Gemma Halliday - Spying in High Heels

“It went over big at the porn studio too.”

Ramirez’s eyebrow shot up again. “Porn Studio?” His grin widened, showing off a row of white teeth. The better to eat you right up with my dear.

“See, I knew there was a little bad girl in you.” His voice was low and deep in a way that made me warm in all the right places.

I was still pressed against his chest and his hooded eyes looked wide awake now, intent on me. Making me think serious bad girl thoughts. Thoughts of bad cops in boxers.

Or better yet, nothing at all.

Try as I might to reign in Beefcakes Girl, her eyes strayed downward. Past his brick wall chest, beyond six-pack territory, until they zeroed in on that denim covered package.

“Are you staring at my crotch?”

At least I had the decency to blush. At least, I think it was a blush. Or maybe just one of Mom’s hot flashes at the totally X-rated thoughts racing through my mind.

“I was just wondering if you’re a boxers or briefs guy.” Did I say that out loud? Oh lord, I must be really drunk.

Before I had time to take back my Sluts-R-Us statement, Ramirez tightened his grip on my waist, pulling my body flush with his.

I think I had an on-the-spot orgasm.

His head dipped down, his lips grazing my ear. “Briefs,” he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

And not one of those nippy, soft, kissy things. This was a kiss . A serious lust-inspiring, picturing-you-naked-all-day, you’re-so-going-to-remember-the-sex-no-matter-how-many-Virgin-Marys-you-accidentally-drank kind of kiss. One that left no question in my mind whether Ramirez was a Damien or a Richard beneath all those clothes. I knew for a fact that Richards didn’t kiss like this. He was a Damien through and through.

His hands slid up my shirt and I did a quick mental inventory. Legs shaved? No granny panties? Just in case condom still in my purse? Check, check, and check. Beefcakes Girl did a mental woohoo! as I kissed him back.

His tongue touched mine and I suddenly felt like Ramirez was wearing way too many clothes. I slid my hands down his chest, fumbling like a nervous teenager at his belt buckle until his T-shirt came untucked. He didn’t protest in the least as I slid the fabric up and over his head. Though he did groan a little as I trailed my hands down his abdomen. Good lord, this guy was built. I bet he worked out more than Dana.

Ramirez picked me up like I weighed less than nothing and sat me on the kitchen counter. My skirt hiked up as his hands slid up my thighs, past my knees, past the oh-that-tickles spot, and on into where’s-that-freaking-condom territory.

I went back to fumbling with his belt buckle again. We were suddenly in a race. Who could get their clothes off fastest and the winner received the orgasm of their life. Ramirez’s shoes went flying across the room. My silk blouse was ripped off so fast one of the buttons popped off, pinging against my microwave. My bra was down around my waist and I heard the unmistakable sound of Ramirez’s zipper sliding open.

And then he froze. Okay, through my vodka-hormone cocktail it took me a second to realize he wasn’t kissing me back anymore. But when I did, I saw he was staring at a spot behind me.

“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“What is that ?”

I turned around to see what he was staring at. My heart sank.

The EPT.

“Uh, it’s nothing. Just, um, a little pregnancy test.”

It was as if I’d said, “Just a little nuclear bomb.” Ramirez instantly put two feet between us, still staring at the bomb like it might go off any second. “Why do you have a pregnancy test on your kitchen counter? Are you pregnant?” He stared at my belly. Thankfully, I was still flat as a board. But I could see him mentally putting a basketball there.

“No! I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so. Well… maybe.”

His gaze whipped wildly from the test to me. Then he muttered a, “Jesus,” and sat down on my futon, scrubbing a hand over his face.

I slid off the counter, shrugging back into my bra as I sat down beside him.

“Richard’s?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Jesus,” he said again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know if there was anything to tell. And, well, I don’t know, you’re a cop and you thought I was in Greenway’s room. And then you came here and you looked so nice and you kissed me, and that was really nice, and well, I just kind of forgot to mention it.”

“You forgot?” He stared at me.

“Uh huh.” In my defense, Ramirez shirtless was enough to make a woman forget her own name.

“Hell, this is… this was…” He waved his arms from me to the EPT, seemingly searching for the right words.

My heart bottomed out when he found them.

“A mistake,” he finally said. “This was a huge mistake coming here.”

A mistake. My bottom lip quivered. Okay, so maybe it was a mistake. In fact, I’m sure had we actually had sex, I would have been thinking the same thing as soon as the Virgin Marys wore off. But did he have to say it like that?

I wrapped my arms around my middle, suddenly very conscious of the fact my shirt was on the other side of the room.

“Maybe you should just go then,” I said. Then bit my lower lip to stop that damn quivering.

“You’re right. I should go.” Ramirez got up and retrieved his shirt from the floor.

“Fine,” I spat back. I’m not sure why I was so mad at him, but it beat being mad at myself. “Go then.”

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t come here for this,” he said, gesturing the counter where we’d been this close to being the stars of our very own porno flick.

“Oh, so you’re saying this is my fault? That I threw myself at you? That I’m some kind of drunken hussy?” The closer the words hit to home the louder I said them. Damn. I had thrown myself a little hadn’t I? But he’d been more than willing to catch me.

“I didn’t say that. You’re not a drunken-” He paused. “Wait, you’re pregnant and you went out and got drunk?” He stared at me as if I’d just confessed to shooting my grandmother.

That did it. The quivering lip shook out of control and big fat tears rolled out of my eyes. Did I mention I also tend to get a little emotional when I’m drunk?

“I-I-I’m a horrible p-p-person,” I wailed.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I’ll be a horrible m-m-mother.”

Ramirez sat down beside me. “No, you won’t. I’m sure you’ll be a fine mother.”

“I didn’t mean to get drunk. I was tricked. I would n-n-never hurt a baby.” My words were coming out in big slobbery sobs and I was pretty sure my nose was running too. This was about as unsexy as you could get.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sure the baby is okay.”

“If there is a baby,” I reminded him between sniffles.

“Right. If there is one.” He put his arm around me.

“I’m sorry.” I sniffed again. “I’m a mess.”

Ramirez looked at me. He pushed one stray strand of hair behind my ear. Oddly enough it was an even more intimate gesture than having his hands up my shirt. More… touching. Wow. Who knew Bad Cop had a soft side?

“You’re not a mess. You’ll make a beautiful mother.”

Okay, so I knew he was lying. I was so far from beautiful right now. My mascara must be in streaks, my nose was running and red, and I’m sure my eyes were once again puffier than the Michelin man. But it was a nice lie. And he was a nice guy to say it.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’m sure you have stuff to do. Important Bad Cop stuff.”

He smiled. Not that smirky smile and not the sexy, wolfish grin either. Just a smile, like maybe deep down he really didn’t think I was such a mess after all. “Nope,” he said. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”