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SITTING UP IN BED IN semi-darkness, Morgan let her alternate persona take over. The one who knew what she wanted, and wasn’t going to sit around and hope things would happen. The one who changed into the sexy nightie she’d bought on impulse for her twenty-fifth birthday.
Once she was on her own, she’d made a point of losing her virginity. Morgan had regarded it as a life lesson, like learning how to do the laundry or choose the right produce in the grocery store. Cole made her feel like ... he made her feel, period.
Was she doing the right thing? When she’d asked him to stay, it was because she wanted a way to take her mind off Austin’s predicament. Sex had crossed her mind—she wasn’t dead—but it wasn’t at the top of her list.
When Cole held back, said she was in charge—something none of the other men she’d slept with had done— every female part of her wanted, no, demanded, more.
She could still back out. Cole had said so.
Then he walked into the room.
Smiling, but with a hesitation to his step. Did he not want to do this? No, if he was going to back out, he’d have driven away.
He walked to the side of the bed and put a strip of foil packets on the card table. And his gun.
Morgan stared at it. She considered asking him to put it somewhere else, but that wouldn’t be right. It was part of Cole. Who he was. She couldn’t pick and choose which parts she accepted. She scooted lower in the bed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, pulled his shirt over his head, and let it fall to the floor, displaying broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist.
He stood, unbuckled his belt. She watched, transfixed at the way his eyes never left hers as he finished undressing. He left his underwear on—cotton briefs. Pale blue. There was no denying he was still aroused. After getting rid of his shoes, he lifted the edge of the bedcovers and slipped in beside her.
She took one of her pre-performance calming breaths.
He lay on his side, propped on an elbow, facing her. “Any time you want me to stop, say so.”
Morgan touched his chest, her fingers exploring the dusting of hair, the ridges of his muscles, as if she was testing the keyboard of an unfamiliar piano.
“Turnabout’s fair play.” He slipped a finger under a strap of her nightie and lowered it down her arm. His finger traced her collarbone, then lower, to the edge of the lace trim.
She sucked in a breath. How did his touch up here make her respond down there? Moisture pooled between her legs. His finger wandered to her breast, circled her nipple.
Her head fell back. She closed her eyes. She wriggled, intensifying her pleasure.
“You like that?” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
She’d lost the capacity for speech. “Mmmh.”
He kissed his way along her jaw, down her neck, until his mouth replaced his finger, sucking and teasing her nipple.
Her hips arched upward, demanding his touch there, too.
When his mouth moved between her legs, she gasped. After the briefest Who is this wanton woman? moment, she succumbed to his touch. Which she couldn’t get enough of.
Her hips directed the rhythm of his tongue. Her hands gripped his head, pulling him tighter against her, release building to an explosive crescendo.
Panting, slicked with sweat, she released him. “What about you?” Her words came out between gasps for breath.
~~~
“LADIES FIRST.” COLE stared at Morgan, washed in moonlight. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could have satisfied her if she’d as much as touched him, much less been inside her. As it was, his control was teetering on the edge of a tripwire, ready to explode at the slightest disturbance.
He laved her breasts again, tugging, nibbling, nipping gently, studying her for a reaction. She wasn’t a one-and-done woman, evidenced by the way she moaned with pleasure and pulled him tighter against her breasts.
With his hand, he caressed her from neck to the soft curls of her femininity, smiling inwardly as her hips lifted. He slid a finger between her folds, all slick, wet, and hot. Found her swollen nub and rubbed lazy circles. When her breathing shifted and her hips moved in rhythm to his touch, he broke away long enough to sheath himself and position himself above her.
When she reached for his balls, he almost lost it. He guided himself to her entrance, moving slowly—tortuously slowly—as he slipped inside, bit by bit.
“Morgan. If you want me to stop, say it now, because I’m not going to be able to in about three seconds.”
“Don’t. Stop.” She moved her hips, taking him further inside her until he was hilt deep in her heat.
“This feels so good,” she said.
Between it being Morgan and his long abstinence, Cole was on the edge far too quickly. He reached between her legs, touching her, stroking her, until all he could do was pray she was with him as he groaned with his release.
He flopped onto his back to get his weight off her, sucking air until his breathing came close to normal. They lay in silence several long moments, his fingers dovetailed through hers.
She spoke first. “I didn’t know ...”
He waited, still incapable of coherent speech.
“...That it could be like this. So good.”
Okay, he was a guy, and allowed a quick moment of pride before he answered. “I’m glad. It can be even better. I was a bit too ... quick. Let me recharge and I’ll make it up to you.”
~
COLE GRABBED HIS PHONE before the alarm went off the next morning, crept out of bed for the bathroom, taking care of bare necessities. He’d shower at the station.
Before he left, he put on a pot of coffee for Morgan, took Bailey for a quick pee, then found a piece of paper for a note.
You needed to sleep. I let Bailey out. TTYL.
He drew a happy face. What the hell. He added two more.
~
AT ROLL CALL, OFFICER Nolan gave a quick, skimming-the-surface summary of yesterday’s assault on Randall Ebersold and passed around photos of the three suspects. “As of now, we have nothing that confirms they were the ones involved. Consider them persons of interest and keep your eyes open.”
She gave patrol assignments, and Cole tried to hide his disappointment when she put him on the front desk. Civilians manned reception, but not until nine on weekends. Cole had drawn the assignment of covering the phones and dealing with walk-ins until then.
He grabbed a cup of coffee from the break room, then settled in behind the desk, checking the call log and fingering his way through the accordion file. He stopped at the PQ slot when he found an envelope with his name on it.
For a split second, he entertained the notion that Morgan had dropped it off while he was at roll call, but that was ridiculous. If she needed him, she’d have sent a text. Or called. He slit the envelope open.
A stack of papers clipped together, with a sticky note.
You’re in luck. Ashley has a big sale this weekend, so she was working late. Figured I might as well, too. ~ SW
Cole yanked off the clip and began reading. Printouts of screenshots of newspaper articles. Copies of a few arrest reports from five years ago in Portland. Had his hunch paid off? Had Whelan shared this information with the detectives? Even if he had, this was an old case, which, as far as Cole could tell, barely tiptoed into Pine Hills jurisdiction.
The detectives should be in today, following up on the Ebersold case. Cole would check in then. Meanwhile, he strove to maintain polite responses when people called in with their suspicions and demands, dutifully filling out the requisite forms and staying current with the filing.
Mr. Grossjean’s daughter called, and Cole did what he could to assure her the man appeared to be in perfect health on the last well-being check. “An officer will be stopping by.”
He reported the call to Faith Nolan, who notified Dispatch to send someone out.
Cole wondered if it would be Brody getting his eyeballs fried.
During lulls, he worked his way through the paperwork Whelan had left, trying to find a link between Kirk Webster and the graffiti. A twinge of guilt hit as he read the newspaper articles, because those were public records, and Cole could have found them himself.
It was almost time for the reception clerk to show up when Cole got to the last of Whelan’s pages. He’d pulled whatever strings, called in whatever favors, and finagled a copy of Austin’s mother’s traffic accident report.
Things would be different now that she’d died, but Cole read through the report anyway, hoping to find something that would give Morgan leverage in getting Austin to live with her.
Nothing unusual. Mrs. Jackson had been unconscious and taken directly to the hospital. The trail ended there. If Austin’s mom had survived, her blood alcohol levels would have been used as evidence, but Cole couldn’t see anything to help Morgan.
Spotting his relief approaching, Cole put everything back in the envelope and discovered another sticky note adhered to the inside. Must have fallen off one of the pieces of paper. Cole relinquished his seat, briefed his replacement, and headed for the locker room.
There, he read the note in what he now recognized as Whelan’s handwriting.
Talk to Judge Hope Abernathy. Sympathetic to good Samaritans.