I'm going to do it. As soon as we find this guy, we're going to talk. I'm going to tell her and fuck the consequences. I can't keep it in anymore. Nothing can bring me down today. I feel like I'm on top of the world. I'm so wired I won't even wait for her call. Fuck the nap. There will be plenty of time to rest later. There's a lot I have to make up for; it’s time I take care of her instead of the other way around. We’re going to catch this fucker today if it's the last thing I do.
I jump out of the shower, throw on some faded jeans, an old T-shirt, and my jacket. I go through my fridge and find cold pizza. Perfect. I grab a slice, grab my gear, and I'm out the door. My hair still wet, I climb in my car and haul ass back to the scene in Bloomingfield.
Chapter 9
Blue. Everything is blue. Am I dead?
I'm sprawled on my back, looking at nothing but blue, and feel as if I'm floating. Blinking a few
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