My fingers are trembling as I sink down onto the edge of the mattress and bury my face in my hands, trying to convince myself I did the right thing.
I mean, he's a Lennox. Leon Lennox’s son. The man that I, and every other officer I work with, spent years trying to build a case on.
And he’s a bounty hunter. The kind of man who makes a living skirting the edges of the law, perhaps even crossing theline every now and again. He could be lying. He could have a criminal record for all I know. Most of his family certainly does.
Except he doesn’t. Because I know every detail about the Lennox family tree, including that Beau left as a teenager and never went back. He forged a life of his own that didn’t involve blackmail, extortion or racketeering like some of his brothers were involved in.
But that doesn’t mean I can date him.
This job is all about perception, and I'm a detective who's already fighting tooth and nail for respect in a department that treats me like a secretary with a badge, like the sole female hire there to merely tick that box and leave the actual work to the boys.
So, why does ending our night prematurely feel like I just made the biggest mistake of my life?
Because you haven’t had sex in too long, I tell myself. Those orgasms have fried your brain.
Tempting as it is, asheis, I cannot, I repeat, CANNOT, continue to have sexual relations with the son of a career criminal who I spent years hunting.
Even if his father is behind bars. Even if he is hot, and sweet, and talented in the bedroom,verytalented, and not involved in that life at all…
“Damn it,” I curse, squeezing my eyes shut and flopping back onto the mattress with a stifled scream, but that just makes the memories of how skilled he is appear sharper. More vivid. Even more erotic than they were at the time.
I groan and shove a pillow over my face, but that doesn’t help. It just forces his heady scent into my lungs and makes my pussy weep for the orgasms I’ve just cost her.
The orgasms. Oh my god, more orgasms than I’ve gotten from entire relationships, in one night.
My insides churn, my stomach cramping, like my body’s punishing me for losing access to climaxes on tap.
And I did lose access, because this wasn’t one night. He asked me for my number and changed the rules of how this night had been going. Stating an intention to meet again with that deep, husky voice that sent a giddy thrill through me every time he whispered against my ear.
That was before.
I kick my feet and thump the mattress, like a toddler having a tantrum. It’s not fair. Why, why did the universe send me the one man I can’t have?
I want more. Of you. Of whatever the fuck this is. Whatever you’ll give me. Let me take you on a date. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever.
The phone lights up in my hand as another notification pops up, and I realise it’s not mine. I still have his. Leaning over to set it on the bedside locker, I pause. Ishoulddelete my number. Him having it makes it look like we’re a thing, except…
My finger hovers over the button before, in a moment of madness, I press save instead of delete, and the screen changes to the contact entry.
He gave me a name, but not my own, because I never told him. I should be relieved about that, but instead, that bothers me more than anything else.
Maybe because he put me into his phone as THE ONE.
My throat closes, and I stare at the words until they blur. Rattled, feeling like a piece of shit for how I just treated him, I close the phone and set it carefully next to the lamp where he'll find it when he comes back for his things.
Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, the unexpectedly sweet gesture making me feel even worse. Because deep down, I know he’s a good man, maybe the best man.
I just can’t have him.
4
LISA
The walk of shame back to my car and the drive home take longer than they should, my eyes scanning the route for a glimpse of Whisky, even miles outside of town on narrow winding roads that no sane person would dare walk. When I turn the key in my front door, the big, old house my grandmother left me is so quiet, that for the first time in my life, it feels lonely.
Too tired and raw to dwell on exactly why that is, I go straight to my room, strip and crawl under the covers, but I can't sleep. Instead, I lie staring at the ceiling in my cold empty bed, the ghost of his touch still lingering on my skin as I replay every moment of the evening in torturously vivid detail.
By morning, I feel like death warmed up. I shower for too long, standing under the hot spray, trying to wash away the dirty feeling I have at reacting so badly, at spewing out my panicked thoughts in such a thoughtless way. It doesn't work. When the water finally runs cool, I climb out and dress, putting on my most professional blazer like armour, mainline some coffee, and then drive to the precinct.
