Page 33 of Just Friends

That was a one-time thing.

After digging a pair of thick socks out of her bag, she wandered into the kitchen to have a look. The oven was incredible, a complete waste on a man who didn’t cook. Well, could he? She had her doubts. He had single serve coffee maker, and she located the mugs and brewed a cup. It wasn’t until half-way through the mug she realized she’d opened a bottle of coffee creamer from the fridge. He drinks his coffee black. Why does he have creamer? Another woman? Did he have other women there? Hannah said that he went to neighboring towns to pick up women. She wasn’t anything special, no matter what he made her feel last night.

She studied the woods surrounding Weasel’s cabin from the balcony door; it was too cold to go out. Freezing rain had fallen overnight, and the railing was encased in a thin layer of ice. The forecast called for it to warm enough to melt, and she needed to get out of there as soon as it thawed. She was uncertain when he would return.

At the bottom of a flight of stairs, she found two empty bedrooms. A third was set up as an office. Inside, she won her imaginary bet with no one. A deer head was mounted to the wall—a ten-point buck. A row of bookshelves lined with books about police procedure, several volumes on penal codes, DNA, crime scene analysis, investigation techniques and at least four on blood spatter analysis. She shuddered at the thought. He took his responsibility as a detective seriously as most of the copies had creased spines and looked well-used. Under the taxidermy buck, a desk sat along the far side with a laptop computer closed in the center; on the table, two folders labeled 4/20/2009 Cooper unsolved and 2007 Erikson unsolved. Those were cases, and she stepped back as if being near them was wrong; what was she thinking snooping in his stuff. She glanced around, he might have surveillance. No cameras in sight, but she walked upstairs anyway.

Upstairs, Rebecca settled on the couch with the blanket, another cup of coffee, and the television remote—might as well take advantage of satellite TV while she could. Over an hour later with a sappy chick-flick almost finished, the front door opened bringing in a burst of icy air and Weasel. He was soaking wet and filthy from head to toe. The bulletproof vest gone, but the outline of it on his shirt was close to exact.

“What on earth happened to you?” She rounded the sofa and stopped, realizing her state of dress. There she was his AC/DC t-shirt, panties, and socks.

“Nothing,” he replied. His eyes drifted over Rebecca’s body and landed on her bare legs and slid up as a mischievous grin lit his face. He deposited his keys and police equipment onto the bar dividing the kitchen from the living space.

She choked out a laugh. “Nothing? You’re covered in dirt…and dripping water all over the floor.” Why did she care? It wasn’t her flooring. He stared down as if only now noticing the total mess he was; then kicked his shoes off into the entryway. From there, he took off his shirt, dropped it, and stripped out of his soggy, muddy pants. Then, he added his underwear on top of the pile for good measure, apparently. Weasel stood there in the foyer buck naked with an erection. Rebecca shook her head, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Have you no shame?”

“What? I’m not dripping on the floor anymore.”

She laughed; he started toward her. To not stare at his exposed privates standing at attention, she noticed the bruises all over his torso. There were also scratches under a layer of soil down both arms, but one was worse. “Are you all right?” she asked running her fingers over his chest, inspecting the black and blue patches developing.

“Perfect,” he whispered, more focused on her than his injuries. His lips brushed her neck. She continued to inspect the bruising; swatting his grasp from her butt.

“You were in a fight.”

“You should see the other guy,” he quipped and worked to get under her shirt.

Deflecting his advances, she glared. “Did you roll through a thorn bush?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered kissing behind her ear.

She stepped back holding up his arm. “There are thorns sticking in your arm; you need to clean this or it will become infected.” She spun, tucking the limb under her armpit. “Tweezers?”

“Bathroom.”

Rebecca pulled him to the bathroom. In reality, he moved because he wanted to, not that she could move him by force. There, she kept him behind her, his arm trapped between her body and left bicep, and fished the tweezers from the drawer. She removed the thorns while alternating slapping his free hand down as it tried to wander up her shirt. Oh, for the love… His lips wandered over the side of her neck and nipped at her ear. “Will you let me finish this,” she laughed. In answer, his hand slipped past her defense and slid over her panties directly to its target. Her knees wobbled, and she inhaled sharply. In response, he kept doing it.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing.

She spun and pushed him toward the shower. “All of the thorns are out,” she said. He backed up with his hands sliding around her hips headed to grab her butt, pulling her with him. “Now get these scratches cleaned.” She whispered with their lips almost touching; she teased him with near kisses.

“You’re gonna have to help me with that,” his voice low. He inched forward, covering her mouth with his. The man knew how to kiss her; her body hummed.

She moved to the shower, and he followed. Once inside, she kept kissing him until he was under the shower head, and then she twisted the cold water knob and sent an icy deluge raining down on him. She took off running. Even on little sleep, wet, and naked, he had quick reflexes and caught her by the door. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, hauled her under the stream of chilly water, clothed, and she squealed. The shirt plastered to her, and that was the last pair of underwear she had in her bag. She howled in laughter. He stripped the soaked clothes and socks from her and pressed her to the wall with his powerful frame, and with another kiss, she quit laughing; the water falling warmed them.

Okay, so maybe they do this one more time.

Weasel started to lift her against the wall, but she stopped him. “Your side’s bruised.” He considered this; then turned her, taking her hands and putting them against the tile. “Brace yourself.” His voice was husky and commanding. He swept her long, wet hair over a shoulder, exposing the side of her neck; kissing a spot behind her ear and along her jaw while using a leg to widen her stance, he maneuvered her hips, and they both moaned when he entered. He went still. She wiggled to get the show started, but his grasp tightened to not let her move. “Shit,” he muttered, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…forgot the condom, babe. Sorry.” He groaned and pulled out, leaving his arms encircling her.

A man who stops on his own, admitting to forgetting a condom? That’s new. She wouldn’t have known. “Oh, I’m clean. And on the pill.” She’d gone straight to doctor after finding Kyle screwing some woman and gotten tested, and then insisted on retesting three and six months later. Everything had come back negative.

He kissed her. “I’m clean too.” He sighed, “But not on the pill.” She giggled, leaning against his chest.

“You might get knocked up.”

He smirked; his fingers wandering south. Gasping, she couldn’t believe that she was almost there, already. “If you’re okay with it, I’m willing to risk it.”