Under The Covers. Jamie Denton
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him had occupied her mind for the better part of the day? Was he aware of just how much she’d thought about slipping her arms around his neck and dragging his mouth down to hers the second he’d uttered that husky “kiss me” demand?
She hoped not, firmly reminding herself again that his presence on this case was nothing more than a means to an end. That’s all he ever could be to her, no matter how many times her heart rate accelerated or how much overtime her imagination put in whenever she thought about the next two weeks alone in a luxurious honeymoon resort with him. He was her temporary partner and held no more importance than a vital piece of equipment required to do the job. She would not, could not, get caught up in all that sex appeal.
More significantly, Blake Hammond was a cop. And after what she’d suffered because of her former partner, getting involved with any man in law enforcement was nothing short of emotional suicide. One dark-haired, silver-eyed detective with enough sexual magnetism to short circuit her central nervous system had to top her list of males in the danger zone. She refused to be that stupid again.
He slipped his free hand along the side of her neck and used his thumb to tilt her chin up so she had no choice but to look into the steely determination in his gaze. “Then kiss me,” he said, his voice a rough rumble of sound. “Kiss me and convince me I’m the only man in the world you want kissing you.”
Against her will, the rate of her pulse picked up speed and collided with the hammering of her heart. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said around the wedge of unease clogging her throat, “we don’t exactly have an audience.”
Without a word, he dropped his hand and gently tugged her wrist so she’d follow him.
“Where are we going?” she demanded when they reached the front door of his condo. She had no idea what kind of game he was playing, but she wasn’t about to go quietly.
He opened the door. “To find you an audience,” he said, continuing outside.
She hurried down the short flight of concrete steps in an attempt to keep up with him. “This is crazy. You’re crazy.”
He stopped at the base of the stairs and looked into the darkening horizon. “There’s nothing crazy about wanting to stay alive. This way.”
With a hefty sigh, she kept pace with him as he gently pulled her down a pathway toward a series of wooden steps leading to the beach. With his hand still wrapped around her wrist, they crossed the sand toward a strip of palm trees silhouetted against the murky skyline.
She peered into the darkness and spotted her audience. An elderly couple walked hand in hand along the shore, their bulky basset hound waddling and baying at the incoming waves, then romping down the wet sand after the receding water. Farther down the shoreline, a group of teens sat grouped around a fire pit. The scent of burning wood mingled with the salty tang of sea air, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of rap music from a portable stereo system, carried toward them on the evening breeze.
Blake stopped once they reached the palms, and backed her up until her spine grazed the rough bark. “Put your arms around me,” he demanded gently.
“I think you’re taking this a little too far,” she said, but slipped her arms around his neck just the same. While she didn’t care much for his high-handed attitude, she’d been an agent too long not to understand the validity of the point he was trying to make. Their very lives depended on whether or not everyone they came in contact with believed they were the happy couple. How could they possibly hope to convince anyone if she continually avoided his touch? She’d just have to be strong and remember it was all make-believe. An assignment. More importantly, if they did their jobs well enough, it’d also be her last.
He settled his hands on her hips, his fingers pressing against her backside. “Like you mean it, Ronnie.”
He wanted a convincing performance, then she’d give him one, she thought mutinously.
This was her duty, he was merely along for the ride, and if she didn’t establish herself as the head of this little undercover operation, she’d be playing second string to the sexy, arrogant detective for the remainder of the assignment. And that was something she refused to allow to happen to her again. She’d been acting like a good little girl for too many years, and what had it gotten her?
Nowhere that she wanted to be again.
She toyed with the silky hair at the nape of his neck and looked into his eyes. “Just don’t expect a declaration of love, Detective,” she said in what she hoped was a husky voice.
“Blake,” he said, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck.
She sucked in a sharp breath when his warm lips skirted along her jaw to her throat. She tipped her head back, not because what he was doing to her felt wonderfully delicious, but to provide a convincing performance.
Uh-huh. Sure, her pesky conscience taunted.
“Say it.” His voice was low, deep and dancing over her nerve endings, adding to the delicious sensations his lips were already stirring.
His hands roamed from her hips and up her sides. His thumbs rested just below the underside of her breasts and she closed her eyes, an action that did nothing to quell the slow heat winding through the pit of her stomach, or the way her breasts suddenly swelled against the smooth satin of her bra.
He nipped at the sensitive spot just below her ear and she couldn’t have formed a coherent sentence, let alone a hollow protest, if her life depended on it.
“Say it, Ronnie.”
Her fingers flexed and tangled in his raven black hair. “Say what?” she managed in a breathy whisper, turning her head to the side when his mouth trailed a line of heat down to her collarbone. Between his mouth and that musky man scent mingled with the sting of sea air, she couldn’t think straight.
“Blake. Say my name, Ronnie,” he demanded again, while pressing biting little kisses up her throat and along her jaw. “Say it.”
His mouth hovered over hers, his breath fanning her lips more intoxicating than she’d ever dreamed possible. Good heavens, she wanted him to kiss her.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Feminine pride rose within her at the desire flaring in his gaze. “Is it really necessary?”
“It is if you want to stay alive. My name has to be second nature to you.”
She swallowed, knowing exactly why she was hesitating. Her mind might acknowledge it was only make-believe, but her body already had other ideas. Dangerous ideas. She knew he was absolutely right with every instinct she’d acquired since her first day on the job. Yet, somehow, speaking his name with his hands spanning her rib cage and his thumbs tracing lazy patterns beneath her breasts made saying his name far too intimate to be anything but real.
“Blake,” she whispered, then gave in to the desire by pressing her fingers against the back of his neck, urging his mouth over hers.
His lips moved in an erotic dance of seduction that sent tingles of sensation shooting to her toes. Heat curled in her belly and spread outward as his tongue swept over hers, tormenting her with lazy sweeps until she trembled in his arms. He tasted sweet, like the sugar in the tea she’d drunk earlier. He tasted hard, like a pillar of strength, immovable and sturdy. He tasted hot, like mind-blowing, sweat-slicked bodies and tangled-sheets sex.
His hand slid from her rib cage and chased down her back to settle on her bottom. A moan bubbled in her throat and she molded her body to his, reveling in the feel of crisp denim against her bare legs, of the feel of his wide, firm chest against her sensitive breasts. Desire thrummed through her, and thoughts of regaining the upper hand fled in favor of the soulful, silky glide of his tongue exploring her mouth. He’d reawakened the lustful beast inside her, hot and primitive, guided by the natural, most basic need to mate. A need that shook and rattled her practiced composure.
One hand roamed her back and held her close, while the other smoothed along her rib cage and upward, this time cupping her breast