was reading from a different script—and it wasn’t a romance. To Scott she was a collection of body parts, transferable to his friend for any non-bedroom stuff!
She’s all yours!
Well, quid pro quo. There was a legal term for Scott to mull over.
If she was nothing but a collection of body parts to him then he would be nothing but a collection of body parts to her.
Scott Knight: Kate Cleary’s stud.
No more kissing. No dates that weren’t really dates. No unscheduled drop-ins. No fireside chats. Nothing except sex. Only twice a week, because she was no longer in a negotiating mood. Starting with a Play Time that would fry his nether regions!
Before she could think twice she grabbed her phone, pulled up Scott’s number and got texting.
Play Time. Tuesday. 9 p.m. Ellington Lane.
That would shock him. He’d be sitting there with Brodie, never dreaming she’d text him so soon after that dismal coffee catch-up. He probably expected her to be lying face-down on her bed, crying into her pillow because she was piqued. Well, he could just—
Ding.
Text message. She grabbed her phone. Opened Scott’s text message.
Roger that.
With a smiley face.
A…a smiley face?
Now, you see—that was why he wasn’t the right man for her.
Or maybe why he is.
‘Yes, thank you, subconscious. Not helpful.’
Scott was champing at the bit as he approached Ellington Lane on Tuesday night.
He had no idea what fantasy Kate had dreamt up to carry out in this dingy, narrow, deserted laneway, but hopefully it didn’t involve his murder—because Ellington Lane certainly looked as if it regularly saw a dead body, and Kate surely must want to kill him after Sunday.
He wasn’t even certain she was going to turn up, given she hadn’t bothered answering any of his thousand calls since then.
But he was here waiting anyway—he who never had sex in public places—so hungry for her he’d do anything.
He was going to make tonight so damned good for her. Use his body to show her he didn’t mean what he’d said—because clearly he couldn’t trust his malfunctioning brain to choose the right words.
He still couldn’t believe he’d said it. She’s all yours. Just because she’d smiled at Brodie and he’d wanted to grab her and demand she stop. Because she was his, his, his, and she was supposed to smile at him—got it?
God, he was a moron! You’re mine—so go with that guy instead, why don’t you?
He deserved to be standing here, lust-starved and desperate, in an ill-lit, deserted alley, wondering if she’d turn up, shivering at the thought of what she’d do to him, and just…well, longing for her.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
And suddenly there she was.
SCOTT’S HEART LURCHED as Kate took one step. Stopped.
She was backlit by a street lamp just outside the lane. Standing with her legs slightly apart, looking tough. Tight pants, high boots, hands on hips, wearing some kind of cap.
She started walking towards him—very slowly, very deliberately. Halfway, he could see she was wearing a police uniform—but a sexed-up, skintight version.
His mouth went dry—so dry that when she asked, ‘What seems to be the problem?’ he couldn’t answer.
And then she was in front of him, and he could smell tuberose, and he wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg.
‘Not talking?’ she asked, and there was a snap in her voice. ‘Then I’d say you’re up to no good. Turn around, hands wide on the wall.’
He did as he was told.
She kicked between his feet. ‘Spread ‘em.’
He spread ‘em with alacrity, and then breathed out a long, silent sigh of surrender as she plastered herself against his back.
‘So… Are you behaving yourself?’ she asked, and chuckled, low and breathy, right in his ear.
‘Yes, Officer,’ he said—or at least he tried to, but it came out as a half-strangled gargle.
‘Now, why don’t I believe you? What’s in your pockets?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I think I’ll check for myself.’
Next moment her hands were diving into the back pockets of his jeans.
‘Condom,’ she said. ‘Not exactly “nothing”. Not soliciting, are you?’
‘No.’
‘No what?’
‘No, Officer.’
‘I’ll hold on to this,’ she said, and he imagined her sliding the condom into the back pocket of her tight, tight pants.
‘Right. Let’s check your other pockets,’ she said.
And her hands were there, digging into his front pockets, making his heartbeat go off like a cracker as she ‘accidentally’ nudged against the erection straining fiercely against the denim.
‘All clear,’ she breathed against his ear. ‘So—why don’t you just tell me what you’ve been up to so I don’t have to keep searching?’
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong, Officer.’
‘So let me ask you, buddy: do you know the meaning of the term ignorantia juris non excusat?’
Oh, God. God, God, God.
‘No. But it sounds…sexy.’
‘Well, it’s not sexy,’ she said, despite the fact that she was unbuttoning his jeans, sliding his zipper down, sliding her hands inside, over his erection, squeezing, stroking. ‘It means ignorance of the law is not an excuse.’
He groaned.
‘Am I hurting you?’ she asked.
‘No. No, Officer, you’re not hurting me.’
‘Then why are you groaning?’
‘Can’t…ahh… help it. Sorry. J-Just what law am I ignorant of?’
‘The law that says you’re not allowed to bribe a police officer.’
‘But I’m not,’ he said, just as her hands went beneath his underwear, cool and silky and freaking wonderful. Another groan slipped out. Could a man die of lust? Because he was on the way.
‘Then maybe you should think about bribing me, so I’ll let you off the hook.’
‘Um… Um… Um…’ Seriously, his brain was fricasseed.
‘Something that doesn’t involve a condom, since I’ve confiscated that,’ she said.
‘Um…’
‘Turn around.’
He turned fast enough to give himself a corkscrew knee injury. Reached automatically for her.
‘No touching an officer,’ she barked. ‘Just stand there. Stand