Chapter 19
Tessa
“Yesss…”
I suck air in between my teeth, as I feel Clem go rigid behind me.
The fingers he’s been using to play with my clit press down hard, as he drives up inside me. Staying planted deep, he sinks his teeth into the muscle at the top of my shoulder, as he shudders through his release and triggers mine.
With my cheek pressed against the tile in his shower, and his arms and body holding me anchored, I wait for my heart to stop pounding and for the strength to flood back to my limbs.
Clem presses a kiss to the nape of my neck and gives me an extra squeeze before stepping away. I immediately feel his loss and turn around, making sure I’m under the warm spray. He reaches out and brushes aside a wet strand of hair sticking to my forehead.
“Beautiful,” he compliments, smiling.
Doubtful, I generally resemble a drowned sheepdog when I get out of the shower, so I’m pretty sure his eyesight is going. But—albeit faulty—I’m not going to argue with his view of me. In fact, it makes me feel pretty damn good.
Leaning in, I kiss him with the appreciation his observation deserves.
“Mmm,” he groans, disentangling himself. “You finish up in here. I’m gonna get some coffee and breakfast going. My guys are gonna get here in about half an hour.”
Reluctantly, I let him go, but I make sure I’m enjoying the view as his firm ass flexes with each step he takes. The man has some phenomenal glutes, and I’ve already come to appreciate those powerful legs.
This morning, I’d been a little disappointed when I woke up to find myself alone in his bed.
I’d hoped for some heavy duty snuggling now there aren’t any teenagers to kill that early morning glow.
So when I heard the shower running, I went looking for him instead, and he didn’t appear averse to me joining him.
Last night I crashed, mostly from emotional exhaustion.
It’s been a stressful few weeks, and I haven’t had many restful nights.
So yesterday, after Mancuso took Remi and Linc headed out to stay at the Battaglias’, the walls started caving in on me.
By the time I got here yesterday afternoon, I was coming apart at the seams.
I have to admit, I never thought I’d be looking for solace in the arms of a man.
But Clem isn’t just any man—as I’m learning—and yesterday he gave me exactly what I needed.
He held me together so I could let myself fall apart, and then he gave me space so I could pull myself together again.
I did that while helping him scrub fingerprint dust all afternoon.
Nothing better for the mind than to keep the body busy.
Then while he was making dinner—he insisted on cooking for me—I had a chance to check in on the boys.
For Remi, I had to check in with Mancuso, who said he was doing fine at the safe house.
It’s hard not to be able to hear his voice for myself, but I understand the caution.
It’s pretty standard procedure not to allow outside contact for someone in protective custody, it kind of defeats the purpose, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier.
My conversation with Linc was brief. He was fine, had already finished his homework, and was looking forward to going to the shooting range with Naomi and her dad tomorrow after school.
Even though I carry a gun for work myself, I’m not sure how I feel about my son with a weapon in his hands.
But Roy Battaglia is former military, a security specialist and, from what I understand, a weapons safety expert.
He’s probably better equipped than I would be introducing my kid to guns.
Before I hung up, I did issue my son a brief warning that he better not have any ideas about sneaking into his girlfriend’s room during the night, or her father would make mincemeat out of him.
I’m not ignorant, nor na?ve, so I’m aware my son is very likely having sex, even though I’d rather not think about it.
We’ve had the talk, I even bought him a box of condoms back in Spokane, so I hope he’s being careful and not stupid enough to use any of them under Roy Battaglia’s roof.
Thinking of condoms, unless Clem snuck one in the shower with him and managed to put it on without me noticing, we didn’t use one just now. I’m not worried about pregnancy—I had my tubes tied not long after Remi was born—but we haven’t really talked about safety yet.
So when I join Clem in the kitchen a little later, lured by the smell of fresh coffee and bacon, I confront that issue head-on.
“We had unprotected sex.”
Clem is at the stove, frying eggs, and turns around at my comment.
“Yep.” He pops his P.
“I figure I should probably have mentioned my tubes are tied, so you don’t have to worry about that, and after finding out I hadn’t been the only one my asshole ex was swapping bodily fluids with, I had myself tested for any and every STD under the sun.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “And I haven’t been with anyone else since.”
Then he drops the spatula he was holding on the counter, shifts the frying pan away from the flame, and moves toward me, wrapping me up in his strong arms.
“I’ve never gone unwrapped before, until you. I also had myself tested since my last encounter. That was a couple of years ago.”
There’s a bunch to unpack in his statement, but that’ll have to wait for another time, because suddenly a loud overhead buzzer goes off.
“A leftover from the building’s days as a firehouse,” he explains. “That’ll be my guys. They can’t get into the new door.”
He kisses my forehead before letting me go.
“Can you finish up the eggs for me? I’ve gotta let them in, I’ll be right back.”
I turned the gas off under the eggs and am pulling the sheet of bacon from the oven when he returns.
“Sorry about that,” he says, playfully bumping me aside. “Go sit. I’ve got this.”
Then he pushes down the English muffins he had waiting in the toaster, grabs a couple of plates and rips off two pieces of paper towel, before preparing us both a cup of coffee.
“Don’t spoil me too much,” I warn him. “I could get used to this.”
He chuckles. “In that case, mission accomplished.”
I’m surprised at how much flavor a little paprika, mayo, and Dijon mustard adds to the relative simplicity of the egg sandwich he serves me.
“That was really good,” I share after I brush mine off in record time. “I bet my boys would love them too.”
“Simple enough to make,” he comments, collecting the dirty plates and dumping them in the sink.
“You mean simple enough for a mediocre cook like me?” I tease him.
He growls as he makes his way back to me, swinging me around on the stool and stepping between my legs.
“Nothing mediocre about you, Ilusake.”
The way his tongue curls around that last word makes it clear it’s an endearment of some sort.
“What does that mean? Ee-loo…whatever you called me.”
He kisses me sweetly before answering, “It’s Estonian for beautiful one. I remember my dad used to call my mother that.”
I reach up to run the backs of my fingers along his scruffy jaw.
“I like it.” I pause for a moment before adding, “I like you.”
Clem
“I’m not used to seeing you here on a Sunday night.”
I turn to find Buck Wilson, our local veterinarian and one of my Thursday night poker buddies, sliding onto the stool beside me.
The original plan had been for Tessa and I to go out for a bite to eat tonight.
Our first official date, even though it’s a bit like tying the horse behind the cart.
But she’d decided to go into the station to do a bit of work and, unfortunately, got hung up with a domestic case that turned into a hostage situation somewhere out in the county.
She called me half an hour ago and explained she wouldn’t be able to make dinner.
It’s her job, I get it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel some anxiety around her being out there, putting herself in harm’s way.
So, rather than sitting at home, waiting for her to get home and probably stressing myself out, I decided to head out to The Kerrigan for a bite to eat and some distraction.
“Probably because I’m not usually here on Sunday nights,” I reply dryly.
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Buck fake-grumbles, nudging me with his elbow. “That’s my job.”
“My bad. What are you drinking?” I ask the older man.
I already have a beer in front of me.
“A Miller will do me.”
Catching the bartender’s eye, I motion him over.
“Hey, Len. Jacob not here?” Buck asks, looking around for the owner.
“Under the weather. What can I getcha?”
“Miller,” Buck answers, cocking his thumb in my direction. “His tab.”
“Nice,” I mutter, adding, “Might as well order something to eat too. Stella made shepherd’s pie.”
His face lights up. “Hell, yeah. You heard the man,” he addresses Len. “Sign me up for the shepherd’s pie.”
I know it’s coming, but Buck holds back until he’s had a swig of his beer.
“So…hear you and that pretty new detective are getting serious.”
“Jesus, Buck. You’re like an old busybody. You should start a gossip column.”
He snorts, as my insults slide off like water down his back.
“Hey, it pays to have the dirt on people,” he counters. “Makes for a nice bit of leverage when I need it. Which reminds me, I found the perfect dog for you.”
“Don’t try to pawn one of your rescues off on me,” I warn him.
“She’s perfect for you, looks like one of those fire department dogs.”
“You mean a Dalmatian?” I ask.
“Yeah. White with black spots, I’m pretty sure she has Dalmatian in her. She was brought to me a few days ago, rescued from a kill shelter. I saw her and thought of you right away.”
“Don’t know why you would, I’ve told you plenty of times, I’m too busy to take on one of your charity cases.”
It’s a thing with Buck; he can’t stop taking in rescues and matching them up with new owners. Brant is a prime example. Hell, Buck was able to unload a damn goat and a couple of horses on him.
So far, I’ve been able to hold him off. My excuse always was that I was rarely home, spending most of my time at the shop, but that won’t fly anymore now that both my home and my shop are the firehouse.
“She wasn’t treated right, but is still sweet as punch,” he continues undeterred.
“They used the poor gal to breed and kept her in a cage most of her life. She doesn’t need much: just a good human to look after her, a safe place to live, a decent meal, and an occasional belly rub, that’s all.
You’ve got the room, and work isn’t an excuse because you live right there.
This girl was slotted to be put down first thing tomorrow morning. ”
Oh, man, he’s really putting on the guilt now.
“Not a good idea, Buck. I’ve got people coming in and out of the shop all day, and most of the time the bay doors are open.
She’d probably bolt at the first chance,” I offer my excuse, adding as a last-ditch effort, “Plus, like you said, I’m starting something with Tessa, and I don’t even know if she likes dogs. There’s a lot going on right now.”
He grins wide, like I just told him yes, when I’m pretty sure I explained why it has to be no.
“Good thing I bumped into that pretty girl of yours when I was at the station earlier, and she says she loves dogs. She said she had one when her boys were little but didn’t have the heart to replace him after he died.
I hear you took the youngest of her boys under your wing too, got himself hurt right behind your shop.
Sounds to me you could use a good dog for protection.
Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten broken in to either. ”
Relentless.
Has no qualms about laying on the guilt if it gets him the desired result. And—like he’s done to so many before me—he’s starting to get to me.
Luckily, Stella picks that moment to come out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with two individual oven dishes with, what I presume is, our dinner.
“Watch it, those are hot,” she warns, sliding the dishes in front of us with her bare hands.
When I touch my dish to straighten it, I yank my hand back, hissing at the sharp pain.
“Honey, I warned ya.” She wiggles her fingers in front of me. “My hands are ovenproof after burning them so many times, my nerve ends are numb.”
They’d have to be.
Despite the lingering discomfort in my fingertips, the shepherd’s pie is excellent and goes down quick. Stella isn’t necessarily a gourmet chef, but she puts the kind of food on the table reminding you of your mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Warm, wholesome, and stick-to-your-bones tasty.
Thankfully, once Buck starts eating, all talk of dogs and adoption ends. But I should’ve known better, because the moment Len takes our empty dishes, he’s back at it again.
“At least come have a look at her. I’m telling ya, she’s just right for you, and you could make all the difference in her life,” he adds, not afraid to lay it on thick.
I catch Len trying to hide a grin. He knows the pressure I’m under, since, as of the past month or two, he’s the proud new owner of two semi-feral cats Buck foisted on him. From what I understand it took our vet two weeks of relentless pushing, bargaining, and guilting before the man finally caved.
As much as I like Buck, I don’t want him in my face at every turn. Maybe if I concede to looking, I can get him to back off.
“Fine, I’ll come have a look, but I’m telling you, I’m not in the market for a pet.”
I should’ve known better.