Page 92 of Sting
“I was about to, but decided to check on him once more before I go.”
“He’s been stirring, but hasn’t woken up. His vitals are good.”
“Temperature?”
“Normal.”
Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Shaw acknowledged that kissing Jordie was a bad idea, but now that he was doing it, not for the life of him could he stop. Although, classifying this as a mere kiss was like comparing a candle flame to a wildfire. This kiss was the stuff of wet dreams. He had unrestricted access to her. Mouth, the sexiest. Breasts, so easily aroused. The more of herself she allowed him, the more he wanted.
If word of his obsession got around, he’d become a laughingstock. His reputation was that of a hard-ass, a badass. Ruthless. Merciless. An unfeeling and unshakable son of a bitch. No one would expect bad Shaw Kinnard to go soft over a woman.
Oh, Jesus. Was he soft? No. He was hard. Wasn’t he?
He wasn’t sure. Things down there didn’t feel quite right. There was a persistent, throbbing heaviness in the lower part of his body, which was somewhat reassuring. But it didn’t feel like a normal erection. Strangely, he was reluctant to explore the source of that odd pressure. All he actually wanted to explore was Jordie, every enticing curve and hollow of her.
“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t come in here.”
“I’m Deputy Sheriff Clint Morrow.”
“And I’m the surgeon who just repaired this guy’s gut. He’s still in recovery ICU. You have to leave.”
“He’s my prisoner.”
“He’s my patient.”
Indifferent to their squabble, Shaw ignored them. He wanted to touch Jordie where it counted, and, judging by the way she was shifting against him, with restlessness and urgency, she was wanting him to.
He slid his hand down her smooth belly and cupped her sex. Yes, Shaw, yes.
Music to his ears. Because after what he’d put her through, she should hate him. She should be afraid of him, but she wasn’t. She was arching against him with what could only be desire and whispering naughty encouragement against his lips.
“Kinnard? Kinnard? Can you hear me?”
“Deputy Morrow! What are you doing back in here?”
“Just checking to see if he’s come around.”
“He hasn’t. And I heard the doctor ordering you out.”
“Can Kinnard hear me?”
“He’s unconscious.”
“He could be faking it.”
“He’s still under anesthesia. In any case, you must wait until after the doctor has checked him in the morning, and only then will he determine if the patient is up to being interrogated. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. Are these restraints really necessary?”
Somebody tugged on Shaw’s hand. It didn’t move. Not that one. The other one was stroking Jordie in that softest of soft places on a woman’s body. She was pressing herself up into his palm with want and invitation. He extended his middle finger down into the cleft, collected her moisture on the pad of his finger, and tantalized that most sensitive spot. Dipping his head, he did the same to her nipple with his tongue.
Teasing strokes in perfect concert. Pleasuring by painting small circles.
She clutched handfuls of his hair, chanted his name in gasps and sighs, implored him not to stop.
“The restraints stay on. Both hands. Be sure the rest of the nursing staff understands that. Don’t be taken in. He’s dangerous. Two nights ago, he shot a man in the back of the head.”
“Well, he’s not going to shoot anybody tonight. Please, Deputy. I’m the one who’ll get into trouble if I allow you to stay in here. Please leave. He won’t be fully conscious for hours yet.”
They left. Thank Christ. Now he could enjoy this erotic dream in peace.
