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He released her neck, and slipped his hand out of her pants and held it up between them. Even in the limited light, she could see the wet shine on his skin.
“Got that way for me.”
She couldn’t deny it, so she didn’t.
“I tell you to clean off my fingers, would you?”
Good God, he was killing her right now. “I’d point you to the sink in my kitchen.”
“Not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” She could hardly form those words when he lifted them to her lips.
“Do it.”
Christ, why did his demands turn her on so much? She forced herself to keep from knocking him to the ground, yanking out his cock and riding him until she came. “No. You do it.”
He cocked one eyebrow, then a slow grin spread over his face. For a moment, she thought he would force his fingers into her mouth, force her to suck them clean, force her to taste herself.
He didn’t. Instead he took his time, sliding his slick fingers into his own mouth and sucking on them.
Her knees buckled as she watched his reaction. An average person might not have noticed, but being a cop, she was more in tune with slight motions and physical reactions.
A trickle of wetness slipped from her and was caught in her boy shorts.
When he pulled his fingers from his mouth, he said, “Ain’t gettin’ naked ’til that gun’s off your ankle and outta reach. Survived way too long to be killed just tryin’ to get more of what I just tasted.”
“I’d be stupid to not have a way to protect myself. And how do I know you aren’t packing?”
He grabbed his crotch and shook it. “I am.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. She then sighed in resignation. “Fine. Let’s both drop our weapons first, then we can drop our clothes.” That sounded like a fair compromise.
With a single nod, he stepped back, no longer crowding her against the mirror. He smirked. “Wanna see me naked, huh?”
“It’s only fair.”
“Life ain’t fair, darlin’.”
That was for sure. If it was, it wouldn’t be Rook making her wet right now, it wouldn’t be Rook getting naked in front of her, it would be someone else. Someone she could invite over to the family’s Christmas dinner later.
A table he’d never sit at.
A family he’d never have casual conversation with.
A home he’d never be welcomed in.
He shed his leather jacket, tossing it to the floor by the front door. She removed her wool coat, hanging it in the closet behind her.
When she turned back, he had his pant leg pulled up and was unstrapping a knife from his calf.
“You know you can’t carry that shit, Rook.”
He continued taking off his socks and boots, dropping them on the floor near his jacket. “Who’s gonna know? You gonna snitch to my PO, Jet?”
She sighed and bent over to rip open the Velcro from her ankle holster and when she straightened, his eyes were not on her but the weapon.
She smiled. “You’re worried I’m going to shoot you?”
“You haven’t been tempted?”
She didn’t bother to answer that since he already knew the answer. She slipped the holstered weapon into the pocket of her wool coat so she could put it back on before she left the apartment later. Then she shut the closet door, taking a slow, deep breath before turning.
When she did, she lost the breath that was supposed to be bolstering her.
It completely disintegrated.
She knew he’d have tattoos. She just didn’t realize of what. Or how large.
She imagined he’d have his club colors tattooed onto his back. That was typical for most members of a real MC. Something not usually done in a casual riding club.
But it wasn’t his back she was looking at. She started where his fingers were unbuckling his belt and ran her gaze up his stomach.
He was in much better shape than expected.
“I guess you worked out a lot in prison.”
“Had time to fill,” was his answer as he thumbed open the top button of his jeans.
His left arm was covered in a colorful sleeve that began at his wrist and ended on his muscular pec. In the dark, it was difficult to make out all the details, but the large tattoo which started at the bottom of his bicep and moved over his shoulder cap to cross his left pec was a snake. With wings? Maybe a mythical creature of some sort? Coming out of crashing waves. It made no sense and she had no idea what it was or what it meant, if anything.
No, not a snake, some sort of sea serpent, maybe.
His right bicep sported a wide tribal band, one that a white man would typically get. A tattoo they thought looked cool even though they didn’t belong to any type of real tribe.
But, surprisingly, those tattoos were all she could see and seemed professionally done. She’d seen plenty of jailhouse and prison tattoos before and what he had were not those. These were not done while sitting in a cell while some hack using the end of a paperclip and the ink from a ball-point pen.
