Yes, I was right. I knew the answer and I felt something happening to me, something drawing me to him and, against the directives of my mind (if not my heart), my body leaned into his. His other arm came around me.
“I guess it’s not fun, going to the scene of a homicide at three o’clock in the morning.”
“No. As many times as I’ve done it, it’s stil not fun.” As many times as he’d done it.
Good God.
Before I could stop myself, I lifted my hand and, with my middle finger, I traced the lower edge of his bottom lip. I watched my finger touch him and then I looked into his eyes.
“I’m sorry, I whispered.
His eyes changed. I couldn’t describe it, they warmed, softened and I felt the change in a physical way, straight to the deepest depths of my bel y.
Then his head bent toward me, my hand slid across the stubble of his cheek and he kissed me, no messing around, it was ful on hot and heavy with lots of tongue.
When he was done, his mouth trailed to my ear as I held on tight, trying to recover from the kiss. My hand that was at his lip was around his neck, my fingers in his hair, my other arm was wrapped around his waist.
At my ear, his voice hoarse with something—passion, maybe just emotion—he murmured, “I want to f**k you right now. I want to slide inside you and erase this shitty day.”
“Whisky,” I breathed, not intending to say anything more, his words had robbed me of speech.
Did he honestly think I could do that for him?
One of his hands went under the hem of my sweater and into the waistband of my corduroys. The other one slid over my behind and he pressed me into him. I could feel his hardness against me.
Yes, I guessed he thought I could do that for him.
And that thought overwhelmed me.
It al hit me then. His job, his responsibility, three o’clock phone cal s, a gun on his belt, the shit he sees, the people he deals with. Then, after a day of that, going home to his house and his dog and, once there, he would be alone. No one to talk to about it or just help him forget.
It seemed ludicrous, a man like Hank being alone, he could be with anyone he chose.
He probably didn’t even care.
But I cared.
Oh shit.
I was seriously in trouble.
Before I could process how much trouble I was in, his tongue traced the curve of my ear and I melted further into him. He twisted, taking me with him. Shamus scurried away from our legs and then moseyed to lie down by the door.
Hank started backing me to the bed.
“Hank,” I said, but he didn’t answer. He pushed me away from him and undid my belt. It fel to the floor and we stepped over it. His hands went into my cardigan, opening it and then he pressed my almost na**d torso against his.
Then, I remembered something and ice shifted into my boiling veins.
“Hank, they have cameras in here.”
“I don’t care,” he said.
Oh no.
He couldn’t mean that.
Could he?