Chapter Nineteen
Jonesy
Katie dropped me back to the police station so I could grab my car, but instead of heading straight to mine for a cold shower, I decided to go to her place under the guise of helping with the renovations.
Really, I was tired of waiting for forgiveness that I knew she wouldn’t give unless I forced her hand.
I pull up to her house just as my phone rings. The army base main line showing up on my screen.
“Jones,” I answer.
“Jones, it’s Tilly. How is the investigation going?”
I’ve been giving him daily updates, but at least now I’ll have something to tell him since we were able to do something today.
“It’s going, sir. We conducted five of the seven interviews today.
We still need to talk to Travis Marrs and Hunter Abrahams, but Marrs is on a field exercise, and the fire stopped us from completing Abrahams’s interview.
They suspect someone was smoking and threw the cigarette into a trash can. Probably a recruit.”
I wipe my hand across my mouth. Isn’t it a little convenient that just as we were conducting these interviews, a fire broke out?
Or is the murder mystery I’ve been reading making me see things that aren’t there?
I push it out of my mind, focusing on the additional three bodies we now have to contend with.
“The police strongly suspect that Maddox is the culprit, but I still have reservations. It seems too messy for a man who had gotten away with killing three women before that night.”
“The colonel disagrees, Jones.”
I sigh, not much I can do about that, is there?
“Okay, sir. I’ll keep at it.”
“Jones. You’ve got one week. The fire investigation should be wrapped up by then, and the colonel has stated that if you're not up to the task, then you’ll be replaced.”
He hangs up.
Tilly rarely barks orders like that; the colonel must be up his ass so high he’s basically talking for him.
I put my phone away, shaking off the annoyance I feel as I make my way up to Katie’s front door.
She swings the door open, her red hair bundled up on top of her head. She’s washed her makeup off for the day, but she has a smear of what looks like plaster across her forehead. We’ve only been apart for an hour, but it warms my chest that she’s started working on the renovations straight away.
“I’ve come to check on my tiling.”
Her eyebrow raises as she cocks her hip to the side with no signs of letting me through. Time to use the only weapon I know will work with the she-devil: begging.
“Please? If I mess up your tiles, you’ll never let me live it down, and I’m trying to reduce your already overwhelmingly full arsenal of weapons.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But only because it’s almost getting dull how easy it is to beat you in an argument.”
My boots thud against the unfinished floor, and I don’t bother removing them.
If she has plaster on her face, no doubt it’s everywhere else as well.
The kitchen comes into view, and holy shit.
She’s plastered the entire wall. She’s even got a ladder out to reach the top, and she’s done a fucking good job.
I turn to the tiling, each forest-green subway-style tile in perfect position.
Rolling up my sleeves, I start to prepare the grout, and Katie shuffles around me, watching intently.
It's then that I see the bag I gave her this morning on the counter. The she-devil is warming up and close to forgiving me; I can tell because the empty Musketeers wrapper is next to it, and the other items are lined up neatly as if she’s inspected each one.
I twist my head to see her reaction, and I’m rewarded with a red flush up her neck matching her fiery hair.
“Thank you for the gifts. They were unnecessary,” she says awkwardly.
“Hopefully they help,” I murmur as I pick up the lavender sleep spray and silk eye mask.
She nods, even though we both know the only thing that’s going to help her now is me.
“Do you mind if I grout the tiles? I want to make sure they’re perfect,” I ask, not wanting her to feel any more awkward than she already does.
“Could you show me instead? Then I’ll know how to do the bathroom.”
I nod, the scene from Ghost springing to mind, as if putting my hand over hers whilst whispering all the filthy things I’m going to do to her could make her forgive me faster. I cough, shaking the image that has my pants tightening around my crotch, and start mixing the paste.
We work quietly together, moving in sync.
We talk about nothing except the task at hand, and I’m thankful for the reprieve.
That I have a moment to collect my thoughts and work out how to approach this properly.
Once we’ve finished, she moves her hand across the final tile, wiping off the excess grout from the tiles with the precision of a Michelin-star chef, tidying up her plates.
She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing another dollop of grout to join the plaster.
She’s so goddamn cute like this. The she-devil, known for spitting venom and fiercely defending her territory, has a soft side that is peeking through after years of chipping at her defenses.
“Thanks.” She grins, her wavy hair curling into tighter ringlets framing her face.
“You’re welcome, princess.”
We’re standing so close now. I can smell her coconut shampoo. I can smell the perfume she always wears. It’s invading my senses, intercepting my thoughts, and replacing them with a soft, hazy warmth.
I step back, away from the overwhelming urge to kiss her again.
The next time we kiss, I want it to be because she wants it, not because she needs it.
And that just isn’t going to happen. Katie Murphy could never want me; she’s made that abundantly clear.
I’m not against doing what we did again to help her.
Hell, I’d drop to my knees, pull out a balaclava, and fuck her with my tongue right now if she asked me to. I stop that thought dead in its tracks.
“Do you want to talk about the case?” I ask.
Her chin tilts up to mine, her eyelids dropping as her pupils dilate.
She’s biting her lip. She’s biting her goddamn lip.
I barely have a chance to ask her what it is that she wants to do before she scrapes her fingers through my beard, then threads them behind my neck.
I inhale sharply, all blood rushing south to my cock.
This is happening again. Not an alert. Because we’re fucking on, baby.
I don’t know why or how I managed to get from where we were this morning to where we are now.
But I have a strong feeling that I’m going to help her renovate this entire house for her if she keeps looking at me like she is right now.
And I am not going to mess it up this time.
Katie Murphy is about to have her back blown and have a dreamless sleep.
The best goddamn sleep she’s ever had in her life.
She pushes up on her tiptoes, and as I think her lips are about to brush mine, I instead feel the scrape of her teeth until she pulls my lower lip, biting it hard.
A growl forms in my chest, and my throaty exhale snaps the last bit of restraint I have for this woman.
I push her against the counter, the tools we’d been using on top in a mess.
I’ll clear those up later for her. I’ll build the rest of this house for her if that’s what it takes.
I’ll build her a home, somewhere cozy, somewhere she’s safe.
The urge to pull down every defense is so overwhelming that it almost reeks of some mating ritual. The urge to nest with her.
My fingers tug her strands at the roots, yanking her head back so her mouth parts for me.
We battle again; it’s rough, neither of us yielding to the other as our tongues battle for dominance.
I’m going to win; she knows this. I know this.
But the fight is so damn fun. It’s like we’ve been doing this same fight for years, and now we’re both getting the reward.
She sticks her thumb between my ribs, and I recoil just as sheer satisfaction gleams in her eyes.
I let my gaze dip down to her swollen cherry lips, one hand lightly playing at her throat. Her breath hitches as if the very threat of me squeezing incites a rush through her.
“Run.”
Her pupils narrow to pinpricks, and she wastes no time sprinting through the kitchen to the entryway, and I hear her feet racing up the stairs.
I try to calm my racing heart, give her the time to hide, but after a minute, I can’t wait any longer .
. . fuck it. I spin around the kitchen island, through the entryway, narrowly missing a pot of paint with a dried-up paintbrush balancing on top.
I clutch the banister, taking the stairs two at a time, this time heading straight to Katie’s bedroom.
I let the door slam open with a bang, spot her clothes on the floor in a pile . . . it’s then that I hear the shower in her bathroom. The door is ajar, with maybe an inch or so in the crack that I can peek through.
Her walk-in shower makes things easier to watch.
The glass panel and the unlocked, slightly open door, the only things between us.
Her hair is still in its messy bun, copper strands slipping out of the band, curling down her nape.
She’s lathered up, rubbing herself with a loofah, the bubbles slowly dripping between the valley of her breasts.