Chapter 6
R
unning for your life while looking over your shoulder for mean gay women and Sasquatch enthusiasts is a bad idea. A very bad idea. Thankfully I turned my head before I took out a stack of encyclopedias and a cute old guy with a walker. After apologizing and promising to slow my pace to a walk, I spotted the best man-butt I’d ever seen in my life. What was a man-butt like that doing in the public library on a Thursday at this time of night? And why couldn’t I have a man-butt like that for myself? I would take such good care of it . . . I would grab it and love it and talk to it and show it off. I wondered if the face matched the butt and the rest of the ridiculously gorgeous body that belonged to the butt. Damn, if he would just turn around . . . yessss. Oh shit, no, no, no, no. I know that man-butt—
It was Mitch. The hot cop who made my girlie parts sing and could cause me to have to break bread with hateful rug-bumpers for two weeks. Damn it to hell, how did he look better than he had this afternoon? It wasn’t fair. Sexy man-butt or not, it didn’t erase the fact that jumping him in a public venue could make me lose Cardboard Brett Favre and have to dine with mean old hags. Besides, he was a cop and cops were untrustworthy, married Dallas Cowboys fans.
Maybe he wouldn’t see me if I stood really still. That was stupid . . . Please, Lutheran God, let him walk by and not notice that I’m trapped between the two tables he’s headed toward. Please, please, please . . . damn.
He stopped dead in his tracks about three feet from me. His eyes started at my hot pink toenails and girlie-sandaled feet, then slid slowly up my bare (thankfully shaved) legs. They paused at my strapless sundress-clad breasts for I’d say twelve seconds too long. From there his gaze traveled lazily to my neck, my lips, my eyes . . . I saw delight and something I couldn’t define flash in his beautiful icy blue eyes as recognition hit. A slow sexy grin spread over his face and I had to remind myself to breathe.
“Hi, Goldilocks, I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, walking toward me.
“That’s not my name,” I said, backing up into the table. “And you shouldn’t be thinking about me . . . because I have, um, some unresolved issues about some, uh, stuff and I have to go, you know, to work right now.” I slapped my hand over my mouth before I could dig a deeper stupid-hole.
“Do I fluster you, Goldilocks?”
“Of course not,” I laughed, beginning to like the Goldilocks thing. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because it’s nine thirty on a Thursday night,” he chuckled, pinning me with those damn eyes.
“Oh, right.” I felt the heat crawl up my neck. “What are you doing here?” A change of subject was in order.
And what in the hell
was
he doing here?
“Checking out a book.” He stepped closer and held up some odd-looking purple police manual and a Stephen King novel.
“You can read?” I asked, trying to be conversational . . . and failing.
He threw his head back and laughed. My knees buckled . . . he was even hotter when he laughed. I just wished I had made a joke instead of a joke of myself.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m sure you can read. I would imagine you had to know how to read to become a cop and um . . . Okay, fine,” I huffed. “You fluster me.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Goldilocks,” he said, moving closer. “What are you doing here?”
“Bigfoot meeting,” I mumbled, glancing wildly around for an escape. I was forty-two seconds away from tackling him to the ground and shoving my tongue down his throat.
“Oh,” he laughed, “you’re one of those.”
“No, I’m not. I lost a bet.”
“I see,” he said. Clearly not seeing at all.
“I said that David Hasselhoff was a big star in France and he’s not, he’s a big star in Germa . . . oh my God, please forget I said that. Suffice it to say, I’m here against my will. I am not a Sasquatch devotee or a David Hasselhoff fan.”
I tried to back away, but the damn table was bolted to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted danger . . . more danger than what stood in front of me invading my personal space. Crap. Mrs. C and Edith were headed my way.
“Hide me,” I squeaked, pulling Mitch flush to my body. All I needed was for them to tell Mitch my boobies were impostors. The fact that it was untrue was irrelevant; having to explain would be mortifying.
They passed without seeing me. Thank you, Jesus.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, realizing I was smashed up against what felt like a brick wall. I tried to pull away and almost went down. The fact that my knees had turned to jelly might have had something to do with it . . . As I struggled for balance, I grabbed on to a perfectly muscled arm. “I am so sorry,” I stammered, which may have come out slightly muffled because the arm gently pulled me back to the chest. The best-smelling, most beautiful chest ever. I was so tempted to bite it . . . or lick it. What the fu . . . ? What was wrong with me? Was I so horny that I would jump a forbidden cop in the public library because he smelled good and had an awesome man-butt? Yes, unfortunately the answer was yes.
“Kristy?” Mitch asked, putting a warm, slightly calloused finger under my chin and lifting my face to his. “Can I ask you something?”
“That’s a bad idea,” I muttered, trying unsuccessfully to move out of his arms.
“Why’s that?” he asked in a voice that made me weak.
“Because I have no idea what’s going to come out of my mouth,” I told him truthfully. He was in grave danger of my grabby hands. I balled them into fists, willing them not to touch his insanely kissable lips or slap his man-butt.
“How about I talk and you just nod your head?”
I nodded my head in agreement and giggled.
“Good,” he grinned. “I want to take you out for ice cream and I . . .”
I started to shake my head to tell him no, but he cut me off.
“No nodding or shaking till I finish,” he informed me, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I promise to do all the talking until you feel less flustered. Although, it would be fascinating to hear about your band,” he chuckled.
I rolled my eyes and tried to shove him away, but he was going nowhere fast. I was amazed I didn’t feel trapped or freaked out. This big, beautiful man who reduced me to a blubbering idiot actually made me feel safe . . .
“Mitch, I can’t,” I whispered, so close to his mouth I could almost touch it with my own.
“Why?”
“Um, because of lesbians and Brett Favre,” I mumbled, sure he’d drop me and run like hell.
“I’m not going to touch that one,” he said.
“That’s a good idea,” I said, trying to pry myself away.
“So you won’t come out with me for ice cream.” He gave me a pouty lip with a twinkle in his eyes.
Damn it, I wanted to suck on that lip . . . “No, I can’t.”
“Well then, I do believe the price for denial is a kiss,” he said in a husky voice, staring at my mouth.
Oh. My. God.
Was he serious or joking? If the expression on his face was anything to go by, he was very serious. The butterflies in my tummy were break-dancing with more gusto than Kim Jensen Johnson had exuded twenty minutes ago. My mouth felt dry and I knew if he let me go I’d be in a puddle at his feet. Would kissing him mean I’d lose the bet? No . . . I wasn’t going out with him or having sex with him . . . although I certainly wouldn’t mind that. Hells bells, he was a cop. I would not date or sleep with or dry hump a cop. Ever. No matter how freakin’ outstanding his man-butt was, not to mention his impressive package, which was kind of hard to miss—being smacked up against it.
Who was ever going to know if I kissed him?
“You can’t tell Jack,” I said, eyeing him narrowly.
“Do I look like a guy who kisses and tells?” he asked, pulling on my curls. “God, I want to sink my hands into your hair.”
“Really?” I whispered.
“Really, really. So, pretty girl, what will it be? Do we spend the night locked together in the library or do you give me a kiss?”
“One kiss,” I blurted. “No tongue.”
I closed my eyes and waited . . . and waited. What the hell was he doing? Where was my kiss? I opened my eyes to find the object of my desire and possibly the instrument of my having to eat with unpleasant lesbians and lose Cardboard Brett Favre a mere breath away from my lips. His eyes bored into mine and his sexy smile made the blood roar in my ears. Damn, he hadn’t even kissed me yet and I was ready to have a Richter scale–shattering orgasm.
“Keep your eyes open, Kristy,” he said as he erased the distance between us.
As he leaned in, my fingers tangled in his hair and I pulled his lips to mine. All coherent thought left me when he teased my lips with the tip of his tongue. I vaguely remembered telling him no tongue, but that was stupid. I loved his tongue. I’m fairly sure I loved his tongue as much as I loved his man-butt. He slanted his mouth across mine and gave me the most toe-curling kiss I’d ever had . . . without tongue. Dang it, that just wouldn’t do . . .
I parted his very willing lips with my tongue and laid one on him that almost made me pass out. The sounds he made sent heat coursing through my body and straight to my panties. If kissing him was this good, sex with him would probably kill me.
“Oh my God,” he said against my mouth. His hands were in my hair and he ran his lips along my jawline and down to my neck. “I have to stop,” he groaned, “or I won’t be able to.”
“Excuse me,” a pissed-off bespectacled librarian hissed, throwing a metaphorical bucket of icy cold water over us. “The library is closing. I would suggest that you two get a room . . . at a hotel.”
She pivoted on her heel and stomped off, muttering something about teenagers in heat. She got the age wrong, but the rest was fairly accurate.
“I’m sorry,” I said, backing away from the hottest lip smack I’d ever participated in.
“I’m not.” He grinned, watching me like he was going to pounce.
“Well, um, it was lovely seeing you again,” I said, trying not to giggle. “Have a nice life and enjoy your books.”
I walked away. I knew he was watching my butt. I could feel it . . . and I liked it. Wait a minute . . . I turned back to him and much to my delight, caught him staring.
“Mitch, did you know I’d be here tonight?” I asked, wondering if it was coincidence or providence.
“Possibly.” He grinned and shrugged his broad shoulders.
I stared at him for a moment and decided I liked his answer. I knew I would avoid him at all costs from now on, but it was flattering to find out he was stalking me. I turned and left, knowing full well his eyes were back on my butt. Why not let him enjoy the view? God knows, I’d certainly enjoyed his.
“So how was the Bigfoot meeting?” Rena asked gleefully.
“It was informative,” I groaned, flopping down on her bed. “Your aunt is now going by the handle Moon-Unit and apparently Sasquatch is an immortal shapeshifter living among us.”
“Holy shit,” she laughed. “I knew about the name change thing. Mom is fit to be tied. She refuses to address Phyllis as Moon-Unit, so Phyllis won’t answer her when she speaks.”
“Sunday family brunch must be awesome,” I deadpanned, grabbing her pillow and trying to wipe Mitch from my brain.
“Hell yes . . . So, little missy, I heard you met Jack’s supersexy partner earlier,” she teased, raising her eyebrows.
Crap, had she been hiding at the library? Did she know I’d kissed him? “What are you talking about?” I croaked, fully ready to take my punishment.
“Well,” Rena gushed, “I hear sparks flew and then you informed him you had eight husbands and played in a classical-country-techno-pop band.”
“I never said how many husbands and it was a folk-rock-thrash-punk band. Jack clearly has a memory problem or brain damage.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I realized she knew nothing about the library.
“Did you think Mitch was hot?” she asked, gathering up the dirty laundry that covered her floor.
“He’s okay,” I said, tossing her a bra and sweats that I found under her pillow.
“Hmm, he certainly had a higher opinion of you than you do of him.” She gave me the look . . . and waited.
“What?” I yelled.
Rena cackled and continued to clean her room. “He said you were hot, crazy hot.”
“
Crazy
being the operative word,” I moaned, putting her pillow over my head.
“Nah,” she assured me. “He told Jack he couldn’t say much because everything about you took his breath away.”
“He didn’t say that,” I gasped, sitting up on her bed and throwing the pillow at her.
“Did.”
“Not.”
“I swear he did.” She lobbed her pillow back at me. “Jack said so.”
“Yeah, Jack also said I had eight husbands and a country-techno band.” I rolled my eyes and flopped back on her bed. My tummy was tingling and it was all I could do to keep my voice normal. There was no way I could let on how I felt. If I did, Rena might drop the bet so I could be happy. And the bet was the main thing holding me back. My fear and disdain of dating cops seemed to disappear every time I laid eyes on Mitch. Sad thing was, Nathan/Ethan wasn’t my first law enforcement romance failure . . . There was David, the beat cop who was more into his own reflection than me, and Tommy, the dispatcher, who was such a momma’s boy all our dates were threesomes (and not the kind you read about in erotic romance novels). How many times did I have to date a cop before I learned my lesson? The bet was still on and it was going to stay that way.
“Jack didn’t say eight husbands or country whatever-the-fuck band,” she grinned. “I did, just to screw with you. The Mitch stuff is true.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I quipped casually. “I’m not interested. I don’t date cops anymore. I don’t want to dine with Mrs. C and Edith. Ever. And I’m looking forward to owning cardboard Brett Favre.”