* * *
Stryker slid his laptop into his bag and they headed upstairs. The club was closed, the first floor was empty, and the staff had cleared out.
“Different place after it closes,” she said.
“Peaceful.”
“You don’t like the mayhem?” she asked.
“In general or here?”
“Both?”
“Mayhem follows me, and I’m over the club scene.” After he set the building alarm, they left out the front door. Several members were hanging out in the parking lot.
“Don’t these people sleep?” she asked.
As they passed the group, Stryker slowed. “Everyone doing okay?”
They all responded that they were.
“Need me to call a ride for you?” he called over to them.
“We’re good,” said one of the women.
Once in his car, Stryker asked if Emerson had her weapon.
“No, it’s in my safe at home,” she replied. “You?”
“Always,” he replied, and turned onto the main road.
“Why do you carry?” she asked.
“Because I can.” Unless pressed, the short answer worked best for him.
“Can you stay for a drink?”
Their eyes met in the darkened car. “Yes.”
His desire would not be extinguished until he was inside her. It was a raw, wicked need that he could no longer ignore. He’d put the brakes on things last night because she’d been drinking, but tonight, she was stone, cold sober.
He parked in her driveway, grabbed his satchel. With his weapon in his hand, they entered her home. After tapping the button to close her garage door, she turned off the security system.
The yellow-eyed monster waited on the steps. This time, Pima’s meowing was laced with a heavy purring.
“Cats are fuckin’ crazy,” he grumbled.
Emerson laughed as they headed upstairs. In the kitchen, she shook the can of treats and the possessed feline did his bizarre two-legged dance.
She gave him treats, then sauntered close. With each step, his heart pounded faster, the blood surging south. “What can I get you? Beer, wine? I’ve got—” She barreled into him, the intoxicating rush of her—her flowery scent, her soft lips on his, her nails raking down his back—had him groaning into her.
The kiss deepened, the rush of passion turning him hard. He wanted to strip her bare and drive himself inside her until the ecstasy numbed him. He needed to lose himself in her until he was too spent to give a fuck about anything…except her.
Breathing hard, she slowed the kiss down while delicate fingers slipped in his hair. She tucked strands behind his ear with one hand, while the other held him flush against her. He was a prisoner in a cell from which he never wanted to escape.
“Come upstairs with me,” she murmured. “I need you naked in my bed.”
Should he put the brakes on this? Do the professional thing? But when she clasped his hand, the onlyrightthing was taking her to bed.
