I STARTLED AT the sound of someone thumping a fist on my front door. Squinting at the clock on my computer and realising it was already a couple minutes past ten o’clock, I blinked away the daze of six straight hours in front of the screen as my stomach grumbled. Thank God for doughnuts. I was starving because, of course, I’d forgotten to eat dinner.
Stretching as I got to my feet, I congratulated myself for having the foresight to wash and braid my hair that morning—in my own home and my own bathroom, changing into clothes I’d washed and folded myself, thank you very much—because as I checked myself in the oversized hall mirror, I didn’t quite resemble the troll I feared I would. Still, there was a chocolate sauce stain on my shirt. I whipped it off and stuffed it into the umbrella stand, then approached the door in nothing but the sheer blue lace bra I had on underneath and a pair of black linen shorts.
I unlocked the door and swung it open. “Hey, there— Oh my God.”
There on my doorstep was porn made flesh. Lit overhead by the golden porch light was Sergeant Isaac Greene in all his police officer glory. Rocking his fitted navy uniform and fucking aviators, for Christ’s sake, he was all muscled shoulders and chiselled jaw, dark beard and heavy boots, attitude and authority. And sex. So. Much. Sex. I swept my eyes over him, taking particular note of the corded muscles roping up his crossed forearms, then the baton and handcuffs attached to his belt, and my knickers incinerated on the spot.
“Can I help you, officer?” I asked, my voice low and husky where it caught in my throat.
“Do you always answer the door in your underwear?” he replied, a note of irritation in his deep voice.
“It’s been known to happen.” I opened the door all the way, then stuck my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and shimmied them off, kicking them deeper into the hallway. Straightening, I gave him a minute to appreciate that the only thing protecting my modesty now was the flimsy lace covering my nipples and the skimpy matching G-string between my legs. I leaned against the edge of the door and gave him a rebellious, come-and-get-me look. “Why? What are you going to do about it?”
It was the absolute right thing to say because he flashed me the tiniest smile before he whipped off his glasses and gave me the sexiest smoulder I’ve seen in my life.
“Miss Maxwell, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move inside.”
Isaac took a step towards me, his boots thudding on the floorboards, and I took a slow step back. When he cleared the doorframe, he swung the door closed with a slam, and before I had a chance to catch my breath, he closed in on me, latching onto my wrist and spinning me around, flattening me against the hallway mirror. With one cheek pressed to the glass, I panted as Isaac set a hot, firm hand between my shoulder blades. Adrenaline coursed through me, racing the desire that sped through my veins.
He pressed the length of his body against mine, teasing me with the hard length of his cock still inside his pants. “Is this all right, Red?” he asked before setting his mouth to my neck in a line of soft, sensual kisses. The fingers of his other hand brushed across my skin, barely touching the swell of my breast, the shape of my ribs, the curve of my hip. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t stop,” I begged, breathing in the reassuring scent of him—clean soap with a salty hint of leather. He was a paradox, and it drove me wild. The very fragrance of him triggered feelings of safety and trust, but in that moment, I was living for the flicker of apprehension whipping at my pulse. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
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