The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

I ran my finger along the smooth marble counter as I walked around it. “Where are you from, Officer?”

“Iowa.”

I pulled myself onto the kitchen island to face him, and a small smile touched my lips. “Not this again. Iowa has never seen your pretty face.”

He stared. Drew his teeth across his bottom lip. Took a sip.

I leaned back on my hands. “Such a secretive man,” I mused. “Don’t you know, sharing is caring?”

“If that’s your new motto, then you’ll tell me if you’ve let that prick Vincent touch you.”

My smile faltered at the animosity in his voice.

What would he do if I said yes? With the reminder of the blood that surely still dripped down my kitchen cupboards, I was

going to let that curiosity go.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll tell you, and then you can tell me how many women you’ve screwed. It’ll be like show and tell”—I feigned a pout—“without the showing, sadly.”

He wasn’t amused in the slightest.

I tried to imagine him with other women, what it would look like. I couldn’t picture him making out on a couch. That was my favorite: kissing, rubbing, grinding. Getting so worked up there was no return.

My next words were soft and sensual. I wished I could say it was all for the game, but even the thought of pressing my mouth to this man’s sent a shiver through me.

“Do you kiss, Officer?”

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t respond. He only watched me with a dry, half-lidded stare that conveyed I wasn’t worthy of a single word from him.

My heart pattered to an awkward beat.

I never had preferred large men . . . but, God, I wanted a taste of this one.

His eyes narrowed as I slid from the island and walked toward him. Stepping close enough to feel his heat, I grabbed his glass and took a sip.

I suddenly wanted to know how this man fucked—if his OCD tendencies came to the bedroom, or if it made him even dirtier.

I stepped on each of his shoes and then rose to my tiptoes. With a shot of vodka on my tongue, my lips hovered close to his. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite and lick. My breasts brushed his chest and heat shot straight to my core. When his lips parted, I let the liquor trickle from my mouth to his. Pure lust erupted inside me so violently I grew dizzy. I ran my hands up his abs, curled my fingers into his chest, as if I could claw my way through his shirt. He was so hard and warm, and smelled so good I could get lost in him.

Sliding a hand up his neck and grabbing a fistful of hair, I pushed the rest of the liquid into his mouth with my tongue.

Hot. Wet. Exhilarating. My stomach swooped and dived, stealing my breath. I knew without a doubt that sharing a sip of vodka with this dirty fed was the most thrilling thing I had ever done.

Butterflies on fire fluttered through my veins as his tongue slid across mine. With a rough sound from deep in his chest, he sucked the alcohol from it. And then he bit my lip hard enough I yelped and fell back a step.

My lips tingled.

My heart pounded in my ears.

I couldn’t catch my breath.

“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.” His voice was black velvet set out to freeze.

I secretly loved it when he called me sweetheart. It was rare, but every time he did, there was this rough lilt to it I couldn’t place. And it always rolled down my spine in the same way: electric.

His gaze was so cold it gave me chills, and in some careless, terrifying manner I’d never seen from the strait-laced fed, he dropped his tumbler to the floor. It shattered across the tile, sending a tremor through me.

I eyed the shards of glass and muttered, “That’s going to be a mess to clean up.”