She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “But it’s so…messy. Imperfect.”
I comb through her silky hair so it cascades down her back. “Doesn’t make the journey any less beautiful.”
Her lashes flutter closed as she leans in to kiss me. The plush softness of her lips is as intoxicating as her body’s heat and the way her lean, strong thighs hug mine. I’m beginning to think this is how it’s always going to be with Linnea Whittaker. The more of her I get, the more I want. The more she shares of herself, the more I’m willing to show her a few imperfect messes of my own.
I caress down her back and cup her ass. She rolls her hips, grinding herself against me. Thanks to the extra friction from the zipper of my fly and the thin dress pants she’s wearing, every wandering thought gets automatically rerouted to my dick. I can almost imagine us naked, and maybe it’s the forbidden nature of it all that’s extra hot. Making out with my coworker in the middle of a workday—in my work truck of all places—isn’t exactly model behavior.
Though just like with anything related to Linnea, I don’t give a fuck about rules.
Her little tongue flicks out, soft and wet. I slip past her lips, savoring her needy groan and her soft breasts brushing against my chest. I wish I could undress her right here, suck on her perfect tits while she rides me. Flip her to all fours and make use of this bench seat. Or lay her on her back and devour her until she comes undone.
“Oh fuck.” I break from her kiss to try to stave off the chain reaction, my shock and embarrassment and desire like a ball of fire inside me. “Baby,” I grit out right as she gives a slow roll of her hips, snapping that final thread of my control. I bury my face in her neck and thrust against her, erupting inside the tight confines of my briefs.
She eases back, delight and surprise written all over her face. “Did you just…?”
Resting my head against the seat rest, I blink up at the ceiling. “Come in my pants like a horny teenager? Yes.”
She leans down to kiss my neck. “That’s kind of hot.”
I caress down her silky hair and laugh. It’s that or cry. “I’m glad you think so.”
She kisses up to my ear and gently sucks, and even though I’ve just blown my load, awareness prickles the base of my spine.
“Is that, uh, normal for you?”
“No.” I wrap my arms around her and bury my nose in her hair. “It’s you. That fiery passion of yours. The way you share what’s in your heart. The trust you’re offering me. Do you realize how fucking amazing you are?”
She leans back and kisses me gently. “No, but you make me want to believe it.”
I clean up the best I can in the biting cold next to the truck and put on a new uniform from my gear bag.
When I pull into HQ’s parking lot, kissing her feels risky but I lean over and do it anyway.
“Thanks again for the picnic.” Linnea jumps down before I can hop out and open her door for her, shooting me a cheeky smile before shutting it and heading inside, her long hair blowing in the north wind.
All afternoon while checking limits on the Lower Bitterroot, I can’t stop thinking about her and what a beautiful, imperfect mess we’re making together.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thursday morning,CJ and I are team teaching a snowmobile safety class when I get a text from Zach asking me to call him. I cock my head toward the back door, and CJ nods, so I slip out of the rec center to the frozen grass area outside.
“Official autopsy results from Samantha Bowen,” Zach says over the hum of his cruiser in the background. “She was held under until she drowned, then they used a marine-grade rope around her wrists and ankles?—”
“Can we skip this part?” I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Right. Sorry.” He huffs a tight sigh. “No DNA under her nails thanks to the lake, but it’s clear she fought her attacker. Enough to have left a mark. Maybe even scars.”
Interesting but two years is a long time for a wound to heal.
“The ME also found evidence of malnutrition,” Zach continues. “Coupled with the rate of decomp in the lake, he thinks she was held captive for a period of time before they killed her.”
“Jesus.” I force images of a scared and imprisoned Samantha Bowen from my mind. “Wait. They? As in plural?”
“ME found hair samples on her body. Two separate profiles.”
My skin goes cold. I have a pretty good idea what type of hair he’s talking about, and what it means. Samantha was harmed, possibly repeatedly, as well as starved, before they murdered her. “Any hits from the DNA database?”
“No, but…” He huffs again. “Remember that trailer we think Sons of Eden is using for trafficking?”