“Okay, good. I’ll need to give Whitney a condensed version of that, but I don’t see any compromise or conflict of interest. She didn’t make a specific threat or ask for payment?”
“No.”
“Then it would be hard to stretch that pool wide and deep enough for you to even dip a toe in.” Still, she punched him lightly in the chest. “You should’ve told me—if not back then, now.”
“I just did,” he pointed out. “And I didn’t think of it even when the blackmail became a motive, as I never thought of it as blackmail. More as rudeness, and a pathetic attempt to intimidate.”
“Nobody intimidates Scary Roarke.” She swung a leg over, straddling him.
Pleased with the light in her eyes, he slid his hands up her legs, under the thin shirt. “Would you like to try?”
“You can be Scary Roarke. I’ll be Bitch Cop.”
“We are what we are,” he said and, gripping the back of her
head, pulled her in for a long, possessive kiss.
“You don’t scare me,” she murmured. And added teeth.
“You haven’t read me my rights.”
Since he’d stripped down to his boxers already, it was easy to find him, to free him, to lift her hips and, lowering them again, take him in.
All the way in.
“No rights for you, ace.” His fingers dug into her shoulders as her hips moved, slow, a teasing rock. “Just hard labor.”
“And when I make you tremble?”
Still moving, still rocking, she dared him. “Try it.”
Eyes on hers, he slid a hand down to where they joined, pressing and playing his fingers, and shooting her system to a gasping peak.
She bowed back, helpless, not trembling but quaking until she tumbled down again, her head dropping to his shoulder.
“Tricky,” she managed.
“I know how to handle my cop.”
Her lips curved against his throat. “I know how to handle my criminal.”
“Never convicted.”
Laughing, she trailed her lips up his throat, over his jaw, to tease his lips, those wonderfully, perfectly shaped lips. All the while her hips moved, slow to languorous, arousing to torturous.
His hands glided up her sides—slim and strong—and over her breasts—soft and firm. Her heart beating under his palms; her nipples peaking under the brush of his thumbs.
When she bowed back again, he captured the soft and firm in his mouth, felt that heart pulse inside him. All but tasted it. And still she moved, moved, moved until the blood pounded under his skin.
Until his world whittled down to the taste of her, the feel, the heat, the all of her.
She flowed up to him again, smooth as water, cupped his face, near to destroyed him with a kiss before she eased back, stared into his eyes.
“Come with me.”
Quickening now, quickening.
“I’m with you, a ghrá.”