Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,39
back flattened against the rough clapboard wall next to the front door and Sutton grabbed her hips, lifting her until she was pinned against the front of her house, her thighs cradling his narrow hips.
The ridge of his erection pressed into her through the layers of cotton and denim that stood between them, teasing her sex until a long, fierce shudder rocked through her.
“I want you,” he breathed against her throat just before he nipped at the tendon, making her moan.
She wanted him, too. More than she’d thought was possible. Far more than was wise. She put her hands between their bodies and stroked him boldly through his jeans, satisfaction swamping her as he released a helpless groan. “You like that?”
He caught her hand and twined his fingers with hers, guiding her hand away from his erection. “Slow down. Let’s just slow this down.”
She didn’t want slow. She wanted fast and fierce, so she didn’t have time to think. “Don’t give me a chance—”
He drew his head back so he could look into her eyes. His hands, well on their way to a thorough examination of the curves of her breast, went still, leaving her restless with need. “Don’t give you a chance to what?”
She shook her head, reaching for his belt. “Doesn’t matter.”
He caught her hands, stopping her. “A chance to say no?”
She felt the change in him, the sudden return of control. Steel in his backbone, determination glittering in his eyes—he was no longer an animal caught up in the thrall of lust but a man with complete mastery of even his most primal desires.
Damn it.
She pulled her hands away from him and slid away, finding her unsteady feet. “I don’t want to say no.”
“But you should?”
She leaned against the frame of the front door, pressing her forehead to the cool wood. “Sex complicates everything.”
He didn’t argue. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”
She shook her head. “No.” At his pained look, she added, “At least, not until I talk to you about something.”
* * *
ONE OF THE MOST USEFUL things his time in the Army Special Forces had taught Sutton was how to control himself in any situation. Granted, his steely mastery of his body usually translated to remaining utterly still in the most uncomfortable of positions and locations in order to get the advantage over an enemy. But he’d also learned how to discipline his other, more primal urges.
Unfortunately, not even a decade in the Special Forces had equipped him to control the hunger to finish what he and Ivy had started on her front porch.
Once inside, she’d kept a careful distance from him, puttering around the kitchen while he waited at the breakfast nook table for her to finish putting together sandwiches for their dinner. He’d offered to help but she’d warned him off with a desperate look and a wave of her hands, so he’d settled at the table and kept his hands to himself.
As she passed the phone on the counter, she put down the plates and checked her messages. Sutton heard her mother’s voice on the recorder. “Birdy, give me a call. I need to talk to you about something.” Ivy erased the message and picked up the plates again.
He smiled at her mother’s use of the nickname “Birdy.” “She still calls you Birdy?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, though there was a hint of a grimace in it. “And Antoine calls me Hawk, did you notice that? I’m apparently destined for bird-related nicknames.”
He supposed “Birdy” had fit her when she was a small, brown, quiet little thing, but he agreed with Antoine on this one. She was more raptor than wren these days.
“Don’t you need to call her back?” he asked as she set his sandwich in front of him, making no move toward the phone.
“I’ll call her later.” She sat down across from him.
“So, what did you want to tell me?”
She pushed her sandwich around the paper plate. “When I was at Davenport today, I saw something interesting.” She told him about the truck in the self-cleaning bay and how she thought it might connect to the murders.
Even a discussion of mobile abattoirs couldn’t cool his lust completely, but at least it gave his one-track mind a detour to work through. “You think the killer’s using a rented truck as his own personal butcher’s shop?”
Ivy looked at him briefly, little more than a glancing blow of her gaze before she looked away. “We’re hoping we’ll get a warrant in the morning and then we