“You never had sex in a car.”
“Yes, I have. You get ideas at least half the time whenever we’re in the back of one of your limos.”
“Not the same at all. That’s a grown-up venue, a limo is. It’s sophisticated sex. And here we are, crammed together in the front seat of a police issue, and the lieutenant is both aroused and mildly embarrassed.”
“I am not. Either.” But her pulse jumped, and her breath hitched when his thumbs brushed over the thin cotton covering her breasts. “This is ridiculous. We’re adults, we’re married. The steering wheel is jammed into the base of my spine.”
“The first two are irrelevant, the last is part of the buzz. Music on, program five. Skyroof open.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not going to work. It’s uncomfortable and it’s stupid. And I have to work in this vehicle.”
“I can make you come in ten seconds.”
She actually smirked at him. “Ten,” she said, “nine, eight, seven, six, five . . . oh shit.” She’d underestimated his quick hands, his skilled fingers. He had her trousers unhooked, had her wet and throbbing. And over.
“Go again,” he murmured, and yanking down her tank, took her breast in his mouth.
He drove her, hands and mouth, while the cool air washed over her face, while her cry of release echoed into the night.
Her hands flailed out for purchase as she heard the cotton rip. That cool night air flowed over her bare skin now, a thrilling counterpoint to the heat.
She let go, he could see it, feel it. Let go of the day, the work, the worry—and more, deliciously more—that odd and appealing line she carried inside her between the should and the shouldn’t.
Once she’d had no time for foolishness. Was it any wonder he was compelled to give that to her? And all the love that wound through it and made it real?
His wife, his lover, his sweetheart groping with him in the front seat of a car while the music played and the night shimmered.
His hand bumped her weapon, and he laughed. Wasn’t that part of it, too? His dangerous and dedicated cop, yielding to him, lost in her own needs. Demanding he give and he take.
Her mouth was like fury on his, burning away at his control until he was as desperate as she. Until there was only one need, one thought. To mate.
“I can’t—how do we . . .” Her breath tangled, her body ached as she struggled to shift, to angle, to somehow defeat the confines so that he could fill her.
“Just move . . . let me—bloody hell.” He rapped his knuckles on the wheel fighting to shift her hips, banged his knees on the dash and was fairly certain she cursed because her head struck the edge of the open skyroof.
Well, they’d get over it.
She was laughing like a mad thing when they finally managed to insert tab B into slot A.
“Oh, thank Christ,” he whispered, and held her, just held her as her body rocked with laughter. “Well, when you’ve finished your laughfest, get to work. I’m pinned here and can’t get things started without a bit of help.”
“Really?” She could barely get her breath between the laughter and the . . . why was this ridiculous situation so damn sexy? she wondered. “You’re stuck?”
“Shagging poor design on your police issue.”
“More like poor design for shagging.” Watching him, she rocked—just a little. Lifted her hips—a fraction. Lowered again. “How’s that?”
“You’re killing me.”
“You started it.” She rocked again, a little more, torturing him, torturing herself. Then more, and more still, letting her need set the pace, thrilling to the control until the control was an illusion.
She felt his body tense, coil, shudder on his release, saw those amazing eyes go dark, go blind as she took him. And she rode him, chasing that peak of pleasure until she streaked over it.
She collapsed on him, as much as she was able. Her breath chugged in and out of her laboring lungs; her body quivered, trembled, then stilled. “I better not have any cause to strip tomorrow,” she told him. “Because I’m going to have steering wheel bruises on my ass.”
“You seem obsessed recently with the possibility of stripping on the job. Is there something I should know?”
“You just can’t be too careful.”