Her lips open in a startled O. “I’m going to have to arrest you for filthy language.”
I shake my head and plant a hard, bruising kiss on her pretty mouth. “I think you like filthy language.”
“I think I like what you’re doing to me,” she murmurs and slides her hands around my hips to my ass, squeezing it.
I bend to her again, capturing those pouty lips once more in a searing kiss. I consume her mouth, sweeping my tongue across hers and savoring the flavor of her kiss. I don’t taste tomatoes and cucumber. I taste salt and desire. I taste the sweetness of a hint of gloss. And I smell her want. I fucking inhale her lust. It’s heady and intoxicating, swirling around me, and it makes me want to drag her back to my—
Fuck. There’s no “my place” to go to.
So I kiss her impossibly harder since this is not a woman who likes slow. The thought makes me laugh.
I chuckle as I kiss her, and she slams her hands against my pecs. “What’s so funny about kissing me, Mr. Speedy?”
“I was just thinking how I could give you a ticket for kissing too fast.”
“You don’t like the way I kiss?”
I laugh again, grab her hand, and bring it back to my shaft. “Kitten, I’m so fucking turned on that you’re going to have to lock me in this waffle truck for an hour for my dick to go down. I love everything about the way you kiss. I love that you’re not a slow kisser. I love that you’re ferocious and fiery.” I slide her hand down my length, watching as her eyes go hazy. “I love that you’re as ready for this as I am.”
“Do you think I’m wound up?” Her voice is breathy as she strokes me.
“I bet your panties are soaked and you’re aching between your legs.”
She whimpers, then grabs my jaw and slams my mouth back to hers. “Kiss me hard.”
“As if I’d do anything else.”
I do as the lady asks, devouring her sweet mouth. Our teeth click, our tongues lash, and our breath comes in fast, sharp pants.
I grind against her, and she grinds right back. I half wonder why we’re not fucking right now, but I also have enough brains to know she’s a cop, and even if this truck is on the edge of the market, and even if we’re out of sight, she’s still a bit of a public figure.
But that doesn’t stop me from letting my fingers wander. They slide down her body, over her belly, and to the waistband of her jeans. I slip a hand under her shirt, feeling the soft flesh of her stomach.
“You feel so fucking good.” I unbutton the top button on her jeans.
Her hand darts out, stopping me. “Derek.”
Her tone is 100 percent warning. I heed it, stopping. “What is it?”
“If your hand goes any farther south, I’m going to fuck your fingers.”
My mind officially goes haywire, wires tripping, nerve endings fraying, my brain combusting. “That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said in the history of the world.”
“But we can’t. We have to stop.”
I nod, getting it, even as my cock and fingers have other ideas. I cup her jaw. “How did I do with my appointment? Did I pass?”
Her lips quirk. “With flying colors. The only question now is what category we’re going to enter in.”
“There are categories?”
Her green eyes dance. “Oh yes. Sweetest, most passionate, best reenactment. I’m not sure which one would be best.”
I thread a hand through her hair. “We should practice again. Meet me later.”
“Like on a date?” Her tone drips with skepticism, and I believe I’ve met my non-dating soul mate.
I laugh. “Sounds like you’re about as interested in dating as I am.”
She nods fiercely. “Yes, as in zero.”
“Good, because relationships aren’t my thing these days.”
“That makes two of us.”
“And we don’t need to date to practice for your contest.”
“We absolutely don’t.” She taps her chin, her eyes drifting to a clipboard on the wall. “Let’s see. The contest is in three weeks. We could practice again, say, Thursday night?”
“That’s a long time from now.”
She laughs. “Good. You’ll be even readier then. How about you pick a time and place and text me?” She is my kind of woman. Confident. Bold. Plays zero games. “But make it good, Derek McHotPants.”
“It won’t be good, kitten. It’ll be oh so fucking good your toes will curl.”
“I can’t wait.”
She enters her number into my phone, pecks a kiss to my lips, then kicks me out.
I’ve never been so happy to be shown the door.
9
Perri
“Check this out,” Shaw declares proudly.
At the grill on our parents’ deck that evening, my brother stands next to my father, sliding a spatula under a hamburger.
Dad rolls his hazel eyes. “You’re not going to do this again, are you?”
Shaw nods vigorously as he waggles the burger-laden spatula. “Don’t you trust me, Dad?”
Dad huffs. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s that I absolutely don’t trust you for a hot second not to mess up the most fantastic burgers I’ve made this year.”
Shaw claps Dad on the shoulder—they’re the same height and have been since Shaw was in high school. Six foot forever. Same build too—big. Same sense of humor—sarcastic as hell.
“Dad, I don’t want to hear that kind of negative self-talk. All your burgers are incredible. Say it with me.” Shaw puffs out his chest and adopts a Stuart Smalley tone. “My burgers are good enough, and gosh darn it, people like them.”
“What did I do to deserve this kind of torture?” Dad grabs another spatula and tries to swat Shaw’s burger back onto the grill. I watch from my spot in the Adirondack chair on the deck. Shaw-and-Dad slapstick is the best spectator theater. I lean closer to Vanessa, whispering, “Bet you’ve never seen this routine before.”
“Never,” she says sarcastically. “But it never grows old.”
Shaw darts around Dad and grabs another burger.
“You deserve this, Sam. You taught him everything he knows about being a provocateur,” Mom calls out through the open kitchen window.
“I did not, Gail.”
“Oh yes you did, and now it’s payback time,” she says.
Shaw turns to Vanessa and me. “Place your bets, ladies. Will the juggler and star of the firemen calendar crush it at burger flipping, or will he absolutely crush it like no one has crushed it before?”
Vanessa cups the side of her mouth. “The judges haven’t ruled. We want to see what you can do first.”
“Behold.” Shaw fixes his eyes on Vanessa in her capri jeans and short-sleeve summer sweater. With the spatula, he tosses the first burger high in the air then whacks the next one skyward. As they fly, he wiggles an eyebrow, winking as he catches the first grilled burger on the spatula, then the second. He slides them back on the grill, holds his arms out wide, and takes a triumphant bow.
Vanessa claps. “And the judges have voted you on to the next round.”
“Hey, I’m on the jury too. I never vote in his favor,” I chime in.
Shaw turns to Dad. “See, Dad? And you never believed I had talent.”
Dad laughs again. “I always believed you had plenty of talent. That’s why I figured you’d join the big top rather than the fire service.”
“There’s still time,” I shout. “I heard the circus is having tryouts for clowns in a week.”
Vanessa provides a rim shot on an invisible drum set. “Hey Shaw, just how many burgers can you juggle?”
Dad swivels around, waving his spatula like a weapon. “Don’t encourage him or you’ll be banished, and I always liked you.”
Vanessa adopts the sweetest smile. “Of course, Mr. Keating. I won’t feed the circus animals anymore.”
We’re at our parents’ house for our usual Sunday supper. When Shaw and I aren’t on shifts, we come here every week and our parents treat us—and sometimes our friends too—to a feast, as we share the latest on jobs and life. Mom’s a former firefighter, one of the few female former chiefs in the state, and Dad’s a retired prosecutor. The apples didn’t fall far from the tree with Shaw and me.
Shaw darts through the open door to the kitchen and returns seconds later with a ketchup bottle, a mustard container, and some steak sauce, sending the three bottles spinning in the air.
Dad groans, but Vanessa cheers him on. “Higher! Higher!”
He does as he’s asked, a fierce look of concentration in his hazel eyes, and I swear he’s performing for her. Well, that’s not a surprise. Men tend to perform for women. Even if he’s known her for years, and Vanessa is practically our sister. Guys always try to impress the chicks.
“What else can you juggle?” Vanessa asks, as he sets the condiments on the deck railing.
Shaw scans the porch when Mom calls out, “Don’t even think about juggling plates, Shaw.”
He holds up his hands in innocence. “Who? Me?” To Vanessa, he says, “I can juggle pretty much anything. As soon as you get the hang of it, all you have to do is know the rhythm and keep it as you toss.”
“Can you, say, juggle bowling balls?” she challenges.
“Vanessa, do not let this trickster convince you that he can juggle bowling balls,” I warn.
“I just want to see if Shaw will try to convince me that it’s actually possible. Or really, if he can convince himself.”
He smiles at her. “I’ll have you know, I am a most excellent convincer. In fact, I have received a master’s degree in convincing.”
Mom pokes her head out onto the deck, using her best battalion chief voice. “All right, master convincer, why don’t you bring my ketchup, mustard, and steak sauce back inside, so I don’t have to convince you the hard way to set the table?”