Too Hot to Handle (2 page)

He wasn’t sixteen years old anymore. His boyish charms had been replaced with hard-won experience. Women liked him. If he kissed Honey again, she wouldn’t be laughing. There wouldn’t be enough air left in her to laugh.

“I ran into a door.”

“A door?” Her tone was dry, incredulous.

“Yeah, my sister’s ex-door and all his little door friends.” He didn’t want to think about Carlos or Jessica. He was too busy thinking about the way Honey’s perky breasts were moving unbound under her plain white T-shirt. Too busy trying to figure out how much it would hurt to run his hands over her breasts, to kiss the soft curve of her neck, to have her pressed eagerly against him.

It would probably be worth it.

“Can I have one of those cookies?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. They were his cookies in his house. He reached down, plucking a cookie from the box between them. Another inch, and they’d be touching. Closer than that, and they’d be kissing.

Kissing Honey Moore. What was he thinking? The woman was definitely up to something. The few times they’d seen each other since high school, their relationship had run hot and cold. Sometimes, she’d been friendly—sweet, even—and sometimes she’d been vicious.

Arresting her at her cousin’s wedding had probably been a mistake, but she shouldn’t have hot-wired his patrol car to make a beer run.

Now, here she was. Acting like they were old friends.

“What do you want from me?”

“You’ve got a mighty high opinion of yourself,” Honey said. “I don’t want anything from you.”

For a moment they stood there, face to face. Held in place by some force he didn’t dare recognize. It was a competition, one he’d fight to the death before acknowledging.

Honey blinked first. Two steps backward, and she knocked into a tall kitchen stool. She sat down hard, the awkward motion serving to acknowledge what he already knew. She’d lost. Her body folded inward on itself until she was smaller than he remembered. Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips. Emitting a short sigh, she glanced away.

He polished off the cookie, then cleared his throat, wincing as the action made his head spin. He wasn’t up for this.

Hell, he wasn’t up for anything.

He should be in a nice comfy bed with a fluffy pillow, satin sheets, and a wooden top. Nail the cover down, stick a giant rock on top, and throw a party. He was done. Finished. A dead man walking.

“What the hell are you doing here?” A rude question—at least, by his mother’s standards—but Jack didn’t care. There was no logical reason for Honey Moore to be in his apartment, drawing him closer with every flutter of long lashes closing over green eyes, every breath expelled between raspberry lips.

A flip of Honey’s hair, a bitter laugh. “Someone burned my house down.” The statement was calm, quiet.

He didn’t believe it for a minute.

After a long pause, she said, “Someone was chasing me. I couldn’t think of any other place to go.” Her eyes were bright, her jaw clenched. Defiant. She was waiting for him to tell her to leave.

Jack’s hands clenched into fists while he considered his options. Tossing her out on her ass was tempting, very tempting. He didn’t want to fight over a story as fake as a three-dollar bill. Not tonight. He didn’t have the energy. “You know, I’ve always liked you—”

“Thank you.”

“‘Liked’ might not be the right word. ‘Tolerated.’” He let out a long breath, blowing air over the top of his lip. “I tolerated your pranks. I tolerated the way you toyed with me. Teased me. I put up with all of you, right up until the minute you went too far and decided that my police car was a toy—”

“Do you have a point?”

“I’d be happy to see you under normal circumstances,” Jack said. “But not tonight.” Not with a split lip, a stitched-up gash in the middle of his chest, and bruised ribs. Bruised everything. “Why did you come here?”

“Why not?” A shrug. “I can go if you want, but I’d like to take a shower first.”

A shower. Jack almost laughed. Nothing in his life was that simple. She was keeping something from him, but that was nothing new.

Part of him wanted to forget the bruises, to push, to interrogate her until she broke down and told him what was really going on.

Mostly, he didn’t care. He was a man. She was a woman. Damaged or whole, he wanted to wrap his arms around her and take her to bed.

But growing up in Black Palm Park, the oldest son of a family that had stood in the political spotlight for generations, Jack had learned how to be a gentleman. His mother had taught him to be loyal, honest, and true. To never take advantage of a woman. Hitting on Honey Moore while she was in his kitchen, confused and vulnerable, wearing only a borrowed shirt and a pair of panties with lollipops on them, would be taking advantage.

“Make yourself at home.” The words were quiet, earnest, and they left him drained, incapable of getting to bed. It took everything he had to keep himself upright until she retreated to the bathroom, her hips swaying back and forth tantalizingly underneath the white T-shirt.

He stumbled forward, collapsing onto the couch.

For a moment, Bruce Springsteen’s voice was overshadowed by the shuddering of old pipes being forced into service. Then the song was back, the dull pounding of its beat slowing down before another lyric started up. Had the conversation only taken a few minutes? It had felt like an eternity.

What a night. What a weekend—and it would only get worse. His sister was going to tear him apart when she found out he’d gotten in a bar fight with her cheating asshole of an ex. He didn’t regret it, though. Carlos was a schmuck.

His boss would probably help Jessica with the beat down. LAPD detectives were not supposed to go around getting in fights. Especially not with rich, powerful men like Carlos who had the governor’s private number on speed dial.

Jack didn’t care about politics. All he wanted was to be a cop. A good cop.

But six months earlier, he’d been part of a team chasing down a child killer in Brentwood. They’d found the man covered in the blood of his victims. By the time the killer arrived at Central Booking, he’d also been covered in bruises.

Jack didn’t know who’d done it, and he didn’t much care. The fact was Internal Affairs had a file on him now. One more incident and the Rat Squad would be up his butt with a microscope. They’d look at every arrest he’d ever made, every shooting he’d ever been in, and while they were at it, they’d probably suspend him.

He couldn’t imagine anything worse.

His sister and the brass were problems that he’d have to deal with in the morning. He had something more important to think about. Honey Moore was in his shower, warm water pounding over her bare skin.

Standing there in his antique bathtub, she’d have to choose between getting out of the shower to retrieve a washcloth from the closet in the hall or using the bar of soap as it was. He hoped she used the bar. He liked the thought of the hard piece of soap making her body slippery, coating her breasts with white residue before she moved it down across her belly. Would she pause for a second, feeling the pressure of the soap and her own hand between her thighs? Maybe even thinking about him for a long moment before moving on?

A bolt of lust made his hands shake. He lifted his legs up onto the overstuffed couch. One ankle banged against the couch arm, and he winced in pain.

The noise of the shower filled his head. The sound was soothing, like one of those white noise machines that helps people sleep. Jack could use some sleep. Anything to keep his mind off Honey. But it was a lot more pleasurable to think about Honey…

His eyes slowly flickered closed, and he fell into unconsciousness.

But she’d made her decision. Sworn her pledge.
No more wanting Jack.

Waking up with his hand nestled between her knees was a setback.

Time for an intervention. “All right, Honey,” she whispered. “Stand up. Get off this couch and leave.”

The rough pad of his thumb scraped over the soft inner skin of her thigh. He was sound asleep. The future political dynamo would never make a move like that while he was awake, no matter how much Honey might like him to.

It was damn annoying. Sometimes she wanted to hit him in the head with a wrench, just to see what his response would be. He’d probably look at her with those soulful blue eyes, shake his head, and let out a soft sigh.

“Deep breaths,” she said. “Easy, girl.”

Jack’s thumb massaged her thigh idly, the circular motion stoking an ancient fire inside her. She sucked air into her mouth, trying to cool down her blood.

It didn’t help.

Going to sleep next to him had been a bad move. Not that she’d slept much the night before—she’d spent most of it tossing restlessly, worried she was going to fall off the side of the narrow couch. Worried that the person who’d burned down her house would come after her.

The only thing she hadn’t thought to worry about was Jack’s intentions.

She turned over on her other side to face him. High cheekbones, tanned skin, and curved lips that were perpetually twisted downward.

At least, that was what she’d always thought.

Asleep, the man was all smiles. There wasn’t a line of anger or tension in his body. Her stomach tightened in surprise. All this time, she’d known he was a good man. Everyone in Black Palm Park knew that. She hadn’t known he was happy.

Honey settled against him, her head falling into the crook of his arm. There was something comfortingly reassuring about the feel of Jack’s body against hers. Hard muscles and warmth. He made her feel safe, even if he did look like something the cat dragged in.

His arm tightened around her waist, capturing her. Pulling her against him. If they got any closer, she’d need birth control.

Heart pounding, she darted forward to brush her lips against his cheek. The pressure on her waist changed. It was still solid, but this time his hand clenched into a fist, bunching her T-shirt up around her waist.

Long fingers brushed over her back.

Her skin tingled everywhere his hand touched her. Heat roared through her body before settling low in her belly.

She rocked forward against him, her eyes flickering shut. There was no history biting at her heels, no past to trip them up. All she was feeling was the inevitable chemical reaction that came from too many hormones and not enough clothes. Man and woman.

His hand dipped down beneath the elastic band of her panties, and Honey came crashing back to earth. Jack Ogden wasn’t just any man. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. Not if she could help it.

“Jack.”

He murmured quietly. He was probably dreaming about a supermodel, a famous actress, or Anne Green, the perky lawyer who’d captained the cheerleading squad so many years earlier.

Not her. Never her.

“Jack.” A second time, louder now.

His mouth descended on hers. The kiss was rough, urgent. Her teeth nicked his lip. She melted into him, accepting the coppery taste of his blood in her mouth. One kiss followed another. He kissed her with his eyes wide open, their color a deep blue like the ocean on a clear day.

The most honorable man in a city of millions had his hand splayed across her back, and he knew exactly what he was doing. That knowledge got her blood pumping. He began to kiss his way down her neck, and a soft moan escaped her lips.

“Good morning.” Pearly teeth nipped at her collarbone playfully before he pulled away. “You always talk to yourself like that?”

“Only when I’ve got no one better to talk to.”

“You didn’t have to sleep with me.”

“I didn’t sleep with you—”

Collapsed on the couch the night before, Jack had looked tired, vulnerable. His body had rolled sideways and—without thinking—she’d lunged forward to catch him, pushing him back into the middle of the couch. Then he’d tried rolling over a second time.