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Authors: Robyn Peterman
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at me spastically.
“Thanks guys.” I grabbed Mr. Hot Cop by the hand and dragged him away before my little friends started informing all who wanted to hear how they were “connected.”
His big hand was warm and slightly calloused. He was as stunned as I was that I’d grabbed him. I tried to extricate my hand, but he held on tight and led me out of the building. Little shocks vibrated through my body and I cursed the situation. Why do I have to have the hots for an undercover detective who is carting me off to jail?
We walked out in to the subzero temps and directly to a waiting car. He was parked illegally in front of WMNS. He politely opened the front passenger door of his vehicle and waited for me to get in.
“Aren’t you supposed to put me in the back, in case I try to kill you or something?” I asked, trying to recall the procedures on Law & Order.
“Just get in the car, Rena,” he said gruffly.
I did. He was arresting me and all I could think about was what his lips would taste like and if he could bench-press me. And his butt . . . oh my God, what a butt. It was even better than my neighbor’s. Talk about inappropriate thoughts. He got in, started the engine, and we began our twenty-five-minute drive to hell.
I felt him staring as I kept my eyes trained ahead. Why, why, why couldn’t I have met him somewhere else? Anywhere else. Every so often I peeked over and had mini orgasms at the way his thigh muscles were flexing in his jeans.
“May I ask you a question?” my evil captor inquired. Damn, his eyes were pretty.
“Is this the stuff that can and will be held against me before I’m thrown in the pokey?”
He laughed and shook his head, “No, Rena, it’s off the record.”
God, the way he said my name made me lose brain cells. Did I have that disease that kidnap victims get? The one where they get the hots for their abductors? Of course he wasn’t a kidnapper and I was a soon to be convicted felon . . . not a good first date and definitely not a good way to start a meaningful relationship or even a meaningless night of debauched sex. I couldn’t stop imagining the strong hands gripping the steering wheel, gripping my butt. Shit.
“Is off the record legal?”
“Nope, but you can trust me.”
“Why should I trust you?”
He looked over and shrugged. “Something seems a little off about all this.”
Hmm, what did I have to lose? Maybe if I could explain my predicament, he might let me go . . . “Okay, well, seeing as how I’m leaning toward a life of crime, I may as well take you down with me.”
“You may as well,” he grinned.
My tummy flipped and for one brief moment I considered throwing him against the car door and crawling on top of him. Thankfully I had my seat belt on. It stopped my involuntary forward motion and reminded me to ignore my inner slut. It also stopped me from causing an accident . . . he was driving, for God’s sake. I had a really hard time believing this was standard police procedure, but he was so cute and how much more trouble could I get myself into?
My Prince Charming continued, “Why were you at the news station when you have a restraining order against you?”
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to massage her boobs.”
“I’m sorry, what?” He pulled the car over, turned it off, and stared at me.
“That didn’t come out exactly right,” I muttered as he continued to gape at me like I was insane. I took a huge breath and let her rip. “My car died because I didn’t put oil in it, and I need a new car because I’m driving my Aunt Phyllis’s butt-ass-ugly clunker with little green men living in the gas tank. I’m an accountant, but I joined a group of seventy-year-old women who write porno. You know, butt plugs and furry handcuffs and edible body suits . . . I have no talent as a writer, but lack of talent has never scared me. So as it turns out, I do have a talent for coming up with hideous ideas for romance novels and there’s
“Thanks guys.” I grabbed Mr. Hot Cop by the hand and dragged him away before my little friends started informing all who wanted to hear how they were “connected.”
His big hand was warm and slightly calloused. He was as stunned as I was that I’d grabbed him. I tried to extricate my hand, but he held on tight and led me out of the building. Little shocks vibrated through my body and I cursed the situation. Why do I have to have the hots for an undercover detective who is carting me off to jail?
We walked out in to the subzero temps and directly to a waiting car. He was parked illegally in front of WMNS. He politely opened the front passenger door of his vehicle and waited for me to get in.
“Aren’t you supposed to put me in the back, in case I try to kill you or something?” I asked, trying to recall the procedures on Law & Order.
“Just get in the car, Rena,” he said gruffly.
I did. He was arresting me and all I could think about was what his lips would taste like and if he could bench-press me. And his butt . . . oh my God, what a butt. It was even better than my neighbor’s. Talk about inappropriate thoughts. He got in, started the engine, and we began our twenty-five-minute drive to hell.
I felt him staring as I kept my eyes trained ahead. Why, why, why couldn’t I have met him somewhere else? Anywhere else. Every so often I peeked over and had mini orgasms at the way his thigh muscles were flexing in his jeans.
“May I ask you a question?” my evil captor inquired. Damn, his eyes were pretty.
“Is this the stuff that can and will be held against me before I’m thrown in the pokey?”
He laughed and shook his head, “No, Rena, it’s off the record.”
God, the way he said my name made me lose brain cells. Did I have that disease that kidnap victims get? The one where they get the hots for their abductors? Of course he wasn’t a kidnapper and I was a soon to be convicted felon . . . not a good first date and definitely not a good way to start a meaningful relationship or even a meaningless night of debauched sex. I couldn’t stop imagining the strong hands gripping the steering wheel, gripping my butt. Shit.
“Is off the record legal?”
“Nope, but you can trust me.”
“Why should I trust you?”
He looked over and shrugged. “Something seems a little off about all this.”
Hmm, what did I have to lose? Maybe if I could explain my predicament, he might let me go . . . “Okay, well, seeing as how I’m leaning toward a life of crime, I may as well take you down with me.”
“You may as well,” he grinned.
My tummy flipped and for one brief moment I considered throwing him against the car door and crawling on top of him. Thankfully I had my seat belt on. It stopped my involuntary forward motion and reminded me to ignore my inner slut. It also stopped me from causing an accident . . . he was driving, for God’s sake. I had a really hard time believing this was standard police procedure, but he was so cute and how much more trouble could I get myself into?
My Prince Charming continued, “Why were you at the news station when you have a restraining order against you?”
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to massage her boobs.”
“I’m sorry, what?” He pulled the car over, turned it off, and stared at me.
“That didn’t come out exactly right,” I muttered as he continued to gape at me like I was insane. I took a huge breath and let her rip. “My car died because I didn’t put oil in it, and I need a new car because I’m driving my Aunt Phyllis’s butt-ass-ugly clunker with little green men living in the gas tank. I’m an accountant, but I joined a group of seventy-year-old women who write porno. You know, butt plugs and furry handcuffs and edible body suits . . . I have no talent as a writer, but lack of talent has never scared me. So as it turns out, I do have a talent for coming up with hideous ideas for romance novels and there’s
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