The Dirt on Ninth Grave - Darynda Jones Page 0,100
and fantasized about plunging my fingers into a head of thick black hair. Of running them over the top of a damp white towel wrapped around a backdrop of dark, sinuous muscles. Of pressing my lips against a full mouth that defined the word sexy. I’d barely gotten my legs around Reyes’s waist when a knock sounded at the door.
The fantasy incarnate stood on the other side when I opened it.
Guilt consumed me. “You can’t read minds, can you?” I asked, suddenly aghast at the thought. He was otherworldly. Who knew what he could do?
He flashed a set of blindingly white teeth. “Not that I know of.”
“Swear?”
After settling his tall frame against the doorjamb and crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “Pinky swear.”
Good enough for me.
He wore a beige sweater with the sleeves pushed up and dark, loose-fitting jeans. He looked like a model for some expensive cologne.
“I thought we could go to breakfast instead.”
Elation bounced through me like a rubber ball. “Wait, won’t you be late for work?”
“I don’t think Dixie will care.”
“Do you know Dixie?” She was all kinds of wonderful, but forgiving of tardiness was not her strong suit.
“I’ve gotten to know her pretty well. I think I can risk it.”
“Okay,” I said, adding an it’s-your-funeral tone to my voice. “Just let me get your jacket.”
He stepped inside to close the door against the cold wind rushing in and seemed to take special note of the surroundings. Until that moment, I’d never noticed how dreary my apartment was. Or how much the floors creaked. Or how the wind whistled through the ill-fitting windows.
Then again, he lived in a motel. A dive motel at that. How much greater could he have it? Not a lot. And that made me feel better.
“Where were you thinking?” I asked when I walked out of my bedroom with his jacket.
He was checking out the kitchen. My massive supply of coffee cups, all five of them, and my two plastic cups sat on a dish towel. I’d had to put a piece of cardboard over a broken pane over the sink. Something else I’d have to explain to my landlord. My coffeepot was one of those tiny hotel types that did single serve, but that was cool. At least I had one. And a cupboard that was missing a door showed the extent of my food stores, which mainly consisted of saltines, peanut butter, half a box of cereal, and a tube of eyeliner that I’d been looking everywhere for.
His demeanor had changed. He seemed… upset. Angry even.
“Reyes?” I followed his gaze. “What’s wrong?”
He pushed the sleeve of his sweater down to cover his Rolex, the one I was pretty sure was genuine. Did he feel sorry for me? Need I remind him that he lived in a motel? A dive motel? And that the Rolex he was now wearing could probably pay for a fairly decent house? Or at least put a nice down payment on one?
I took a deep breath and chastised myself for judging him. I didn’t know his financial situation or his family situation. He could’ve still been married. Had a kid even. Or several. Who knew? Maybe his dad gave him that watch or his grandfather on his deathbed. Who was I to question him? To speculate?
“You’re amazing,” he said, and that certainly wasn’t the direction I’d expected.
I snorted. “Because I live in squalor? I have it a thousand times better than James over there.” I pointed in the homeless man’s general direction.
I pulled the sturdier of my two chairs to the center of the room, a challenging grin sliding across my face. “Ready for round two and a half?” Since our first round didn’t quite go as planned, it still deserved half a mark for effort. Luckily our second was pretty fucking spectacular.
The hungry look that overcame him told me that he most definitely was. He let his gaze wander the length of me before sitting down.
Reaching down into his pocket, I said, “I don’t have a timer.” I took out his phone and set his timer for fifteen minutes.
“I can’t wait to get my hands on that ass,” he said.
I straddled him and wrapped my arms around his neck. “I’ll finish you first.”
One corner of his sensuous mouth lifted into a lopsided grin. “Not this time, sweetheart.”
Oh, it was on.
19
I don’t like making plans for the day.
Because then the word “premeditated” gets thrown around the courtroom.