Disturbing His Peace Page 17

  There’s a lot of curiosity thrown my way when the cops file out of the apartment, each of them stopping to have paperwork signed by Greer at the door. Don’t mind me, I’m just the rapidly sobering girl munching on a candy bar, drooling over the flex of your book club leader’s biceps. Nothing to see here.

  Seriously, though, where else am I supposed to look? I’ve never seen him dressed so casually, in jeans and a worn-in white T-shirt. He’s wearing boots, but they’re a buffed brown color, so different from the shiny, intimidating black of his uniform pair. When he props an officer’s paperwork against the doorframe and lifts the pen to scribble something, his shirt lifts, and I see a hint of black hair, curling down the center of a ripped stomach. Mother of God. If I hadn’t shown up, would he have stripped it off, unzipped his jeans and . . . rode his palm down that strip of hair, sliding it into his briefs?

  It’s a good thing I promised to stay on the stool, because if I tried to stand up, I’d faint at the imagery of Greer stroking himself in nothing but that touchable white shirt. Keep chewing and think pure thoughts. At least I’ve got one portion of that mental command covered. I’ve just popped the final bite of Snickers into my mouth when the door closes behind the last person, leaving me and Greer alone in the apartment.

  Is this the part where we bang like bunnies? After the way he’s been checking me out, I’m expecting him to take me right here on the stool, muttering filth in my ear while I try not to orgasm after a split second. Instead, he saunters into the kitchen like a king on vacation at the seaside, takes me by the hand and leads me to his bedroom. All without saying a word.

  He flips the light on, revealing a pretty basic setup. White walls, wooden floors, one window, a ceiling fan. But it’s not standard because that’s the bed where Greer sleeps. It’s been tucked and smoothed like an Army sergeant would be inspecting it. There’s a softness to it, though. A blue flannel comforter, a gray sheet folded over at the top, white pillows. It’s king-sized and comfortable-looking, despite how rigid his bed-making technique makes it seem. It’s a lot like Greer, this bed.

  I feel him watching me, but I’m not prepared for the intensity with which he’s studying my reaction. “Do you ever sleep late on your days off?”

  A slight head shake. “No.”

  My mouth feels dry and clumsy. “That’s a shame. It looks comfortable.”

  “You’ll sleep in it tonight with me.”

  A shiver snakes up my back. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  His jaw ticks. “You want the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  Dammit, I really shouldn’t let him get away with that. I would normally hand a man his nuts in an envelope for presuming to tell me where I’m spending the night. Demands coming from this man are unlike anything else, though, because we’ve created this dynamic together. He’s making them because he needs to. And he knows I want him in the lead, too. Still, there’s a point at which he takes charge and we’re not there yet. I need that distinction. We both do. “I’ll reserve judgment,” I say, finally. “Do you want to . . . turn in now?”

  I can see the outline in his jeans, so I’m surprised when he shakes his head slowly. “Let’s watch some TV.” He turns and pulls a folded, navy blue shirt out of his dresser, handing it to me. “You can sleep in this.”

  I nod, thinking he’s going to leave the room and let me change. But he doesn’t. No, he strips off his own shirt and goes to work on his belt. Now that I’m under six-pack hypnosis, the shirt slips out of my fingers and plops on the floor. Rushing to pick it up, I vow to stop drooling over his brick shit-house body and fail. Fail so hard. He’s smirking by the time he drops his jeans, leaving him in nothing but tight black boxer briefs. Oh my God, the leg holes are straining to contain his thighs. Don’t even get me started on that dead center part of him. It’s like he’s smuggling a torpedo. “That’s all you’re wearing to watch television?” I croak.

  He winks at me and leaves the room.

  Forget Invasion of the Body Snatchers, this is The Twilight Zone.

  Taking deep breaths to relax myself, I kick off my shoes and drape myself in soft, navy blue cotton, which ends just above my knees. After a quick check of my makeup in Greer’s tiny bedside mirror, I go to join him in the living room. The television is already on, and he’s watching the news. Of course. But I know when he senses me coming because his back muscles flex, and he changes the station to a late night talk show.

  I slide between Greer and the coffee table, intending to park myself beside him on the couch, but he snags me by the waist and draws me down on his lap. There are a few charged seconds where neither one of us moves, but the pace of our breathing goes haywire. I struggle not to moan when he plants his open mouth against my ear and hums, the vibration going straight through me. “I figured we could find out what all this cuddle talk is about.”

  “Is there a lot of talk?” I wheeze the question, and I don’t even blame myself. Who could think straight with the hot muscular flex of his thighs under their butt? “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “Good.” The fingers of his left hand thread into my hair and tug, just enough to ease my head back. “I don’t want anyone talking to you about cuddling but me.”

  “Oh really?” Prickles plague the back of my neck. “Who was talking to you about it?”

  He’s quiet for a beat, his breath slowing at my ear. “Could you really get jealous over me?”

  No sense in lying. The decorated lieutenant would see right through my deception, let alone the man beneath who I’ve already humbled myself in front of. A man who already knows I can be stubbornly independent, to my own detriment. But maybe I tell the truth simply because I want him to know. “Yeah. I could.”

  His tongue drags up the side of my neck, as if he’s rewarding me, and I’m already so wet, it’s embarrassing. “Since we’re putting our jealousy out in the open,” he begins in a low rumble. “Who were you with tonight?”

  “Just Ever and Katie.”

  An approving sound, followed by another slow glide of his tongue, right up to my earlobe. “Did they try to talk you out of coming to see me?”

  The note of worry in his voice makes me wish I could see his face. “Ever is the one who texted Charlie for your address. They were prepared to drag me here.”

  He pauses. “Really.”

  “Really. They know I wouldn’t waste my time on you if there wasn’t a good reason. Even if you irritate me sometimes.” There’s a warm sound in his chest, like a big lion purring, and I gasp as his teeth nip at my neck, his mouth tracing up into my hair and messing it around. “What I was . . . there was something I—I was going to say—”

  My mouth is captured by his in a long, suctioning kiss, but it’s too short. It’s too short, but when I find myself tucked into his lap in nothing short of the world’s most amazing cuddle, I find it very hard to complain. “What was it?” Greer prompts me, his thumb stroking my bottom lip.

  “Um. My mother’s bike. I bought it for her because she’s used to a lot of sunshine. But she wasn’t getting enough in the apartment, you know? I could see she was getting depressed, and her skin didn’t look healthy. The doctor said she needed exercise, so I took a chance on the bike and it did wonders.” Finally, we’re face-to-face so I can look into his eyes, and I find them concentrating on my every word, analyzing, making notes. “So it was a really big deal that you found her bike and returned it. I don’t know when I could have afforded another one, and it just really means a lot to me. Thank you.” Concentration lines form between his eyebrows, his palm curves to my cheek, then slides back into my hair, like he’s testing himself, experimenting with me and what certain new touches feel like. How I react to them. It’s almost enough to distract me from what I’m saying. “I was going to come here and say that. Thank you. Just so you knew I meant it. I didn’t want to leave it in a voice mail.”

  “I like when you leave voice mails.”

>   “You’re welcome. That’s what you’re supposed to say here.”

  He makes a sound in his throat. And I guess that is that.

  I lay my head down on his shoulder and take a deep inhale of his skin. No-nonsense soap, sweat, spearmint gum. It doesn’t feel like our first time cuddling in terms of how our bodies curve together. But the beating of his heart against my shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest, is so new. Up close, I can see all the individual hairs on his chest, the dark whorls of them that grow concentrated at his belly button and vanish below my hip. His erection is tucked between the cheeks of my ass, but he seems determined to pet every inch of me, and I’m totally content to let him. He’s so warm.

  A yawn catches me off guard, but I shake myself to keep my eyelids from drooping. “What’s your verdict on cuddling?”

  His sigh shifts my hair around. “I think I’m fucked.”

  I turn my face into his neck to hide my smile. We stay like that for a few minutes, Greer trying to covertly sniff my hair, his rough palms covering every inch of me in tender slides. There’s a huge change happening here between us. My bones are resonating with that certainty. I know there are still obstacles to jump over, too, but surely if we’ve gotten to this point, we’ll keep moving forward, right?

  My eyes are half open, but a photograph across the room on Greer’s bookshelf catches my attention. It’s a family photo and while it’s far away, I recognize a young Charlie and a middle-school-age Greer. There’s no mistaking their legendary father, either, in his full police dress blues. The woman in the picture is unfamiliar to me, though. She’s blonde and pretty. Petite. Each of her hands rests on her sons’ shoulders.

  “That’s your mother in that picture?”

  His hand slows on my thigh, for just a breath, before it keeps going. “Yes.”

  The mood between us is so easy, I should let the subject drop, but Ever’s words from earlier tonight echo in my head. Charlie has no idea how Greer feels about their mother taking off. Greer won’t talk about it. Would he talk to me, though? He’s told me about his burnout, opened up about Griffin. And I’m beginning to understand this man. He left that picture out because deep down, he wants to talk about it. Even if he isn’t aware of the need. I can’t let the opportunity pass. “If she left, why do you keep the picture out? Isn’t it painful?”

  “That’s the point.” Against my shoulder, his heart speeds up. “It’s a reminder of how easily people come and go.”

  That confession is like a gash in my side. This isn’t about me, though. “I would never make an excuse for a mother leaving her children, but are you so sure it was easy for her?”

  He’s silent for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer. “She had another family within five years. Kids and everything.”

  “What?” I straighten slowly, my chest filling with cement. “How do you know?”

  “I went to see her when I turned eighteen.” His eyes cut to the side, like he’s seeing things I can’t. Like he’s trying to figure out how to explain the images to me. “My dad had been building a file on her. One night he got called in to work and left it out on his desk, instead of locking it in his safe. I copied down the address and . . .” He shrugs his big shoulders. “She was only down in Pennsylvania, so I got there in a few hours. I wanted her to give Charlie some closure, you know? Me? I’d found a way to ignore how I felt about her leaving. But you know my brother. He’s different than me. He gets cut so deep.”

  “You’re not different from him,” I whisper, almost afraid for him to continue recounting the story. Intuition tells me it’s going to be bad. “You just handle pain differently. That doesn’t make your pain any less important.”

  It takes him a few seconds to absorb that. “She didn’t recognize me.” He laughs, but it doesn’t contain any humor. “I was leaning against my car at the end of her driveway. She walked out of the house with a stroller and . . . she almost walked right past me. I’d grown a lot, but I never expected to explain who I was. And then she stared at me like I was a ghost. I just left.” His chest lifts and falls on a heavy breath. “I’ve never told anyone.”

  My eyes ache from trying to keep my tears from falling. It feels like someone took a machete to my lungs. “I’m sorry.” I look up at the ceiling and will myself to say the right thing. “There’s no excuse for that. I can’t imagine what that was like. I think . . . when people make huge mistakes or do things that they’re ashamed of, their brains block it out. They want to outrun the fact that they’re missing something inside themselves.” I turn on his lap and frame his face with my hands. “You aren’t missing anything. You were there to make a difference in your brother’s life, which is a selflessness she’ll never understand.”

  His voice is raw. “I didn’t get the closure for him.”

  “No, but he got it for himself, I think. Maybe he needed to do it alone.”

  “Maybe,” he says, his expression cautious.

  “What about your closure?”

  Before I have a chance to prepare, his gaze sears me like a brand. “I’m trying to get there, Danika. I want to get there for you.”

  I’m in love with Greer. Stupid, serious, might-spontaneously-levitate love. I know it without a doubt in that moment. My heart and mind are high-fiving in the vicinity of my throat. I can’t get comfortable and forget about the obstacles—he’s still wary of being with anyone, let alone a cop—but I think we’re more capable of jumping over them every time we’re together.

  I hop off his lap and cross to the family photo, snatching it off the shelf. With Greer watching me like a broody, beautiful animal on the couch, I march to the kitchen and stow the framed shot in the freezer, closing the door with a resounding whap. Working my best runway walk, I make sure Greer has a good view of my body. Then I strip his shirt over my head, tossing it aside. As soon as I’m in reaching distance, I’m grabbed around the waist, the oxygen vacating my lungs as I’m thrown down on the couch beneath one very hungry lieutenant.

  Chapter 25

  Greer

  Fuck. I’ve never felt this light. Above the waist, at least. Everything south of my abs is heavy, heavy, heavy. I’ve got the beauty I never stop fantasizing about stretched out on the couch beneath me, nothing but a teal thong to protect her from what’s coming. She’s squirming around, arms thrown up above her head, tempting me. Turning my dick to stone. But I need a moment to savor her. Savor what she’s done to me.

  Christ, my chest. It’s like someone took a shovel and scooped out all the ugly shit that’s been dragging me down, taking any sense of gravity along with it. No, not someone. Her. Since the beginning, I’ve been compelled to tell Danika the secrets I carry around.

  Was it my cop intuition or something deeper, more complex that shouted at me she would understand everything? That she would be the one who’d look at me without pity or judgment. Thank God for whatever sixth sense forced me to expose myself to this girl. She made it so easy. She makes . . . putting one foot in front of the other so easy. Even when I can’t bring myself to answer her phone calls, the simple certainty that she would keep calling has been getting me out of bed since Saturday night. God, she’s so persistent. So sure that I’m worthy of her effort, I think I’m starting to believe it. And covet my time with her, in return.

  There’s still that damning tug in my gut, telling me to safeguard myself. This thing I feel for Danika . . . it’s turning into an all-out obsession. So much more than I’ve experienced in my life for anything. Or anyone. If she were taken away from me now . . . or God, down the road . . . I’d lose my mind. Literally. I don’t know if I’d be capable of the day-to-day life I live now.

  But I’m not giving those fears any goddamn consideration tonight. My body is demanding to be satisfied. My girl came here for pleasure, too, and I’m driven to provide it. Her gratitude for returning her mother’s bike wasn’t necessary, but it turned me into an instant addict. One who needs constant fixes of Danika’s appreciation.
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  My mouth is already watering for the taste of her pussy, but when I create a trail with my tongue down her smooth belly, she stops me. “No, I want you . . . that way.”

  “What does that mean?” I bite her right hip, then kiss over to the opposite side. “You want to suck me off?”

  Her back arches, mouth falling open on a moan. “Oh my God, just hearing you say things like that makes me—”

  “Wet?” I glide my open mouth up to her tits, bathing one of her nipples with a warm breath. “Is your little clit getting swollen for me, baby?”

  A shudder passes through her. “Yes.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to lick it for you?”

  She bites her lip and makes a frustrated sound. “No, I’m not sure, but I know I’ve been having some very inappropriate thoughts about . . .”

  “You stormed my apartment and chewed me out in front of eleven cops tonight, Danika. I think you can manage to say it out loud.”

  Her nod is stilted, but there’s nothing but determination in her fingertips as they slide down my chest, my stomach, before hooking in the waistband of my boxers. “I want you in my mouth, please.”

  I’m hit with a wave of hunger so intense, my teeth snap together. “There’s a good girl.” I lever myself up with a hand on the arm of the couch and ease forward on my knees. The move brings my cock an inch from her sweet, panting mouth. I’m straddling her face, my thigh hair catching on her dark curls. Now that her fucking me like this is a reality, I’m burning for it. The stroke of her tongue, the stretch of her lips. “Take it out.”

  Her palms travel up my thighs, her breath accelerating. I’m already groaning by the time she curls her fingers into the waistband of my boxers, tugging them down. My dick springs out as eagerly as I feel, coming to rest on her cheek before she grips it, leading my flesh toward her mouth. She’s so wide-eyed and flushed when my tip sinks in, I can’t keep pre-come from escaping, probably dripping down the back of her throat. And Jesus, the possibility of that makes me very aware we’ve crossed that line we drew in the sand. I’m calling the shots now.