Lori Armstrong: Silent Mercy

I skirted the front end and climbed in the passenger’s seat.

Inside the cop car, Dawson stared straight ahead, left hand gripping the wheel, right forearm resting on the console.

I expected he’d be furiously writing me a ticket. Or maybe he’d just berate me until I cracked. I preferred the ticket; I’d cracked in front of him plenty. When I saw the ticket book tucked between the seat and the console, I grabbed it.

“What are you doin’?”

“Making amends. Want me to get started on this?” I flipped open the book and tapped the pen on the first line. “Name? Right now my name is mud with you. Occupation? Pain in your ass.”

“Gimme that.”

I held the book out of his reach. “Age? Old enough to know better. Vehicle type? A tasty little sports car that I enjoy driving way too fast.”

“Mercy. Come on. Knock it off.”

“City? Well, there’s trouble right here in Eagle River with a capital T, that rhymes with P, and that stands for… poor judgment.”

He raised both eyebrows. “Quoting western show tunes ain’t helping your cause.”

But I noticed the tight set to his mouth had softened. “State?” I set the ticket book on the dashboard and leaned closer. “I’m in a state of panic. A state of remorse. A state of undress. Take your pick. I’m sorry. Really sorry, and I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

His hand cupped the side of my face. He didn’t say anything for a full minute. I owed him the courtesy of looking him in the eye as he studied me in that unnerving manner. He sighed. “For starters, don’t do any more crazy, dangerous stuff to get my attention. I just got you back, after four very long months without you.”

I still wasn’t used to the way Mason tossed out mushy stuff like that-like it was perfectly normal. Nuzzling the inside of his wrist, the heavy cotton of his uniform brushed my cheek. His familiar scent-laundry soap and coffee-filled more than just my lungs. “I missed you. It was so quiet at the house tonight.”

His thumb stroked my cheek in a lazy, sensual arc.

“Will we ever get just one lousy hour without being electronically tethered to our jobs so we have to leave at a moment’s notice?”

“I can’t swing an hour, but I did tell dispatch I was taking my fifteen-minute break.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning…” Dawson gave me a devilish smile that tripped my warning bells. “How serious were you about doing anything to make it up to me?”

My eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting we have sex in your cop car?”

“Yep.”

“Right now?”

“Yep.” Mason’s hand slid to my neck, and he tugged me closer. “Oh, don’t act so shocked. You dressed that way to seduce me. Guess what? It worked.”

Okay, he did have me there. “But I figured we’d just play a little grab-ass and wait until you were off shift and home in bed to finish it.”

Dawson bent his head and pressed his warm lips to the hollow of my throat. “You thought wrong.” Slipping my coat off my shoulders, he planted hot, wet kisses down my neck, murmuring, “Now that I’ve disarmed you, come here.”

His attentions were highly distracting, which he was completely aware of, since my pulse leaped against his questing lips. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex in a car?”

“I don’t care.” He nuzzled the tops of my breasts. “God. You smell so damn good right here.”

My head was starting to spin. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting this.”

“Not suggesting.” His tongue delved down the V of my cleavage-scant as it was. “Demanding. So come here.”

A section of my brain suggested that I scramble backward and demand he write me the ticket. But that was a load of horseshit. I wanted this, wanted him, and we were both too attuned to each other to pretend otherwise.

I muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and climbed over the console to straddle his lap. I opened my mouth to demand he remove his sidearm, but he already had, sneaky man. His lips covered mine in a kiss packed with the sweet fire I craved. I arched back, and the steering wheel dug into my spine. “I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“It will. Hang on.” A mechanical whirring noise sounded as the seat slid back and the upper section reclined slightly.

That move seemed very practiced. Rather than ask how many times he’d done that maneuver, I chalked up his expertise in tight places to my good fortune. I layered my body against the warm firmness of his. “Good thing you don’t have a metal cage in this vehicle, Sheriff.”

“Yeah. I’d probably be tempted to cuff you to it.”

“That mean you’re still mad at me?”

“Getting less so.”

Then he kissed me in that slow and steady way of his, reminding me he held the reins. Reminding me he could make me weak-kneed in record time. Reminding me with him, that loss of control didn’t make me feel weak.

His work-roughened hands followed the contour of my back, over my hips. When his fingers connected with my bare ass, he broke the kiss and stared into my eyes with an expression of shock. “You went commando tonight?”

“I hate that term. To me, ‘going commando’ means using rocket launchers, grenades, and assault weapons to blow shit up.”

He laughed softly. “Of course it’d mean that to you, Sergeant Major. Maybe we should rename it… going native?”

“Beings I’m part Native American? Funny, lawman. Do you need help getting that belt unbuckled and your pants unzipped?” I nibbled on the spot below his ear that made him squirm. “Because the clock is ticking.”

“Wish I could dispute that, but you’re right. Lift up.”

We snickered and cursed as we adjusted our bodies and clothing. But the hot, sexy look in Dawson’s eyes as I lowered onto him was worth bruised knees, skinned-up elbows, and a bump on the noggin when my head hit the roof.

The real world receded when we were locked together. Our hearts thundering, our pulses racing, our hips pumping. His clever hands and greedy mouth drove me to the pinnacle of pleasure, and I took him with me as I fell into the vortex.

In the aftermath, I lay sprawled across his chest, trying to catch my breath. The coarse tips of his fingers caressed the outside of my thighs, and his rapid exhalations drifted across the top of my head.

The radio crackled. Dispatch asked, “Sheriff Dawson, do you copy?”

He swore, and I pushed myself upright, grateful we’d at least finished our slap-and-tickle session before the inevitable interruption.

His lips still held the smirk of a satisfied man as he sat up and reached for the handheld police radio. “This is Sheriff Dawson. Go ahead.”

Distortion filled the air. “Received a call there’s been a theft at Clem and Linda Cartright’s place.”

Dawson’s demeanor instantly changed. “How long ago was this?”

“Two minutes. Where are you?”

“Within range.”

“Do you need additional backup?”

“I already have it. Dawson out.”

Dawson’s hands were on my hips, moving me so he could fasten his pants and straighten his shirt. “Better buckle up.”

“Why?” I scrambled into the passenger seat, yanking my skirt back down where it belonged. “I’m not going on a call with you.” Especially not with messed-up sex hair, kiss-swollen lips, and beard burn on my neck.

Oh, and no underwear.

“Yes, you are.”

He shot me a hard cop look, which annoyed me, given he’d just been moaning my name in the throes of passion two minutes ago. “I can’t just leave my car by the side of road! Someone will steal it.”

“No one will bother it. And we’re at least fifteen miles from the rez.” He reholstered his sidearm and started the engine.