Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

“Not see one yellow cab,” he finishes for me, coming closer, including me in his warmth. “I know, right? It’s the greatest.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, feeling more than a little dumbstruck. Around us, the bar goes wild for something on the television, but we just stand there, staring at one another. I know I’m supposed to run for my life right now, but I’m paralyzed. There is a reason for the Mistress Manifesto. It prevents us women from settling. From signing on for a lifetime of cumbersome routines and potential pain. My great-grandmother gave up her independence and moved to the suburbs only to be thrown over for a younger version of herself. My whole life, my mother has impressed on me that there are no exceptions when it comes to men. Relationships don’t last, because men’s affections are fleeting.

When we’re in control of the game, we can’t get played.

If Charlie passes the test, he won’t be easy to shake when the one-month limit strikes. I know it for a fact. The longer we stand here, the closer he draws, the hungrier his expression. I need to scoot, but . . . “What do you do for a living?”

“Is this part of the game?” he rasps.

I shake my head.

“I just started at the police academy.” His tone suggests we’re discussing sexual positions, and my nerves stand up and cheer. “I’m going to be a cop.”

The pride in his voice tells me a lot. “The best cop, huh?”

His blue eyes flash with determination. “Damn right, cutie.”

There’s my elusive answer. He’s married to law enforcement. Thanking God my sixth sense hasn’t completely gone to pasture, I now feel comfortable posing question three. “Which part of the movie Titanic did you cry over?”

He’s not thrown off whatsoever by the randomness of the question. And I love that. “How do you know I cried at all?”

“Everyone cried.”

Most men give me one of two answers. They either try to be funny, insisting they cried when Old Rose threw the Heart of the Ocean into the water, because it was such a waste of money. Lame. Or they lie and say they cried when Jack dies. No, they didn’t.

Charlie doesn’t take any time at all thinking of his answer. I can see he has it stored up, ready to go, but he’s hesitating to spill. “What is it?”

He shifts the ball cap on his head, brim to the front, before turning it backward again. The subtlest of redness is visible at the top of his cheekbones. “When the old people are holding each other in the bed . . . all the water rushing around them. I might have gotten a little misty.”

Fail.

FAIL.

My heart is going double time in my chest. I’ve never gotten that answer before, but it has to be wrong. Is he a relationship guy disguised as a casual fling? I can’t figure him out. But I know a man who has a soft spot for an old, married couple isn’t opposed to being the better half of one someday. Even if he doesn’t know it yet. I know, though. So I have to walk away.

“Uh-oh,” Charlie says quietly. “That wasn’t the right answer, was it?”

“No.” I start to back away. “You were supposed to say you cried when the captain went down with the ship. Alone.”

“Cutie.” The single word is low and urgent. “Come back here.”

I’m in the middle of turning when he grasps my arm. He spins me back around, pulling me into his heat, molding the fronts of our bodies together. Zing. He’s so hard and inviting, my knees go loose and I sag. My stuttered breaths boom in my head. I only glimpse the briefest hint of dread, mixed with desperation, on his face before his mouth lowers to mine. And then we’re kissing. Oh, this is kissing. Like a Marine leaving behind his sweetheart on the tarmac. His fingers tunnel through my hair, his tongue awaits no invitation and we go for broke, right there in the middle of a bar full of buzzed twenty-somethings.

My underwear is soaked by the time we come up for our first breath. No lie, he’s the most amazing kisser I’ve ever locked mouths with. Charlie yanks me up onto my toes, walks me backward until I hit the wall and we dive back in with even more enthusiasm than before. His erection is so thick and jutting, I have to remind myself it’s not polite to climb men in public. He’s making it so hard to resist, though, groaning every time our tongues slide together, his hands twisting in the material of my skirt. A male who needs to fuck and needs it now.

“Enough bullshit about right and wrong answers,” he says huskily, right against my lips. “Just please, please, for the love of everything holy, let me take you somewhere, Ever.”

Am I really considering taking this man home with me? After he failed the test? I can’t escape the feeling that I’m venturing into dangerous territory, but his blue eyes, his hands, his . . . voice and personality are sucking me in and I can’t back away. I’m powerless.

“I don’t want anything serious, ‘kay?”

His voice is rife with conviction when he says, “Me either.”

We search each other’s faces for long moments, looking for any traces of doubt. Finding none . . . or possibly refusing to see any . . . I let Charlie pull me toward the door.





Chapter 2





Charlie


Ever Carmichael is salvation.

I’m not just saying that because she calls me big man when we’re fucking.

I’m already unbuttoning my uniform shirt, even though I haven’t even reached her building’s lobby yet. My cock is so stiff, I think I might black the fuck out before I get it inside her. Here’s the thing, though. Ever will understand. She’ll take one look at the tented fly of my standard issue, police academy pants and let her slinky, bad girl panties drop.

This woman. You just can’t fathom the magic she wields.

I don’t want anything serious, ‘kay?

She said those words to me the rainy afternoon we met. At which point angels filled the bar and started singing. I’ve had women tell me before they didn’t want entanglements or relationships, too. My long line of law-enforcement ancestry, however, has honed my ability to differentiate between truth and fiction. And Ever is the first woman who actually meant those words. Nothing. Serious.

I’m right across the street from her building now—a four-story tenement on the Lower East Side. She works nights running her start-up catering company and sleeps late, so at noon on my lunch break, she’ll still be soft from bed. Freshly showered. I’m going to fuck her lights out, I swear to Christ. As soon as I walk in the door.