I was fumbling now but desperately trying to hold my cool. Sexy women who said lascivious things like “how’s my form?” didn’t look half as sexy trying to jam bullets into an empty magazine. “I can get it.” As if on cue, the bullets popped out of the spring load and littered the cement floor.
Alex grinned but didn’t say anything. He just stepped toward me, his hands going for the extra ammo on the counter behind me. My hands were at my sides, one holding the empty magazine, one holding the unloaded gun. Alex’s arms caged me and now I stared at his chest, smelled the faint odor of singed gunpowder and perspiration. I didn’t think about snaking my arms around his waist, sliding my weaponed hands up his muscled back and pressing my lips against his.
I just did it.
I heard the ping of the bullets as Alex brushed them aside, crushing my body up against his. He pulled me against him and I fought to get closer, to close every bit of space between us. His arms wrapped around me, fingers tangling in my hair. I was kissing him and he was kissing me back—hard, hungry kisses. I nibbled his bottom lip, felt his tongue moving into my mouth as he picked me up and set me back on the cement divider, spreading my legs and pressing himself closer. I locked my legs behind his back and pulled him toward me. When his lips left mine and started a trail down my bare neck, I felt the intensity break inside of me, my whole body tingling, trumpets blaring—
I pulled away. “What’s that?”
Alex didn’t bother answering and when his lips closed around mine again I didn’t bother thinking about it—until I felt another zing, this one pressed up against my inner thigh, dangerously close to—“That’s my phone,” Alex groaned.
I was still panting, still feeling the verve of desire as it rocketed through my body when Alex yanked the phone from his pocket and gave it a cursory glance before tossing it aside. I dove for him. “Who was it?” I mumbled in between devouring those incredible lips and flicking my tongue over the salty curve of his neck.
“Station.”
“Station?” I paused and he pulled me toward him, rhythm unbroken. “Is it serious?”
The discarded phone started blaring again, hopping along the sawdust floor as it vibrated wildly. I hated to tear my lips from Alex’s, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Maybe you should check that.”
Alex stepped back and cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“It could be important.”
He blew out a long sigh that seemed to crush his entire body. “You’re right.”
He turned his back and answered the phone while I wracked my brain trying to figure out the sexiest way to lounge against the cement cubicle we’d been making out in. Alex turned to me.
“So, is it serious?” I asked in my best imitation of a Grace Jones–sexy voice.
“Homicide always is.”
I opened my mouth, but Alex held up a hand, then brushed a thumb over my kiss-puckered bottom lip. “Don’t think we’re not picking this up again,” he said with a sexy grin.
My nipples hardened while everything else softened.
Inappropriate love lesson number thirty-five: Homicide shouldn’t be an aphrodisiac.
Chapter Seven
Alex made a beeline for the parking lot, snapping his shoulder holster back on and barking into his cell phone. I hurried behind him, jamming my gun into my shoulder bag, then thinking better of it, and trying to jam it into the waistband of my pants.
Not a lot of room in the back of my pants these days.
“You want me to drop you off on the way?” Alex asked as we crossed the lot.
I narrowed my eyes and he rolled his. “Of course not,” he sighed.
Alex’s SUV had a chic row of cop lights on the dash, which made screaming through intersections and his pole-position driving completely warranted. He loved it. I loved keeping my innards on the inside and not flying through windshields, so I was pressing myself into my seat as far as humanly possible, and praying to the God of Ford that they weren’t cutting corners on seat belts. But with a murder in front of me and the city racing beside me, I didn’t have much time to focus on my fear—or my squashed sex drive.
When we turned into the Pacific Heights neighborhood, Alex slowed and I was able to dislodge my heart from my throat.
“Hey,” I said, peering out the window. “Doesn’t this area look familiar?”
“It’s Pacific Heights, Lawson. You’ve been here a thousand times.”
“No, I haven’t been here a thousand times,” I said, speaking slowly, eyes still swishing over the darkened sidewalks. “I’ve only been here . . .” I bit my bottom lip, considering, “Ummm . . .”
Then it hit me.
“There!” I pointed frantically across the cab, my arm just under Alex’s nose. “Right there!”
“We’re supposed to go to forty-nine California. That’s thirty-six. It’s not even the right side of the street.”
“No, that’s where we went when—” My stomach started to quiver. It had been a long time, and I had, unfortunately, seen my share of crime scenes in the years since. But, much like with riding a bike or sex, I guessed you never forget your first time.
Alex nodded. “The Collector case.”