to my feet, reminding myself I was not going to sleep with this guy. This guy had accused me of murder, had stood me up, had made me look at my reflection in the microwave.
I picked up my glass, placed it on my plate, and rose to my feet. “What's going on at the precinct?”
Another shrug. He was watching me. I could feel the heat of his attention down to my funny bone. It wasn't laughing. “Been a fairly quiet week. Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation,” I said, and turned toward the sink.
“So you don't jump my bones?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Your bones are perfectly safe with me.”
“Shall I worry on behalf of my other parts?”
I smiled from the kitchen doorway. “Feel free.”
He rose to his feet and gathered his dishes. Maybe it was my imagination, but every movement seemed darkly erotic, every glance suggestive.
As he stood beside me at the sink, the soap suds on his maple-syrup fingers made me think how it would feel to have him washing his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, over my… I shut off my X-rated thoughts, but I was already feeling flushed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“You look a little flushed,” he said, handing me a plate. Our fingers brushed. His lips twitched as if he knew every lurid thought that raced through my overheated mind.
“Anything exciting going on at work?” he asked. He wasn't a big fan of psychology. Maybe like an STD patient is wary of hypodermic needles.
“Not much,” I said.
“Yeah?” His arm slid against mine. I reminded myself that arms are not anywhere near the sexy zone. “Everybody cured?”
“What can I say?”
“Give me those other dishes,” he said.
I handed him the dirty breakfast crockery. A corner of a Pop-Tart resided in the middle of the plate. I'd left a smattering of frosting, too. Self-control. I've never been more proud.
“Nutritionally balanced as usual, I see,” he said.
“Has anyone told you that you're much more appealing with your mouth shut?” I asked, and snuck last night's dinner dishes into the sink.
“Most women think I'm better with my mouth open,” he said. Slipping a soapy arm around me, he pulled me against him, kissing me open-mouthed and hard.
“What do you think?” he murmured finally, so close I could feel his thoughts inside my cranium. They were hot and smutty.
“About?” I could barely force out the word.
There were pinpoints of black in the dark-whiskey irises of his smoldering eyes. “Enough wooing?”
“Is that what this is?” Somehow, his right thigh had becomelodged between mine. I resisted riding it like a romance-novel love stallion.
“The new and improved version.”
“That must be why I didn't recognize it.”
He ran his hand down my back. I shivered down to my platelets, let my eyes fall closed, considered swooning.
“I think things are going pretty well between us,” he said. “We haven't found any new corpses lately.”
“What more can we ask?” I breathed. He slid his hand lower, pulling me close. His erection shifted a little. My lips felt dry. I licked them. He followed the movement with his eyes, then leaned in and kissed my lower lip. I was panting like a greyhound. His kisses moved down my neck. He shifted my tattered T-shirt aside with careful fingers.
“You haven't threatened to decapitate me for almost a month.”
“Always a favorable sign.” It was difficult to remember how to form complete sentences. He tugged my saggy shirt lower and kissed the top of my left breast. I felt the corresponding side of my brain go numb, while my right side began firing off impractical but creative scenarios. God, I love the right brain.
“And I haven't threatened to incarcerate you.” His kisses slipped lower. I couldn't decide if I should be happy that I wore such a cleavage-friendly bra or pissed that it was in the way.
“Thank you for that, by the way,” I said.
“My pleasure,” he murmured, and, cupping my breast,
I picked up my glass, placed it on my plate, and rose to my feet. “What's going on at the precinct?”
Another shrug. He was watching me. I could feel the heat of his attention down to my funny bone. It wasn't laughing. “Been a fairly quiet week. Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation,” I said, and turned toward the sink.
“So you don't jump my bones?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Your bones are perfectly safe with me.”
“Shall I worry on behalf of my other parts?”
I smiled from the kitchen doorway. “Feel free.”
He rose to his feet and gathered his dishes. Maybe it was my imagination, but every movement seemed darkly erotic, every glance suggestive.
As he stood beside me at the sink, the soap suds on his maple-syrup fingers made me think how it would feel to have him washing his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, over my… I shut off my X-rated thoughts, but I was already feeling flushed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“You look a little flushed,” he said, handing me a plate. Our fingers brushed. His lips twitched as if he knew every lurid thought that raced through my overheated mind.
“Anything exciting going on at work?” he asked. He wasn't a big fan of psychology. Maybe like an STD patient is wary of hypodermic needles.
“Not much,” I said.
“Yeah?” His arm slid against mine. I reminded myself that arms are not anywhere near the sexy zone. “Everybody cured?”
“What can I say?”
“Give me those other dishes,” he said.
I handed him the dirty breakfast crockery. A corner of a Pop-Tart resided in the middle of the plate. I'd left a smattering of frosting, too. Self-control. I've never been more proud.
“Nutritionally balanced as usual, I see,” he said.
“Has anyone told you that you're much more appealing with your mouth shut?” I asked, and snuck last night's dinner dishes into the sink.
“Most women think I'm better with my mouth open,” he said. Slipping a soapy arm around me, he pulled me against him, kissing me open-mouthed and hard.
“What do you think?” he murmured finally, so close I could feel his thoughts inside my cranium. They were hot and smutty.
“About?” I could barely force out the word.
There were pinpoints of black in the dark-whiskey irises of his smoldering eyes. “Enough wooing?”
“Is that what this is?” Somehow, his right thigh had becomelodged between mine. I resisted riding it like a romance-novel love stallion.
“The new and improved version.”
“That must be why I didn't recognize it.”
He ran his hand down my back. I shivered down to my platelets, let my eyes fall closed, considered swooning.
“I think things are going pretty well between us,” he said. “We haven't found any new corpses lately.”
“What more can we ask?” I breathed. He slid his hand lower, pulling me close. His erection shifted a little. My lips felt dry. I licked them. He followed the movement with his eyes, then leaned in and kissed my lower lip. I was panting like a greyhound. His kisses moved down my neck. He shifted my tattered T-shirt aside with careful fingers.
“You haven't threatened to decapitate me for almost a month.”
“Always a favorable sign.” It was difficult to remember how to form complete sentences. He tugged my saggy shirt lower and kissed the top of my left breast. I felt the corresponding side of my brain go numb, while my right side began firing off impractical but creative scenarios. God, I love the right brain.
“And I haven't threatened to incarcerate you.” His kisses slipped lower. I couldn't decide if I should be happy that I wore such a cleavage-friendly bra or pissed that it was in the way.
“Thank you for that, by the way,” I said.
“My pleasure,” he murmured, and, cupping my breast,
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