Page 11

He pushes the flannel off my shoulders. It falls to the floor. I'm standing in my old bra with the frayed strap, the one I'd never let anyone see, and my hands jump to cover my stomach before I can stop them.

He catches my wrists. Gently. He pulls my hands away and holds them at my sides.

"Don't," he says quietly. "Let me look."

He looks. His gaze moves over my breasts, the soft round curve of my belly, the stretch marks on my hips I've spent twenty years hiding. His jaw goes tight. His thumbs stroke the insides of my wrists.

"Goddamn, Mona," he breathes. "You're beautiful."

Nobody's said that to me in three years. Nobody's said it like that ever.

He lets go of my wrists and unhooks my bra with one hand. My breasts spill free and he groans, low and rough, cupping them in both palms. His thumbs drag over my nipples until they tighten, and then he bends and takes one in his mouth. I grab his head. His hair is short and coarse under my fingers, his tongue hot and wet, and he sucks hard enough that my knees buckle.

He catches me. Of course he does.

He walks me backward to the bedroom and steps over his dog like he's done it a hundred times. The bed hits the backs of my knees and I sit down hard. He kneels in front of me on the braided rug, unlaces my boots, peels off my socks, then works the button of my jeans open and drags them down my legs with my underwear.

Then I'm naked on the edge of a rented bed with a sheriff between my knees, and I don't care about anything else on earth.

"Lie back," he says.

I lie back.

He hooks my thighs over his shoulders and kisses up the inside of my leg, slow, his stubble scratching my skin. When his breath hits my pussy, I jerk. He holds me down with one broad palm on my belly.

"Easy," he murmurs, and licks me.

I make a sound I've never made in my life. His tongue drags up through my folds, flat and slow, and circles my clit until my back arches off the mattress. He doesn't rush. He learns me. Every time I gasp, he does it again, and every time I push my hips up into his mouth, he pins me back down and takes his time. He slides one thick finger inside me and curls it, and then two, stretching me while he sucks my clit between his lips.

"Josiah. Oh God, Josiah."

"That's it, sweetheart," he says against me, his voice so deep I feel it in my bones. "Let me hear you."

I come apart on his tongue. It rolls through me hard and fast, my thighs clamping around his head, my fingers twisted in the quilt, and he works me through every shudder until I'm limp and whimpering.

When I can open my eyes again, he's standing at the foot of the bed with his hand on his belt.

I sit up on my elbows to watch. He unbuckles it and shoves down his jeans, and his cock springs free, thick and heavy, dark and hard and curved up toward his stomach. My mouth goes dry.

"Come here," I say.

He comes. I sit up, wrap my hand around him, and he hisses through his teeth. He's hot and silky, so thick my fingers don't meet. I stroke him from root to tip and lean forward to lick the bead of wetness off the head.

"Fuck," he groans. His hand slides into my hair. It doesn't push. It just holds.

I take him in my mouth, as much as I can, and hollow my cheeks. His thighs tremble under my free hand. I suck him slow and deep, my tongue swirling under the head, my fist working what I can't fit, and the sounds he makes go straight to my core. This calm, quiet man who never raises his voice is breathing hard and cursing under his breath, and I'm the one doing it to him.

After a minute he tugs my hair, gentle but firm, and pulls me off.

"Enough," he rasps. "I'm not finishing in your mouth the first time."

The first time. My whole body flushes.

"I don't have anything," he says, jaw tight. "I haven't needed anything in seven years."

Seven years. I file that away for later and roll toward the nightstand. "My friend Lena packed these as a joke. For emergencies."

I pull out the box. He looks at it and laughs, a real laugh, low and warm.