When Kellach stalked inside the front door, all leather bound, dark and dangerously sexy, she should have been surprised.
Yet she wasn’t. Who the hell was this guy? Bear had pretty much vouched for him, saying he was on a mission to end the drug and was not a bad guy. Considering Bear was completely clean, record-wise, and had a reputation of protecting his territory, maybe he’d been telling the truth. He had no reason to lie.
Kell’s gaze cut through throngs of gyrating drunks, zeroing right in on her in what felt like a claiming. Hot, wet, and physical. Her body thrummed alive for the first time that night, once again reminding her that she was more than a cop, more than a weapon. She could be all woman.
Going on instinct, she gave him a look, slid off her stool, and headed for the twisty path to the bathrooms.
He reached her in an odd alcove, as she’d planned.
Turning, she grabbed his arm and used a spin move to put his face against the wall. He turned easily and with a suffering male sigh. If he was holding a weapon, she’d take him downtown and start questioning him again.
Bending, she started at his ankles and patted up, frisking every inch of hard muscled male. Could he freakin’ be real? Not an ounce of fat. Nothing but pure solid steel filled her palms. She had to stretch up on her tiptoes to finish, finding neither weapons nor contraband. But did a man his size need weapons? Probably not.
Finally, she stepped back.
“All done?” he asked, amusement dark in his voice.
“Yes,” she said, a bit too breathlessly.
Then he moved.
She knew he moved because she ended up face-first against the wall, but she didn’t see him move. He held her at least a foot off the ground with one arm wrapped around her waist.
A foot off the ground.
Her breath whooshed out of her lungs and tingles exploded in her abdomen. Her mind fuzzed.
He held her easily, his breath fanning the side of her neck. “My turn,” he rumbled.
A slow shiver wandered down her spine, and he chuckled.
Why did she react this way to him? “Let me go,” she murmured. “I’m a cop.”
“Turnabout’s fair play.” He set her down on her feet as if she weighed nothing and then crouched, his large hands easily encircling her ankles. He tugged. “Spread your legs, baby.”
A low groan escaped her as she widened her stance. This was wrong. This was so fucking wrong.
Yet desire flushed through her with the speed and heat of pure, red, unadulterated lava.
Warm palms ran above her boots, over her bare skin, to her inner thighs. She stiffened as he reached the small Sig strapped to her right leg.
“There it is,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Enough. She twisted, and he slapped one firm hand against her rear, holding her in place.
“Not finished,” he rumbled, straightening and stepping into her, his solid form holding her in place. His thighs pressed against her butt, and his chest cradled her head. God, he was big.
He skimmed her waist, caressing across her abdomen and up her ribs, pausing just under her breasts.
She stopped breathing. Her nipples pebbled harder than any diamond she’d ever touched.
A group of giggling women tripped by on the way to the bathroom, and neither she nor Kell gave them a glance, although Kell shoved her deeper into the alcove and out of the hall. Too much was happening, and Lex shook her head, even as her body trembled head to toe. What was happening to her?
“Fuck it,” he muttered, both hands cupping her breasts.
Her knees gave out, and only his unreal body kept her upright. Electrical sparks zipped from her chest to her clit, and she arched into his hands.
His head dropped to the nape of her neck, his warm lips enclosing the sensitive flesh. His fingers found her nipple.
Heat uncoiled inside her, spiraling into an explosion. God. She was going to orgasm.
Shit, no. Her eyes flashed open and she shoved back as hard as she could. He released her, and she spun around to face him, her breath panting out. She slapped a hand against his chest in utter panic. Never in her life had she reacted to a man like that.
His dark eyes glowed in the dim light, and a dark red flush spun across his high, angled cheekbones. Perfectly symmetrical nostrils flared like a predator on the hunt.
“That wasn’t proper frisking,” she gasped, trying to slow her heart rate.
“Fuck proper.” He grabbed her hand on his chest and shoved it down over a definite bulge in his jeans.
She locked her knees so she wouldn’t fall. Heated and pulsing, his well-endowed, hard as iron cock warmed her palm, even through the worn denim.
His palm flattened over hers and pressed.
His groan mingled with hers, and he leaned over her, his lips connecting with her forehead. “Do no’ stop,” he ground out, the Irish brogue escaping in full force.