Soul Rest Page 14

  "Celeste." She'd started to strain against the bonds, was making angry noises, and he tugged her hair, bringing her focus back to him. "Hold on."

  He untied the rope, unwrapped it, though she didn't want him to do that. When he tried to remove the scarf, she scrambled away from him, intending to rip it off herself, and gasped as he caught her back against his body. "Behave. Settle."

  She expected he used that hard voice on his rookies. It worked on her, though she quivered with repressed resentment. She was aware it was projected self-loathing. It didn't make him any safer from the flak.

  He removed the scarf, smoothed back her hair. With him behind her, she saw only the shaded windows, her folded jeans resting next to the crumpled throw. "Put those back on," he said.

  He released her and she jerked away. Moving over to the pants, she yanked them on. She kept her head down, but she was aware of his gaze as she zipped and buttoned them, tucked in her tank, picked up the button-down shirt, put it on. While she did that, he moved to lean against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He was beside her shoes. She didn't let herself hesitate, coming over to stuff her feet in them, resisting the urge to reach out and clasp his forearm to steady herself. She used the wall instead.

  "I'm not doing Wednesday or Friday," she said shortly. "I can't--"

  A man she estimated at two hundred fifty pounds shouldn't be able to move like a pouncing cat, but before she could blink, he had caught her around the waist. He swung her across him and toward the wall in a swift arc. She would have face-planted into it, except he controlled her movements so she had time to put up her hands. When her palms met the wall, he'd snaked one powerful arm under her arm and behind her neck, an effective headlock as he shoved his other hand down the front of her jeans. It was a snug fit, given the size of his hand, but his fingers plunged down into her panties and found her damp pussy, began to stroke. No, stroke was the wrong word. Worry, tug, demand a response from her.

  She went up on her toes, scratching the wall with her fingers as he held the clamp on her neck. "Come for me, sub." He spoke the last word in a whisper that resonated through her, shot right down between her legs.

  The low simmer of response that had built during the rope wrapping turned into a geyser. She came violently against his ruthless fingers, his unshakable grip. She screamed at the intensity of it, whipping her head around to take a good chunk out of his forearm with her teeth, but the headlock didn't let her reach him. She floundered in his grip as he made sure she experienced every vibrating, excruciating second of the endless climax.

  Emphasizing that he was the one in control--as if he'd left any doubt of it--he took her down at his pace, with massages and sudden squeezes of her clit and labia that had aftershocks rocking through her, drawing gasps and animal noises from her. When at last, slowly, he withdrew his hand and released her from the headlock, she kept her forehead and palms against the wall. His arm went to her waist to steady her as he tucked her tank back in, stroking the elastic of her panties before he tugged the other shirt back down over it. Then he laid a kiss on the back of her neck, her ear.

  "I didn't do anything for you," she muttered.

  He rubbed his steel erection against her ass. "You offering?"

  Yes. "No. I have to go." She needed to go.

  "All right." He stepped back, but she noticed his hands lingered until she straightened from the wall, took a couple deep breaths and made sure she could stand. Her legs were shaky, but she was all right. Mostly.

  As she turned, he held on to her elbow, picked up her purse, threaded it over her arm. Guiding her out of the house the same way he'd guided her in, he walked her down the stairs. He dropped his touch as they moved onto the walkway. She thought he was establishing distance between them, but when she dared a glance at him, she saw he was watching her closely, making sure she was steady enough to drive.

  It made the emotions dueling in her gut twist into a hard knot. As incredible as the orgasm she'd just had was, she knew it would be nothing to gushing around his cock when it was plunged inside her, stretching her cunt, marking her as his.

  "What would you have said if I'd said yes?"

  "I'd have said no." He stopped and faced her at the car. "Tempting as it would be to fuck you, Celeste, it's not yet time. You're too fragile."

  She bristled at that, but he cupped her chin, lifted it. "When the time comes, and it's coming soon, Celeste, I'll use you hard. So be careful what you wish for." He leaned in, spoke against her ear. She bet if she tried to punch, kick, bite or scratch, he'd make her exceedingly sorry. Which made her want to find out if she was right. Fortunately he distracted her from the impulse.

  "When the time comes, I'll fuck your cunt, your mouth, your ass. I'll jack off over you when I have you stretched out and tied, so you can't move an inch. I'll wash you off so gentle, and make sure everything that hurts, hurts less. Then I'll do it all over again, until you're screaming that word you barely spoke a while ago. And you'll be begging your Master for more."

  The man didn't have to gag her to take away her ability to talk. Her stomach was rippling in an unsettling mix of trepidation and anticipation as he turned and headed back up his walkway. Twilight had moved into nighttime, so the streetlights deepened the shadows and put his powerful form in sharp relief. "I'll pick you up on Wednesday," he called over his shoulder. "You have anything to wear to a country-western bar?"

  She forced herself to pull it together. She wasn't going with him. She needed to tell him that. She needed to say all sorts of vile, horrible things to him so he'd never want to see her again.

  "Birkenstocks, tie-dye and my 'I Hate Country Music' button," she said instead.

  His deep chuckle sent another ripple down her spine, the reaction spreading out over her buttocks and teasing her between her legs like his touch. "See you then, darlin'."

  Chapter Six

  "Don't even try, Wasserman. You have as much chance with her as I do of dating a super model."

  "That's because you lack basic hygiene, Foley. The day I had to ride with you, I stopped by the minute clinic for a tetanus shot."

  "And the vet for a rabies update," someone else added.

  Leland closed his locker door and came around the corner to the roll call room, buttoning his fresh uniform shirt. The half-sized lockers weren't intended to hold much, but they could hold an extra shirt, and experience had taught him to keep one on hand. His shift was past end, but he'd gotten hung up assisting Long on an aggressive drunk-and-disorderly. The cantankerous mechanic weighed about ninety pounds but had squirmed away from Long and decided to charge Leland with wrench in hand. Though Leland had put him down without a problem, he'd gotten splattered by the vomit when the guy had to puke mid-attack. The upside was that had taken all the fight out of him.

  "Whose Wasserman got a hard-on for now?" he asked.

  "His momma."

  "Butch in the K-9 squad."

  Leland chuckled, but he noticed Wasserman looked a little wary. A quick glance around told him the other guys were trying to distract him with the banter. They hadn't realized a sergeant was listening. He should bust their asses for not being more observant. Except for the district commander and the assistant district commander offices, there wasn't a lot of privacy to be had. The District 1 building was a converted Shopper's Fair, the cinderblock walls painted BRPD blues and grays to go with the cement floor, and had all the ambiance of a warehouse. The lieutenants had a communal office where the door could be closed, but the sergeants used open cubicles set up like a rabbit warren, only a rock toss away from the roll call area and small kitchen.

  But it was home base for District 1, and they'd added personal touches. Like the life-sized Santa Claus figure someone had picked up when it was abandoned after the holidays a year or so ago. The jolly red guy was in permanent residence on top of a bookshelf near the sergeants' cubicles. Recently someone had given him a cardboard sign that said Will Work for Food. Well, it wasn't Christmas yet. Even S
anta had slow periods.

  "Spit it out, Officer," he said to Wasserman. "What woman can we expect to file a restraining order against you?"

  Wasserman's expression eased a little at Leland's good-natured prodding. "Aw, they're right, Sarge. We're just razzing one another. We're talking about Celly Lewis. She's hot as hell, all the more because she doesn't know it."

  "And she's nice," Billy put in.

  "Yeah. She thinks she might have a lead on that hooker stabbing and the assault on the laundromat manager," Mike added. He was straddling one of the metal and black vinyl chairs, sipping coffee. "She said she was going to pass it to Marquez if it panned out. Thinks Dogboy might be involved or at least know something."

  Leland frowned. "He associates himself with the MoneyBoyz, and they're all about the drugs. How does he connect to the hooker?"

  "Can't say. That was all she said to me, and you know Marquez can't tell us dick. But I've had some run-ins with Dogboy before." Mike's eyes went cold. "I think he's got some anger issues with girls. Even the working girls seem to give him a wide berth. When we pulled up on Celly talking to him the other day, I didn't like the way he was looking at her. There's something cooking under the surface of that one. Something nasty."

  "What the hell was she doing there?" Though Leland already knew the answer to that. The damn woman didn't know how to stay out of trouble.

  Mike grimaced. "What she's always doing. She knows this area almost as good as we do, Sarge. Cool as she could be. Toe-to-toe with him and looking him dead in the eye, no fear. Girl's got balls."

  "Which could be why Wasserman's so interested in her..."

  As the banter started again, Leland gauged whether or not it was the proper time to drop his bombshell, and then figured it was as good an opportunity as any. He waited for a pause, then let it fly.

  "I'm dating her."

  If he'd thrown a live grenade into roll call, he couldn't have captured their attention more effectively. In the brief silence before he was sure they were going to break into a chorus of bullshits, assuming he was messing with them, he added, "Taking her out tomorrow night, in fact. We've seen each other a couple times. Don't know how serious it's going to get, but you're right. She's pretty special. So let's keep an eye on her out there, all right?"

  Mike rose. "We do, Sarge," he said seriously. "She's one of the good guys. We all know it." He cut a glance at the other guys, tucked his tongue in his cheek. "Plus, we don't want you to lose your opportunity to get some for the first time in forever. After she reports on your performance in her blog, it may be the last."

  "Mike, I didn't know you were itching to take on all the domestic disturbance calls this month." Leland said. "And by your lonesome, too. We all appreciate your generosity."

  The room erupted in hoots and general comments. As Leland gave the man a good-natured shove, he let out a breath. The opening had been convenient, but he was bemused by the shot of nerves that had gone through him right before taking it. Before he'd gone out on patrol, he'd talked to his lieutenant and Captain Teller, the assistant district commander, about the subject, because no way was he going to be seen dating a reporter and have any nasty speculation reflect on the district or BRPD in general. The captain had been cool about it. He'd known Leland long enough to trust him to stay within regulations on the information he'd share--or rather, not share--with Celeste.

  But he'd found even the higher-ups had a good opinion of her, and that had weighed in his favor as well. Apparently her intention to send info to Marquez wasn't the first time she'd given tips that were useful. He found himself absurdly proud to hear the detectives felt she had good instincts. "She thinks like a detective," Captain Teller said. "She finds patterns, looks for things that don't fit." Because she tried to work with the police if they asked her to hold a story until they could take the advantage her information might give them on solving the crime or apprehending the perpetrator, there were times the PIO gave her an early heads-up on statements, just to show appreciation. Respect went both ways.

  It was a good thing the captain hadn't had any objections to Leland seeing her, because he wouldn't have been able to stay away from her regardless. When he'd closed his hand around himself in the shower this morning, he'd come in a matter of seconds, just by thinking of her in her thin tank, the bra beneath it doing nothing to hide the stiffness of her nipples, the generous size of her breasts. Her ass had been drum tight in her thin jeans, those tempting cheeks rubbing against him when he brought her to climax. The way she'd melted against him, letting him take her over during the flow of the Ichinawa session, had cinched it. He had her scent in his nose, the feel of her tingling against his palms. When he'd told her how many ways he planned to take her when they got to that point, she'd stopped breathing. He'd wanted to bite those lush lips, bring back that hazy, disoriented look. He wanted to hold her in his arms again.

  Well, he'd have to make do holding her during a Texas waltz, because he had to keep it slow with her, at least in the sex department. As far as the emotional connection, he didn't think the two of them could go any faster if they jumped into a rocket headed for the moon. They'd seen each other twice before, yet this third time, she'd come to him, knelt on the floor at his command, trembled when he first touched her. Part of that was the Dom/sub thing, and her starting to embrace it again after her long hiatus. However, while she might not appreciate the comparison, certain breeds of dogs were known for their penchant to bond with one person only. Certain subs could be that way as well.

  She was tricky, complicated, and the demons jumped right to the surface with the barest of triggers. There was no manual for dealing with that. It was all intuition, which was why the right kind of Dom had to handle her. He was determined to be that Master. Her Master. When she'd said that word to him, in a whisper that was hardly more than an exhaled breath, he'd almost missed it, but then it had hit him like a Taser in the chest.

  Yeah, it was pretty soon for that reaction. Or maybe it was just in time. As Mike said, it had been a long dry run, but it had been that way for a reason. Leland knew what he wanted, and he was pretty damn sure he'd found her. The potential was there for her as well. He just had to figure out a way to convince her. Otherwise, he'd be the one with a restraining order filed against his ass. Though he expected his girl wasn't the restraining order type. She was far more likely to put a knife in him as her keep the fuck away from me message.

  It was one of the things he liked about her. And that made him worry. He thought about her toe-to-toe with Dogboy and frowned. They were going to talk about that. Count on it.

  SS

  It had been forty-eight hours. She shouldn't be so worked up that every phallic object in the house looked appealing. Fortunately none of them were nearly as appealing as the actual phallic object she wanted. It was her own fault. Once again she hadn't let herself touch her vibrator, though the fucking man hadn't said a fucking word about using her fucking vibrator. But she remembered those forced orgasms, so excruciating. It had been unforgettable, yet also a torment, one she didn't necessarily wanted to repeat.

  She also wanted more than his cock. She wanted his warm, hard body stretched out on top of her, spreading her legs with his hips. He'd thrust deep inside her as she held on and lost herself in the look in his golden eyes. That look that said he wanted her, would have her, would keep her. It was that which would carry her to climax, as much as anything he did to her physically. It was a far cry from anything she'd ever thought she'd want from a man. Or could have, rather.

  She'd sent him five texts in the past twenty-four hours.

  Not going. Can't. Have conflict. We'll do it another time. Forget it.

  He'd sent the same response every time.

  See you at eight.

  She'd fired back her typical knee-jerk answers.

  Jerk. Asshole. Hard head.

  He had a response for that one.

  And that ain't all...

  That had made her snort on a laugh. The
man was impossible. But here she was, dressed to impress and coming out the door of her small rental house as he pulled up. She'd been watching for him, because she knew he was the type who would come to her door, and she hadn't had a chance to clean the disaster zone in which she lived. After seeing his military-neat domicile, no way in hell was he coming into her space until she could tackle it with a leaf blower and a sandblaster.

  Confirming her suspicions about his courtly manners, he was already out of the truck and headed toward her as she was descending the stairs from the front porch. Nothing said class like a man coming to the door to escort a woman out on a date. A guy pulling up and laying down on the horn of his muscle car while swigging his first beer of the night had pretty much been the story of her teenaged dating life, such that almost twenty years later, she could still keenly appreciate the opposite.

  She looked up from the stairs to give him a pleasant greeting and came to a full stop on the middle step. She didn't trust her footing, not while looking at him.

  He looked like a man who planned to spend the evening at a country-western bar. He should have looked ridiculous, like he needed a loaded holster and a sheriff's star pinned to his shirt. That was what she told herself, an unsuccessful self-defense mechanism. His black shirt with pearl snap buttons was open at the throat, and his dark-blue jeans fit in a way that made her mouth go dry. His belt had one of those large silver buckles. Not rodeo award huge, like the size of a dinner plate, but big enough that when he walked, it added an intriguing twitch of motion to the roll of his hips, the long-legged stride, all of which drew her gaze to the impressively packaged groin area. It left no doubt there was plenty there to keep a woman occupied. That sexy walk was emphasized by black-and-tan cowboy boots, tucked up under the jeans. The black shirt had tan embroidery on the edges of the pockets. He was wearing an honest-to-God cowboy hat. Tan with a black braid band.