He didn’t need to remind me that I had tackled and brought down a fleeing Simon Keyes, a memory that had me puffing my chest out a bit and demanding my bruised ego to get its act together.
The next morning at work, I asked Dale Lambert if I could have that vacation he had suggested to me a few days prior, and he gladly granted my request.
And so, here I am… sitting on Wyatt’s front porch, waiting for him to get home.
Bad idea, I tell myself again.
And for so many reasons.
First, Wyatt has done nothing to ever lead me to believe he would want to see me again. He flat out refused to come to my room that last night, knowing I was offering sex. Yes, that bruised my ego a bit, but since Kyle bucked me back up, I choose to believe it’s not because I’m not attractive to Wyatt, but rather that he has some misplaced sense of duty or morals that he believed were conflicting.
Fine… good enough reason I should stay away, but another very important reason why this is a bad idea swarms me with unease.
What if Wyatt is involved with someone? I’m sitting on his porch, waiting for him to get home from wherever he is—work, I assume—but the next person to pull into his driveway could be his girlfriend. Or worse yet, his wife.
While my gut tells me that Wyatt isn’t the type of guy that would have made me come with his mouth in the locker room of the Raleigh FBI field office if he was involved with someone, I can’t discount that it’s a slight possibility.
Finally… and probably the best reason of all, is that I’m not even sure what I’m hoping to accomplish by being here. Is he my rebound from David? Is this just sexual tension at its finest that needs to be popped and then we go our separate ways? Or are the feelings and connection I’ve imagined with this man real and need to be explored?
Yes, this is a bad, bad, bad idea and finally, my cowardice breaks through.
I stand up from the wicker chair and take one step away from it when I hear the crunch of car tires on gravel. My eyes raise and I see a champagne-colored Chevrolet Suburban pulling into the driveway. The windows are slightly tinted, but I can see through them clear enough to make out Wyatt’s handsome face semi-covered by his mirrored aviators.
This is it… do or die. No running now.
Wyatt pulls his vehicle up to the base of the long staircase that leads up to his front porch, which sits up high on the stilts that are typical of the beach cottages here on the Atlantic. He puts it in park and the engine shuts off, and for several painfully long moments, he just stares up at me.
I can’t see his eyes, but I feel the weight of his gaze on me behind those sunglasses. Nervously shoving my hands into the side pockets of the pale, blue sundress I’m wearing, I carefully rub them on the material at my thighs because they are nervously sweating.
Wyatt finally opens the driver’s door and steps out. He removes his sunglasses and tosses them on the front seat, now staring up at me with those clear, hazel eyes. I can’t read a damn thing on his face, but then again, he’s always been skilled at masking his emotions. He’s dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a light blue, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He’s more tan than when I saw him last, and he clearly just got off work as he’s still wearing his gun holster over his shoulders and his police badge is pinned to his hip.
So. Fucking. Gorgeous.
My mind starts spinning on what will be the first thing I should say. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting on his freakin’ porch for this long and don’t even have my speech planned out.
Panic flows through me as Wyatt starts walking to the staircase.
No, wait… stalking toward the staircase. Well… more of a prowl.
The minute his foot hits the bottom step, he starts bounding up them two at a time, his eyes pinning me in place.
He nears the top, and I take a step backward, but he keeps barreling at me. I try to take another step back when he reaches the porch, but then his hands are on my face. I catch the briefest glimpse of his eyes, which are blazing with heat, and then his mouth is on me.
Pushing me back, slamming his lips harder against me, he walks me right back into his front door. My momentum is halted, but his isn’t as he presses in closer to me and his tongue shoves its way into my mouth.
A feral groan tears out of his chest, and my arms go around his back in an unnecessary attempt to pull him closer to me.
Unnecessary because he pushes me hard into the door, while his hands continue to grip onto the sides of my head. His hips flex in and then grind against me… his cock already hard in his pants, and hot, molten lust almost brings me to my knees.
A guttural moan rumbles out of me as I tear my lips away from his. This only causes him to fist my hair and tug my head to the side so his mouth can move down my neck.
I moan again… harder, and one hand drops to the front of his pants so I can rub his erection.
Wyatt hisses against the skin on my neck and grinds his cock against my hand.
Then he’s kissing me again… one hand gone from my hair and fumbling inside the pocket of his pants for his keys. He never misses a beat, his tongue working me hard, his hips moving against me, and yet he still manages to unlock his door.
A quick twist of his knob and we’re practically falling through the door. Wyatt pushes me a few steps in, wraps his arm around my waist, kicks the door closed with his foot, and then lowers me right to carpeted living room floor.
I realize I have no clue what his cottage looks like because my eyes have been closed, and they flutter open during our downward descent. I briefly see the back of a navy blue couch with beige throw pillows and taupe paneled walls.