12
I blockthe punch coming at my face and grab Grace’s fist in my hand. In one fell swoop, I flip her around and twist her arm behind her back.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I hiss in her ear as I snatch her other wrist and cross it with the first. “You can’t punch a cop.”
I scan the crowd. We’ve gained attention. Phones out, vultures waiting for action. Either for Grace to resist and land her next shot, or for me to use enough unnecessary force to make me go viral on the internet. Likely the latter, which means despite the desire to show this woman exactly who she just took a swing at, I gotta do this by the book.
Grace doesn’t fight me when I hold her wrists together and reach for my cuffs.
“What can I say, Decker?” she chirps. “You’ve got a really punchable face.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told,” I mutter.
When the cuffs are in place, I grasp her upper arm and tug her through the hordes of people towards my cruiser.
She’s quiet as we walk. Shoulders back, pretty face pulled into that signature Donovan scowl. I can’t help but stare at her. At that tight tank top stretching across her chest, the tattoo poking out from the hem of her skirt. I haven’t noticed it until now, the ink staining her thigh. Last time I saw her in a skirt, she was aiming a gun at me, so I was otherwise occupied. Now, I take my time studying the thin, intricate black lines. They disappear under that little skirt swaying low on her hips, then curl out the top and stop just below her waist. It takes effort not to tug down the fabric so I can get a better look.
Grace is fucking infuriatingly gorgeous.
She arches an eyebrow, looking at me like this is somehowmyfault, like she didn’t just try to assault a police officer in front of dozens of people.
Her focus shifts sharply to the crowd, as if she’s looking for someone. Maybe for one of her big brothers, hoping they’ll muscle their way in and stop this. There’ll be none of that. Grace chose violence tonight, and I’m about to come through with my promise to let her sit in a cell and pay for it. I’ll enjoy the hell out of watching her squirm on that hard wooden bench until sunrise.
The crowd thins out as we near the alleyway where I parked.
“Got any weapons on you?” I ask as I lean her against my cruiser.
She scoffs. “No.”
“Given how many guns I’ve pulled off you the last few days, I’m gonna check anyway,” I say. “Legs farther apart.”
Grace sighs, but she complies with my order and widens her stance. I slip my hands under her arms, feeling the band of her bra, and then move lower to her waist. This tiny top couldn’t hide much, but I follow procedure and check anyway, running my hands down her sides, patting lightly until I get to her exposed midriff. I avoid touching her skin and do a quick feel ofher waistband before dropping lower. She watches, eyes trained on me, bottom lip pulled into her teeth like she’s biting down on a smile.
I drag my hands down her hips, pausing at her hemline. The skirt is a problem. Abigfucking problem. And these legs aren’t helping. Because I have to search them, make sure she isn’t hiding a weapon up that skirt. And I have to do it without picturing them wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my ass, demanding I go harder, faster. Or maybe Grace likes it slow. Long and drawn out. Maybe, if I were fucking her, hand around her throat, body slamming against hers, she’d want me to take my time.
Either way, I want to know how she likes to be fucked.
So it’s a hard thing, touching these legs.
My resolve fraying, I skim a palm over her inner thigh, left leg first, then the right, ignoring the goose bumps rushing over her skin, the ink that I’m dying to investigate now that I’m this close.
Her throat bobs. “Satisfied?”
“Not yet.” I drop lower and dig my fingers into the back of her left boot, then the right. When I press against a hard metal object, I sigh.
“Really?” I push to my full height and flick open the knife. “Switch blades are a prohibited weapon.”
She rolls her eyes. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning they’re illegal.”
A small, mocking smile tilts up at the corners of her mouth. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Sure you didn’t.” I pocket the knife and pull open the back door. Placing my hand on the top of her head, I angle her into the back seat, and once I’ve secured the seat belt around her hips, I slam the door shut, circle the car, and jump into the driver’s seat.
“You gonna make this a habit?” I ask as I tilt my mirror until I can see her dark eyes staring back at me. “You haven’t been home a week, and you’ve already seen the back of a cruiser twice. Might even go as far as saying youenjoybeing in a cop car.”
“Or maybe you just like seeing me in handcuffs.”
