Page 47 of True Confessions

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“For about twelve years.” His grasp on her hip tightened a fraction. “I was a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“I lived in Brentwood.”

“I probably could have guessed that,” he said and slid his hand from her side to her stomach.

“But I grew up in Northridge,” she added. She took deep, even breaths and thought about whether she should step away from his embrace or remove his hand. She felt like a teenager again, uncertain while every cell in her body tingled with life. But unlike that innocent time long ago, she knew where the feelings heating her up like a grow light would lead. What she did

n’t know was if she wanted to go there with him, or if he wanted to take her.

“You moved a little farther uptown than me.”

The heat from his palm seeped though the cotton of her tank top and warmed her abdomen from the inside out. With a little effort, she controlled her impulse to turn within his arms and touch him the way he touched her. “Blaine already had a lot of money when I married him.”

“That was your husband, Blaine? Was he gay?”

“No.”

“You really married some guy named Blaine?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”

He shook his head. “A guy named Blaine can’t be any good at buttering the muffin.”

“That’s ridiculous. He could butter the muffin just fine.”

“Exactly. I said any good.”

“He is a very smart man,” she said, then wondered why she was bothering to defend her ex-husband.

“Uh-huh. What does he do?”

“He’s a plastic surgeon.”

Through the glass, his green-eyed gaze shifted to her breasts.

“No, those are mine.”

He lifted his gaze and smiled, unrepentant. “I’d hate to think they weren’t.” He settled her into his chest and said, “Something like that just might blow all my fantasies about you.”

She stilled. “What fantasies?”

He buried his nose in her hair and looked at her reflection in the glass. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Why? Am I tied up?”

She felt his smile. “In a few.”

A few?

Creases appeared in the corners of his eyes. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Did she? She probably should. “What, with the fact that you fantasize about me, or that I’m tied up?”

“Either.”

But she didn’t. No problem at all. Just the opposite. It raised her temperature another notch and threatened to lower her lids. The heat in her abdomen spread between her thighs, and she squeezed her legs together. “Did I enjoy myself?”

His thumb fanned her abdomen and brushed the underwire of her bra. “Of course. I treated you real good.”


Tags: Rachel Gibson Fiction