“Now your bra.”
She popped the front clasp, and he was there, a big warm hand cupping her, a roughened finger caressing her burgeoning nipple, then his tongue and lips sucking her into the depths of his mouth. With a hand at the small of her back, he arched her against him.
Shit, oh shit. So good. Heat shot between her legs as she juiced up. He palmed her, sliding a finger down the crease through her slacks. Then he bit her nipple. Light. Exquisite.
Max exploded in a flash of brilliant colors behind her closed lids. He rode her little storm, working her panties and her nipple until her need became a physical ache to have him inside her.
She pushed on his shoulders and sucked in air. Her thigh lay across his legs, and she slumped against the door. “That was an unfair interrogative technique, Detective. I know you’re not allowed to touch the suspect.”
“A cop’s gotta take advantage when a suspect’s hard to crack.” His own breathing was a little harsh, the planes of his face hardened. He spread his hand in the vee of flesh through her gaping blouse.
God, she wanted him to finish it, rip her pants off and drive straight home inside her.
“What do you want, Max?” Hot blue eyes sparked at her. As if he could read her mind. And her body.
“I gave it to myself, thank you very much.”
“I gave you that orgasm.”
She snorted. “You barely touched me.”
He smiled, a devilish grin on a sinful mouth. “Yeah, right. I made you come with one touch and your nipple between my teeth.”
She couldn’t let him win the round, even if her body screamed for more. “For your information, I can self-induce orgasms just by thinking. I am psychic, you know.”
“And I just happened to be here at the time you were self-inducing?” He smirked, not buying the explanation at all.
Still, she fought a valiant battle. “Yeah.”
He pulled back, giving her breathing space, his hands dropping away, his big warm body no longer touching hers. “Then do it again.”
Oops. Outmaneuvered. She should have known he’d pull a fast one. “One’s enough for tonight.”
“Cheater.” He grinned, taking the bite out.
“I have to go in. I’ve got an early day.” She fumbled with her bra.
Witt reached out, brushing her breasts with the backs of his fingers, and redid the clasp, then buttoned her blouse.
She’d half hoped he would leave it all undone and beg her to let him follow her upstairs to finish what he’d started. Of course, she’d have to acquiesce. It was only fair that he should get an orgasm, too.
“There,” he whispered. “All put together again.” Then he shifted back to his side of the truck.
But ... but ... Wasn’t he going to ask?
“What, Max? Looks like you want to ask me something.”
“No. Nothing.” Yes. She wanted way more than nothing from him.
The music faded away, and the ten o’clock news roundup came on.
Max waited. Witt didn’t move, studying her with a knowing gaze. He wanted her to beg. No way. That would give him too much power over her.
The commentator read through the national news tidbits, things she’d already heard earlier in the day.
“Thought you had to go in,” he said. “New job tomorrow and all.”
The fiend. He did intend to make her do the inviting. Well, it was one thing to give in, quite another to make the offer. She wouldn’t. She was strong. She didn’t need to beg. She didn’t need him.
The newscaster started with the top local story, a man found murdered in a downtown San Francisco high-rise. The police were looking for any information concerning the woman witnesses had last seen with him, a woman wearing a black-feathered Mardi Gras mask.
Max straightened in her seat, a rush of icy sensation from her head to her toes.
A murdered man in a high-rise.
A woman hiding behind a mask.
Max pounced on the radio, fingers on the volume dial. She got that twitchy psychic feeling she hated. Goosebumps rose along her arms. “Jesus Christ, that’s him.”
His name was Lance La Russa, and he had to have been the man in her vision.
Chapter Two
It was dark. It was late. Max lay in bed. Alone.
Saved by the newscast. Though her body had still hummed, she’d sent Witt off to do what he did best, a little detecting on the murder of Lance La Russa.
“Either the woman he was with killed him, or the wife did,” she whispered to Cameron. After all, the guy had been playing his little games in his wife’s office. Perfect motive.