Busted (Promise Harbor Wedding) - By Sydney Somers Page 0,70
him. She leaned back and he suddenly fit even deeper. All he could do was clutch her hips and watch himself sink into her over and over. The slick walls clenched around him, and he rocked his own hips, lifting up to bury himself inside her.
Release roared through him, and he pumped faster, lost in the feral tempo. He held her down on him, the spasms finally fading until only the sound of their heaving breathing filled the room.
What the hell just happened?
Hayley collapsed against him, her body shaking. That couldn’t be good.
“Hayls?”
She lifted her face, and he realized she was laughing. “Did we just have sex on a beanbag chair?”
He laughed, noticing the way she was sprawled across him and the few inches of overstuffed vinyl keeping them off the floor. “Guess I can scratch that one off my bucket list.” He looked down at her, smoothing her hair away from the bump that should have made sex the last thing on either of their minds. “You know, I think I like concussed Hayley. She’s dirty.”
She laughed even harder and slugged him playfully in the arm, then she settled back into place, her face resting on his shoulder. Exactly where he wanted her.
“You want to get fired, don’t you?”
Hayley looked up from her desk at work to where he partner stood, coffee halfway to his mouth as he scowled at her. Phil hadn’t been the first person to give her a double take when she’d showed up for her shift.
She pointed in the direction of her captain’s office. “He knows I’m here.” He was probably the only one not surprised that she hadn’t wanted to sit home and lick her wounds for a couple days.
Phil leaned over her desk. “What’s that?”
She shrugged, holding up the shadowed sketch she’d doodled. The partial image had been going through her mind since she’d woke up, but putting pencil to paper hadn’t helped her figure out what it meant.
Phil tipped the paper sideways. “Is it a tree?”
“Not sure. But I think it has something to do with last night.”
“Something you saw on our suspect’s clothes?”
“Maybe.” Although all she could clearly remember was the dark pants and black hoodie. The harder she concentrated, the more her head pounded.
She’d awakened to a full high school band doing a pep rally between her temples this morning, giving her a good reason to slip out of bed without disturbing Jackson.
God, she’d slept with Jackson Knight.
Worse than that, she’d spent three quarters of the night wrapped around him, unable to put more than a few inches between them. And when she had rolled away in sleep, he’d pulled her back to him. It was a wonder she’d made it out of bed without him recapturing her.
“Maybe you gave our boy a scare last night?”
“What?” Hayley stared up at her partner, wondering how in the hell he’d heard about Jackson.
“Maybe almost getting caught will make him rethink his plans. Make him move on to another town.”
“Oh. Right.” Except neither of them wanted that. They wanted to nail the bastard’s ass to the wall.
“Get some coffee, Stone. You need it.” Phil walked away, leaving her staring at the sketch.
The dark blob on the page was easier to think about than what had happened between her and Jackson last night. It should have been an isolated incident, except twice more he’d brought her to an explosive release, leaving both of them sweaty and tangled in the sheets she’d gripped every time he made her come.
“Had a rough night, huh, Stone?” Gauthier flipped through a stack of folders in his hand. “Maybe you should let Knight catch your perps.” He flashed her a teasing grin.
“Any openings I can apply for?”
They both turned at the sound of Jackson’s voice. Although he smiled, there was tension around his eyes that warned her he was annoyed about something.
Suspecting that something was her, she slipped a hand across her stomach, which gave a nervous tug. “Does this look like anything to you?” She thrust the sketch at Gauthier, buying herself as much time as she could before Jackson pounced.
“Penis,” Gauthier guessed.
Baffled, she stared at the drawing. “Where do you get that?”
“Isn’t that like some ink-blot thing where everything is supposed to look like some kind of phallic symbol?”
“Freud focused on phallic symbols. Rorschach created the ink-blot tests,” Jackson corrected. He perched on the edge of Hayley’s desk.
Gauthier shrugged. “Still looks like a penis.” Head down, the other cop wandered away.
“Rorschach and Copernicus,” Hayley mused. “Impressive.”