Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

“Sometimes little enhancements can be sexy, don’t you think? They whisper, ‘Come closer, and I’ll tell you a story.’ Take these, for instance.” She pointed to something on her hip. “They say I’ve been held tight. Used for pleasure. Enjoyed.”

He lifted his head to get a better look and then brushed his thumb lightly over one of the marks she’d pointed out. His fingers, he realized. He’d caught her hips in a firm grip as he’d pounded into her. And yes, certain parts of him found the physical evidence of their encounter incredibly sexy, but his conscience flinched at his lack of care, as well as the memory of three fading bruises on her wrist the first day he’d met her. Leaning down, he gently kissed the darkest mark, then the lighter ones. He had two hands, which meant she no doubt had similar souvenirs on her other hip. He turned her so she faced him and kissed them as well. “Sexy as fuck,” he said. “You.”

She blushed at the compliment—lying face to face had its advantages—and lifted one corner of her mouth. “Newsflash, West. I’m a sure thing. You don’t have to flatter me.”

A sure thing? Hell, he wasn’t even sure where she’d be in a month, and he suspected she didn’t have a real firm idea, either. “You are the least sure thing I’ve ever met. I’m not sure where you came from. I’m not sure where you’re headed.”

She reached up and fiddled with his hair, like she couldn’t resist touching him. “You know I came from Millersville, by way of Route 9. As for where I’m headed, maybe Los Angeles. Maybe not. But I’m here right now. Isn

’t that sure enough for you?”

“Depends.”

Blond brows arched. “On what?”

“On whether you’re headed toward something or running away from something.”

She rolled her eyes. “You question everything, Officer Donovan. How about you let me ask a few?”

Unlike her, he didn’t have anything to hide, but establishing trust often required an exchange of information. “Shoot.”

“Why Bluelick?”

“What do you mean?”

She dragged her fingernails through the hair near his temples, and he had to fight the urge to lean into the caress. “You’re not from this place, and you don’t have family in the area. What brings a big city cop down here?”

“The job,” he said, because that was his standard response to the not entirely uncommon question. “I knew Shaun from the Navy. When he put out the call for the Bluelick PD, I decided I was interested, and the rest is history.”

That was the condensed version, minus the soul searching.

She pondered his response in silence while her roving fingers teased their way through his hair. “Bluelick’s a big change of pace from New York City.”

Hell yes, it was. But he’d been looking for a change. Needing one. “I was ready for a different sort of challenge.”

She graced him with a wily smile as she trailed her fingernails along his rough jaw. “A burning desire to crack down on hitchhiking along Route 9?”

He dipped his head and caught her finger between his teeth, stroked his tongue over the pad, and had the satisfaction of watching her pupils widen before he set her free. “Kind of. I wanted to be part of a place, not an organization. The U.S. military and the NYPD are massive machines, and you’re one small cog within that construct. You end up feeling—or at least I ended up feeling—more connected to the machine than the people it’s built to serve. You might feel effective, possibly even heroic from time to time, but also detached.”

Her fingers roamed the back of his neck. “I imagine it takes a certain amount of detachment to do the job?”

“It does. You can’t get pulled into every human drama played out in front of you or you’ll break, but that detachment can hammer basic human characteristics like empathy and patience right out of you. And for the most part, you’re living in a closed circle comprised of your team, your squad, or whatever, so it’s impossible to get a reality check from the people around you. It gets harder and harder to shake that detachment, even when off duty. You’re on one side of a line, and everyone on the other side starts to look like a potential threat, an active threat, or a victim. Your default assumption is that everyone’s working an angle and nobody’s motives are pure.”

“That’s a pretty jaded outlook, Officer Donovan,” she said quietly, running her nails in long, generous sweeps from his neck to his shoulder.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a well-documented occupational hazard, but what it boils down to is an us-versus-them mentality that puts you on guard at all times. I saw it all around me, and I didn’t want to end up a cynical SOB with a fundamental disdain for my fellow man. When Shaun contacted me, things just fell into place. Next thing I knew, I was neck deep in Bluelick.”

One corner of her mouth turned up. “How’s that working out for you?”

He didn’t miss the irony in her question. He’d definitely classified her the moment he’d met her, and they both knew it. “I guess it would be fair to say that work is still in progress.”

“But you’re happy here.”

“Happy enough. I don’t regret making the move. I like the job. I like the town.” He ran a hand over her hip. “Southern hospitality suits me.”

“You should get that tattooed right here.” She drew letters across his lower abdomen with a fingertip, on a definite slant toward his cock. “Southern hospitality suits me.”

All those lines and loops played havoc with his nerve endings. He intercepted her hand and threaded their fingers together. “Where’s your happy place?” He asked out of some half-formed idea of helping her get there, but now that he’d voiced the question, he had the craziest hope she’d say, Here, West. My happy place is right here with you. As a rule, he didn’t do crazy.