Jo Robertson - The Traitor

He looked back at her. "Are you coming?" Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and disappeared into her laundry room. What an insufferable, bossy ass! Fuming, but resigned, she followed him into the house.

By the time Bella had walked through the laundry room into the kitchen, Rafe had already removed his jacket, flung it over a wing chair, and sprawled comfortably on her living room sofa. She placed her briefcase on the tiled floor, hung her jacket in the entry closet. Toed off her shoes.

"How about something to drink?" he asked from his place on the sofa.

"You're not going to be here that long," she snapped.

"Maybe not, but I'm not leaving until I know where you've been and what you've done."

She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Now you're starting to sound like mis hermanos, my brothers. And maybe I was working on the case at the office."

"Nope, you weren't. And you don't have to translate Spanish for me. And," he flashed a cocky grin, "maybe I already checked the office."

"Look, Hashemi, you have no right to make demands about how I spend my time."

"I like the way you pronounce my name," he responded irrelevantly. "I'm the lead on the case. I have every right."

He was so damned infuriating. "I'm the ADA on the case," she countered.

"We've had this conversation already." He rose to meet her, stood inches within her personal space, and put his capable hands on her shoulders. She shivered and pushed him away a second too late to be effective. Damn pheromones!

"Okay, truce," she said, lifting her hand in surrender, stepping back to put distance between them. "I'll tell you what I've done – but you can't get angry."

He looked suspicious, but nodded.

"And remember, I don't have to give you an explanation at all."

"We're supposed to be working together," he reminded her, stopping when he caught the mutinous look on her face. "We'll talk about that after I hear what you did today."

Buying time, thinking how much to tell him, she looked into the refrigerator. "Beer or wine?"

Settled with a glass of fine rosé, Rafe propped his feet on Bella's coffee table while she tucked hers beneath her. This position was beginning to look both familiar and dangerous, but she didn't ask him to leave again. They spoke around the case for nearly thirty minutes before she decided to tell him about her proposed deal with Santos.

"We've dried up the small talk," he said placing his wine glass on a coaster. "What about tonight?"

She cleared her throat and sighed. "I went to see Santos." She looked at him from beneath her lashes, waiting for the explosion, but to his credit, he controlled his temper. However, his jaw worked and his eyes blinked as he made every effort to refrain from yelling at her.

His words confirmed her suspicion. "I'd like to throttle you," he said tightly, "or turn you over my knee and spank the daylights out of you. Or – "

"Okay, I get the idea." She stood and took both their glasses into the kitchen. "Do you want to hear the rest, or just pummel me?"

"I want to do both," he grumbled, following her into the kitchen. "What happened?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. I decided to offer him a deal and he said he'd think about it."

Rafe scoffed. "A deal? You can't offer him a deal. He's going to get federal charges and do federal time, no plea bargaining, nothing."

"Right now, he's in my jurisdiction and if I say plead him out, that's what will happen." She tried to remain calm, but really, the man was a bully.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, a thoughtful look on his face. "What did you offer him?"

"Full immunity."

"Jesus Christ, Torres! You can't give a man like Santos full immunity!"

She bristled with stubbornness. "I can and I will."

"What do you imagine he can give you for this full immunity?"

"Diego Vargas."

"Just like that? On a silver platter," he jibed. "What part of Vargas?"

"Everything," she answered smugly, "the drugs, the trafficking, and the girls, enough to put him away for life, or give him the needle if we can show special circumstances."

"And who do you think is going to take over Vargas' business?"

"No one. The organization will be over, finished, destroyed."

"No, it won't. It's like a star fish. Chop off one part and another grows back. It doesn't matter," he said dismissively. "Santos will never betray Vargas."

"I think he will."

"Don't be so naïve, Torres. It doesn't become you."

Somehow his disappointment in her hurt more than his anger.

He snatched his jacket off the wing chair and headed for the front door. "I'll see you in the morning."

He'd turned the knob and begun to open the door when she struck out viciously. "Go ahead. Run away again. I don't know what made me think I could work with a… a giant lug like you."

She blinked furiously so he wouldn't see the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. And why was she crying anyway?

He waited for long moments before he answered, back facing her almost as if he didn't want to look at her. Then he spun around, anger etched in every line of his face, his eyes dark and furious.

"Damn you," he ground out before he grabbed her and kissed her.

The kiss was hard and punishing and bruising, and she couldn't say when exactly she wound her arms around his neck and clung for dear life. When he released her, she staggered back, breathless and weak in the knees.

"Don't go," she heard herself say as if from a distance.

"If I stay, it won't end like last time, Isabella," he warned softly.

God, the sound of her name on his lips made her tremble. "I don't want it to be like last time."

"The case – "

She stepped closer and wound her fingers around his neck, running them through the thick, soft hair at his nape. "I don't want to talk about the case."

She felt hot and cold at the same time, lethargy and urgency warring within her. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath caught in her throat, and fire raced through her veins.

She longed for the slow, exquisite pleasure-pain of arousal, but her arms, legs, and body had a mind of their own. She ground her hips against the thrusting bulge in his slacks and pressed against his chest, her nipples hard and peaked through her thin blouse and filmy bra.

"Oh, God," he spoke against her mouth. "You have no idea how sweet you taste." He trailed a line of soft, moist kisses down her neck. "How incredibly soft your skin is."

When his lips met hers, she opened her mouth beneath them and met his tongue with her own. His breath smelled of the faint tanginess of wine and a clean sweetness. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth against her bottom lip as he drew it into his mouth. She ran both hands through his hair, loving the way the dense strands curled around her fingers. He reached behind her to undo her hair clasp, and her unruly mane of hair tumbled around her shoulders.

"So beautiful," he said, running the hair through his long fingers, rubbing the ends with his thumb and forefinger as if he were assessing an expensively-textured fabric. Undoing the first three buttons on her blouse, he shoved the edges aside, exposed the lacy top of her white brassiere. He trailed his fingers down her throat and scraped his knuckles over the tops of her breasts.

She shivered again, an uncontrollable spasm like the start of an orgasm, threw back her head, and invited him to devour her neck. He followed his hands with his lips, gently pressing kisses along her breasts, pulling down the bra and exposing her nipple to the cool air. She gasped as he took one peak into his mouth and gently licked it, swirling his tongue around the hardened button. Then he sucked, softly at first, but harder as she pressed his head against her chest and moaned quietly.