Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
“You look tired,” she murmured a moment later, setting her mug down. “We can always do this another night.”
“I’m fine,” he said, sinking deeper into the couch until his head tipped back against the cushion. Firelight caught the gleam of his silver badge and the faint shadow of a bruise along his jaw. “Fuck. Long day.”
“Want to tell me about it?” she asked lightly.
His eyes went distant, his beautifully sensual mouth flattened under the sweep of his mustache. Silence stretched between them while she forced herself to meet his eyes calmly as a storm gathered in his. She’d never regret asking, but damn, it hurt to be shut out.
She untucked her legs and stood to leave. “You know, let’s call it a night. I should—”
His hand shot out, catching her thigh above her leg warmers.
“Stay,” he said. Half command, half request.
She hesitated, torn between what she wanted to do and what was good for her, before nodding.
His big hands wrapped around both thighs, just under her sweater, and kneaded.
She watched his face as he touched her, noticing as exhaustion melted into something darker.
Hungrier. His touch was firm, strong hands working the tired muscles until her breathing deepened.
He worked his way down, pushing the warmers out of the way and up her calves again, working her tired legs until warm, liquid relaxation flowed through her.
She wasn’t blind to it—how he’d pivoted again from sharing any emotions—this time with his body instead of words. That’s what we agreed to, she reminded herself. A distraction for him and an experience for me. Nothing more.
“Rush,” she whispered, torn. He looked tired and worn, exuding a broody remoteness that screamed, keep out… and yet he caught her waist, tugging her closer.
“Come here.”
“You’re tired and—”
“I’m not tired,” he cut in, his head shaking slowly, his gaze locked on hers. There was no softness in his expression, only the magnetic pull of a man who needed something she could give him.
He drew her in until her knees touched the couch. There was nowhere left to go but into him, and Lord help her, that was exactly where she wanted to be.
A low huff drew her attention downward. Riggs had shifted on the rug at Rush’s boots. His big head rested on his paws, his amber eyes alert and following her every move. Lily stiffened automatically.
Rush must have felt her tense because he glanced down. “Riggs,” he said quietly, “guard the door.”
The dog heaved a put-upon sigh but got to his feet and padded out of the room, nails clicking on the hardwood before disappearing somewhere down the hall.
“Good boy,” Rush said, then his attention was back on her. His hands slid up her thighs, pulling her closer, guiding her legs open and around his hips until she settled astride the hard length of him.
The weight of his duty belt pressed into her thighs, the cold, foreign outline of his weapon digging into her knee.
A sharp, undeniable reminder in the warm, fire-lit room of who he was outside of it.
She didn’t know if the sight would ever become normal.
It still filled her with dread, but like the man who wore it, she was learning to be more comfortable. Stretching her limits.
And when his hands flexed at her waist, she knew comfort wasn’t the only thing she was learning.
She traced the metal buckle with tentative fingers. “What’s this called?”
“Duty belt,” he said shortly.
She trailed her hand away from the gun, brushing more metal she didn’t recognize. “And this?”
“Taser. Flashlight. Baton.” He listed them succinctly, watching her closely.
She stopped, looking at him. “Have you ever used the Taser?”
“Yeah. It drops a man to the ground in seconds.” He hesitated then added matter-of-factly, “Had it used on me too.”
She flinched, imagining it, but she only nodded. “It’s in my way,” she said, softer this time, with meaning he picked up immediately. The energy in the room sharpened, condensed into something tangible, quivering between them. Lily felt the slow, liquid pulse in her pussy.
His eyes went smoke-dark. He undid the buckle, lifted his hips, and placed it on the table next to the radio. “My turn,” he said, rougher this time. He wrapped his hands around her calves, folded under her and covered in the leg warmers. “What about these?”
“Leg warmers,” she said. “To keep dancers’ legs limber between classes... or in Christmas tree lots.”
“Cute,” he murmured. He peeled the knit down each of her legs and tossed them aside before leaning back to drag his eyes over her, left in tights, leotard, and the loose wrap of her sweater.
Lily’s pulse skittered at the contrast of it all—her softness against his hardness, the whisper-thin feel of her tights against the coarser material of his work trousers.
She leaned forward, flattening her hands on his chest and feeling the hard expanse beneath—until the feel of something hard and unyielding under it stopped her short.
“What’s this?” she asked, frowning.
His eyes flicked down then back up. “Vest,” he said simply. “Part of the job.”
Her fingers lingered, tracing the edge beneath the fabric of his shirt. It was heavy and warm from his skin. Another barrier between them and another reminder that while she spent her days using her body for healing and creativity, Rush spent his in a much darker world.
Emotion tightened her throat. She leaned down and kissed him, a gentle, appreciative kiss on his lips.
She ran her hands over his chest as she worked each button open, feeling the tight muscles in his abdomen clench and release when she tugged his shirt free from his trousers. He shrugged it off, and then it was Lily’s turn to sit back and admire.
“Better,” she murmured appreciatively. Broad shoulders tapered to a hard, sculpted chest, every muscle defined beneath a swirl of dark hair trailing down the ridges in his abdomen.
His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch, and turned bronze from the firelight.
Gently, she traced her fingers over a few old scars, wondering how he’d come by them, knowing his deepest scars were invisible.
She lifted herself off his thighs, suddenly remembering. “Oh, your scar—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“The only thing that hurts is here,” he growled, catching her hand and pressing it against the thick, straining ridge of his cock.
Heat flared in her cheeks at his bluntness—shock, desire, both tangled until she couldn’t tell them apart.
She held his gaze then nodded, accepting the challenge there.
This was sex. Raw, consuming sex. A way to keep it simple.
No catching feelings. Just warm bodies on a cold winter night in a living room she’d once pictured so differently.
That dream had been softer, domestic, filled with laughter and love, but Lily let the thought go, surrendering to the fire in his eyes. She wanted this—raw, intense, maybe even out of her comfort zone, where she could explore her body, her desire, her power.
“Take this off,” he ordered. His hands went to her sweater, tugging the bow around her waist until it came loose. The edges fell open, baring the deep scoop of her leotard. His eyes went molten hot and hungry. Possessive.
Then he dipped his head. His stubble rasped deliciously against her neck when he nuzzled, inhaling deeply before sucking the skin until she whimpered. His mustache scraped over the swell of her breasts through the thin fabric, the rough drag making her arch helplessly against him.
“Oh,” she gasped, clutching at his head. His hair was thick, just starting to curl at the ends, and she threaded her fingers through it, holding him to her.
“Fuck, yes. Harder,” he groaned, gripped her ass, and rocking her against him. Lily’s pulse skittered, her breath catching at the rough insistence, teetering on that edge where fear bled into anticipation until she couldn’t tell the difference anymore, and she let herself feel.
She tipped her head back, allowing him to devour her with his mouth. His tongue traced the delicate line of her collarbone, making her shiver.
When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to her breasts rising and falling erratically with every shallow breath. He brushed his knuckles over one tight peak straining beneath the thin fabric then caught it between his thumb and forefinger.
Lily cried out, her whole body jolting at the sharp, electric pleasure. “Fuck,” he grunted, rolling her nipple harder. “These perfect tits, stuffed into that damn—” He glanced down at the clinging fabric. “What the fuck do you call this thing?”
Her laugh broke into a gasp. “It’s a leotard.”
“Leotard,” he gritted out, grinding her down on his cock as if punishing her for distracting him. “Drives me out of my goddamn mind.”
He pinched again, harder this time, making her whimper and jerk her hips against him at the shot of pain and pleasure. “No bra. Nothing between me and these perfect nipples but a scrap of fabric.” He groaned. “Jesus, do you know what that does to me?”
His mouth was hot and rough against hers before she could come up with an answer. One big hand pushed the shoulders of the leotard down both arms to her elbows, trapping her arms to her sides and her breasts thrust upward.
“There is,” she gasped, her hands tightening in his hair, but he wasn’t stopping. “It’s built in.”
His breath hissed through his teeth as he yanked the tight fabric lower, exposing more of her with every rough pull until the peaks he’d teased were bare and tight under his fingers.
“Up,” he ordered with the unmistakable sheriff’s authority that made her obey before her mind caught up, pushing her off his lap and onto unsteady legs in front of him.