Chapter Twenty-three
Twenty-three
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, competing with the rattle of the old bar fridge and the tick of the desk fan stirring the stale office air.
It smelled like the inside of a sun-baked filing cabinet—warm ink, dry paper, and the faint edge of whatever deodorant or air freshener Craig had generously used, that had given up by lunchtime.
Amara rubbed her eyes as she flicked through yet another stack of sale records, trying to find the thread that would lead back to her stolen horse.
The back door creaked open and a set of heavy boots with a familiar gait strolled down the corridor.
Porter.
She glanced at the wall clock. It was almost eleven. Was he just starting night shift? When he’d pulled a double shift earlier today.
He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Messy uniform, tired eyes, with that smirk that told her he wasn’t leaving just yet.
‘You know, Montrose, most sane people go home at some point.’
‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I’m on shift. You?’ Porter came closer to peer at her desk, his eyes scanning the paperwork.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Go home. Unless you’re planning to read double, or to cross that white line, and end up kissing a tree—go. Now.’ He flicked off her desk lamp.
‘Hey! You’re not the boss of me. When I should be asking you that?’
‘I slept. Got a solid six in.’ He headed out into the corridor. ‘Look, I get why you want to keep going, but you’re running on fumes… So, I’ve got an idea.’
‘I’m not in the mood, Porter.’
There it was, that casual glance over his shoulder, that infuriating grin, like pushing her buttons was a hobby he’d majored in.
‘Hey, you want a bet?’
Scooping up her empty coffee cup, she followed, expecting him to head left for the muster room—instead, he went right for the cells. ‘What bet? What are you doing?’ She left her cup resting on the side bench and followed.
‘If I can figure out where your horse went before you do, you owe me a beer on our so-called date.’ He cracked open a tall cupboard and grabbed a handful of thick blankets.
Her unimpressed laugh echoed down the corridor. ‘If you weren’t half-dead on your feet, I’d almost take that bet.’
‘I’m not over-tired, and I’m definitely not a walking zombie.’ Porter stepped in close, his voice dipping low enough to make her pulse trip. ‘I told you, I slept. You?’
‘Hmph.’
‘Now hold your arms out like a good little girl.’ The tone may have been taunting, but it shouldn’t have made her body tingle the way it did.
‘Why?’
Towering over her, still too damn smug, he pulled her arms open, leaving her no choice but to hold the blankets he’d dumped on her.
‘This way…’ Tugging her arm, he led them down the corridor.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Helping.’
Amara should’ve walked away. Her pulse was still simmering just below fight mode, enough to let Porter lead her down the corridor without resistance. She really must’ve been tired, to follow this easily.
‘How is this helping?’ she muttered.
‘Since you won’t take a break, or admit you need sleep, I figured I’d lock you up for your own good.’ Porter shot her a grin as he opened the far cell door and ushered her inside. The clang of the bars behind them echoed too loud in the dark corridor, the air suddenly thick.
‘Seriously?’ She could’ve snapped back—should’ve. But the fight had drained out of her somewhere between the paperwork and the third cup of stale coffee. And damn it, the blankets looked inviting, too.
‘I don’t want you showing up at the Ironbark Ball looking like a zombie. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.’
‘I’m not your date. It’s a fake date. Got it?’
He leaned in closer, his voice low, almost seductive. ‘It could be a date, Montrose.’
Silence filled the air, as heavy as his eyes that trailed down her body.
It was a challenge to breathe. ‘I don’t date. I can thank my ex-fiancé for that.’
‘Yeah, right? Sorry.’ He raked nails through his hair, stepping away from her.
But the cool air was not what she wanted, when she wanted him closer to feel his body heat—which was all wrong!
‘Do yourself a favour and just take a catnap in here.’
‘In the cells? Are you crazy?’ She tried to push past him, but he was solid. Warm and muscular.
‘In this station, we’ve all had power naps in here before. That’s why I gave you the good blankets, and you’re in the good cell. There are no cameras in here, which means no crims have ever been in here.’
‘Not gonna happen. And it’s not your concern what I do.’ But she should talk to him about manners, shoe polish and cutlery for this ball, just not here, inside a cell.
‘I’m trying to take care of you, Montrose. Don’t you see that?’
She inhaled sharply as she stepped back.
‘You can be so one-track minded. Good for a cop, but not as a person. And you are more than just the job.’
‘I didn’t ask for you to take care of me, so save the lecture.’
‘Come on, Montrose, you know I’m not the type of guy who needs to be asked to give someone a hand.’
He was right. Porter just helped others. Even if it seemed like he was slacking off, he was proactive, and he cared for people.
It didn’t help that the low light defined the lines and angles of his handsome features.
Yet, time somehow stretched between them, as the intensity threatened to consume them both. She tried to force her attention away, yet all she saw was Porter. Taller. Bigger. Stronger. Porter.
And how the masculinity rolled off him in unseen waves that had her body suddenly crying out with need. Oh momma!
His eyes dropped to her mouth and his gaze clung there, for just a moment, until they headed south, then back to her lips.
He liked her lips. She’d seen him gaze at them a lot, as if he wanted to kiss them.
Strangely enough, right now, she was too tired to fight the temptation and that promise of passion—struggling to remember the last time anyone had touched her.
But this was Porter. They shared a house. They worked in the same police station. And she could write ten volumes listing out the reasons why he was so wrong for her. Why he’d break every rule on her Not-to-Love List. But right now, she couldn’t even remember a single rule she’d written.
When his eyes came back up, she felt their touch, from her boots, up the legs of her jeans, over her hips like a cool ghostly caress that ran along her arms, through to her chest that heaved harder for air as she hugged the blankets tighter, then up to her neck, her tingling lips, then up to her eyes.
Holy hotcakes—his eyes.
The hunger in his eyes was real. Dark. Incredibly intense. Like he was the hunter, and she was nothing but the prey.
And she liked it.
She leaned towards him, as if drawn by a magnet. His nose brushed the side of hers. She lifted her mouth to his, closing the distance as their breaths slowed, only to hover as if suspended in time.
‘Amara…’ His voice was thick and husky. But to hear her name rolling off his tongue turned on that needy tap that exploded through her chest. It was such a turn-on. And all he’d said was her name.
‘Yeah no—’ She never got a chance to finish what she was saying, not that she remembered a word, or reason, or had any common sense left. Not when his lips crashed against hers. And how her fingers hungered to trace along his lean muscular lines and hard ridges of heat, skin, muscle, and male.
It was like her sanity had now escaped into the free world on the other side of the prison bars, leaving her inside this cell, suddenly free from rules and regulations, where broken barriers allowed her inhibitions to roam wild.
Their lips meshed and his rock-hard thighs were against her body. Along with his broad torso and more hard muscles, it created a primal blaze of appreciation to warm her all over... It was beautiful.
When his hands clapped hard on her backside and his long fingers splayed firmly to lift her, she was flying.
His knees pressed between her legs, stopping her from falling, yet pinning her to the wall.
Her legs wrapped around his body, and she kissed him harder, as if he were the air she needed to breathe.
Under her shirt, his thumbs started crossing the boundary of her soft bra, grazing the side of each breast.
Just the shape of his masculine hands, made her chest rise and fall faster and heavier, as he fondled her chest. Never had she been so completely entranced by a man’s hand moving over her body, making each breath in her lungs heave with heat and want for more.
Pushing her up against the cold wall, he pressed his lips to hers more strongly, interrupting her thoughts in one hard, punishing kiss.
She was helpless to fight against him. Except to yank him in closer where her lips moved frantically against his, burning her up in a way she’d never been kissed before.
It was like she was at war and loving it.
She’d completely forgotten where she was.
Raking her fingers through his hair with the need to make it messier, she wanted his uniform messy. Hell’s bells—Amara wanted to get truly, completely, and totally messy with him.
Ruled by the power of passion, she forced his shirt up. She wasn’t leaving him with any choice.
But his hand captured her wrist, and he pulled back from kissing her. ‘Are you sure?’
For a moment she paused, that dance along the line of doing the right thing, being the good girl, the responsible girl. The always polite, perfect girl, doing what’s right for the family-name kind of girl.
For the first time, she was booting that girl outside this cell to finally unlock her hidden wild side and set it free.
She gripped the sides of his face to drag him in closer. ‘You have two seconds to get those trousers down or I walk.’
‘Not on my watch, Montrose.’ The buckle of his belt clinked, and the utility belt hit the floor with a hard thud. The sounds of the teeth from his zip magically made her mouth water.