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“I know.” I push back only to glide my hand along her front underneath the waistband of her pajama pants. The further down, along the thin material at her core, where her wetness seeps through the moment I make contact. Aria jumps, then moans at the contact. “I feel it.”
This time, it’s my turn to be the one to call the shots. She came to me for a reason, the first to act on the desire we both feel. But this is my place, and damn it, how good would it feel to dive into pleasure? It’s been such a long time since I felt anything—
My turn, absolutely, to drag her toward the bedroom. My terms, my rules, I’m not ready to go the full length yet, but there are so many other things two people can do to please each other. Aria has already shown me two of them. It’s time for me to return the favor.
“So what are you going to do about it?” she asks with a breathless giggle.
I want to do something. I want to do so manysomethingsit makes my head spin and the rest of me go steel-hard and molten at the same time. Except I say out loud, “You’re bad for me.”
Aria lifts a brow high. “Bad in a good way,” she replies.
I shake my head. “No, bad in a bad way. You should go home. I should send you out the door.”
“Then why aren’t you?” She arches back against me, and I stop, groaning, dragging her closer and grinding my dick against the sweet curves of her ass. “Why aren’t you showing me those plenty of other things you want to do to me?”
Time for me to shit or get off the pot, as my auntie used to say to me. She never suffered fools. And I hate to admit it, but lately, I’ve been nothing short of a fucking fool.
I bend to kiss Aria, only to have her push me away at the last minute. “Where's your bedroom?”
Her voice is huskier than I’ve ever heard it and shoots straight down to my cock.
“Find it yourself. If you do, I’ll give you a prize.”
She grabs the front of my shirt and turns, dragging me behind her. “As long as you let me pick the prize.”
I shuffle along behind her, the difference in our height laughable, just like the concept of doing anything with this woman.
She really is bad for me.
There would be no coming back from this. Sleeping with—or getting pretty damn close—to a criminal who is an active part of an investigation.
Why can't I say no to her? Why can’t I keep myself under control and do the right thing?
I have no clue what the right thing is anymore.
Aria nudges one of the doors in the hallway open and reveals the bathroom. The next room is the bedroom, and she shoots a fiery smile over her shoulder at me.
“Bingo.”
The word is so softly muttered I hardly hear it, and then she’s hauling me inside the room with more strength than I’d give her credit for. She keeps eye contact as she fiddles behind her with the knob, only releasing me once she’s got the door locked.
“Is this how you think it’s going to go?” I ask her. “With you calling all the shots?” I reach up and tug my shirt overhead.
“Won’t it?” She saunters toward me, her feet bare and making no noise on the plush carpet.
The apartment isn’t large by any means, and I’ve always hated the carpet in the bedrooms. Until now. Until the silence of her footsteps makes her seem like a siren straight out of my dreams.
She’s about to push me back to the bed when I sidestep, reaching around to the back of her neck in the same movement and reversing our positions again. Hauling her to me and forcing her to look up at me.
“What are you going to do to me, Devan? Will you tell me?”
I try to kiss her again, only to have her shift her face to the side to avoid my lips. Rather than give into the sliver of curiosity, the equally large sliver of frustration at not being able to claim those lips for mine in the deep way I want, I trail my mouth down the side of her neck. I nip at her chin, her jaw, draw a line toward her ear with my tongue, and feel her shiver.
“Take your clothes off,” I demand softly.
I expect her to fight me on it. To have something, anything, to say about me calling the shots. Especially since she came here to try to fuck me, and I’m not having it. Except her head bows, and she starts to peel her shirt over her head. Giving me a tantalizing glimpse of the navy-colored cotton bra keeping her breasts lifted. Her torso is pale, narrow, her ribs showing slightly. Her pajama pants follow later, and she kicks them aside, off into the gray gloom of the unlit bedroom.
There’s enough light seeping in from the streetlamps outside to illuminate the side of her face in golden slats.
