Page 51 of Flint’s Strike

"Parker." My name spilling from his lips sounds different than it ever has. “That…”

“I know,” I manage, still not quite in control of my breath.

“I was trying to wait.” He huffs out what might be a laugh. “At least until dinner.”

“You failed. Spectacularly.” Grinning, I lean in, our lips meeting easily, like we’ve been kissing one another our whole lives and still can’t get enough.

“Well, this is…a party.” Nate’s amused baritone cuts through the hallway.

Eliot and I spring apart so quickly I’m surprised we don’t leave scorch marks on the tile.

“I was gonna ask if you got a hold of Mallon, but…”

AJ, standing shoulder to shoulder with Nate, chuckles. “I think we interrupted somethin’.”

I clear my throat. “You think?”

“No,” Nate says, his tone far too innocent. “Continue. We’ll just…go do actual police work.”

AJ slings his arm around Nate’s shoulders and steers him toward the bullpen. “Twenty bucks says neither of them remembers the inspector’s name for the next five minutes.”

“Put it on Parker’s tab,” Nate says, his voice fading as they make themselves scarce.

“He’s gonna be insufferable now.” I let out a sigh, but my fingers find their way to my lips. They’re still tingling with the memory of our kiss.

Eliot watches me, his dark eyes never leaving my face. “We just…in front of your chief…fuck.”

I spare a single glance around the corner as Nate slips back into the conference room, then step close enough to Eliot, I can pick out the subtle notes in his cologne. “This isn’t over, you know.”

His expression shifts, the embarrassment fading into an almost feral need. “Not even close.”

I leave him with one last hard, swift kiss, then stride through the bullpen without a shred of shame. I still don’t understand why I’m so drawn to Eliot Flint, but I’m done fighting it. We’ve got work to do.

Chapter Nineteen

Eliot

I pause in the doorway, taking stock of the room while my dick throbs faintly and I can still taste Parker on my lips.

Fuck.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to notice her. Or care about her. Or want her. I haven’t let myself want anyone in more than seven years. Now, after less than a week, I’m in so fucking deep, I made dinner reservations at three different restaurants. Because this night needs to be everything she wants it to be. I don’t know what she likes. Chili and beer at a dive bar? A fancy, three-course meal with wine pairings? Something in between? I want to find out.

Parker doesn’t look up from her laptop, but her shoulders hitch and her fingers still on the keyboard. A tiny ripple of tension runs through her body.

Is she as uncomfortable as I am? Probably.

Across the table, Nate watches me. I don’t know him well enough to understand if that glint in his eyes is amusement or a warning.

Every step from the door to the chair is actively painful. My knee doesn’t give a shit about the movement, but I’m starting to think whoever designed Wranglers never had a hard-on. I know they never tried to sit down with one.

A whiff of Parker’s shampoo—citrus and something soft—is enough to remind me how she felt in my arms. Not that I’d truly forgotten. Just tried to shove the thought down enough to focus on why we’re here.

Two fires. A dead security guard. A murdered building inspector.

“I’m good,” Nate says, leaning back in his chair, his sharp gaze swinging between me and Parker. “In case anyone thought to ask.”

“I don’t care about alliteration anymore,” Parker mutters. “You’re Captain Last Nerve. You will always be ‘Last Nerve.’ You could be knighted and I’d call you Sir Last Ner— Oh God, no. Scratch that. I’m never calling you Sir anything. Ew.”