“You didn’t have training, Ryn,” he told her gently. “You were shopping one second with your girls and in a hail of bullets the next. Let yourself react to that. And if your reaction includes wanting me to stay close for a while, I’m not gonna think that’s clingy or needy. I’m not gonna have an issue with that at all. Because I understand it seeing as it’s natural.”
“So, all right, first thing in the morning heavy landing on us, the thing is, Boone, I like you and I want you to like me. And I do not feel it’s conducive to that happening when our first date happened on my couch, and it was a great one, and then I land a bunch of crap on you because my life’s a mess, which might make you think I’m a mess.”
Christ.
She thought them lying on a couch, eating fried chicken, chunks of big cookie, cuddling and watching TV was a great date.
She was right.
She was also as into him as he was into her.
And this was spectacular.
“And I’m not a mess,” she carried on. “My mom taught me to be self-sufficient and—”
He rolled them so she was on her back, he was pressed down her side, and his face was in hers.
“You thought our couch date was a great one?” he asked quietly.
She sucked her lips in between her teeth.
He grinned down at her and dipped his face closer. “You thought right, sweetheart. It was a great one.”
“Boone,” she whispered.
Her face that close, her mouth that close, her soft body under his, in her bed, with her lips forming his name, shit.
He’d already decided they’d fuck mostly vanilla in her bed because there was no way to tie her to the headboard.
His bed was where they’d do their serious play.
First go here, he’d take it slow.
First go when he went at her, he’d tie her down and eat her until she begged to come, and then he’d fuck her until she couldn’t stop coming.
“Boone,” she whispered again, there was a nuance of change, because with his thoughts, and her right there, he was getting hard again, and with his cock pressed to her hip, she didn’t miss it.
“Suffice it to say, I don’t think you’re a clingy, needy mess,” he muttered.
Her hands came to his body, drifting lightly, which was awesome, and dangerous.
“I’m all of a sudden not at one with my decree to take this slow,” she said, her gaze on his mouth.
Fuck, he wanted to hold her down and kiss her until he could smell her wet.
He dipped closer. “Good morning kiss and that’s it. Then brunch.”
“Boone—”
He put his mouth to hers. “That’s all you get, baby.”
He felt her lips move, saw her eyes pout, and his dick got even harder because there it was.
She was a brat.
Fuck yeah.
He slanted his head to take her mouth right when there was a knock on the door.
Her body stirred a little against his in surprise.
He lifted his head and looked toward the door.
Right.
No.
He knew what this was.
He’d told his bud Axl he was going to Ryn’s and there was a thing. A thing they’d inherited from the Rock Chicks. Lottie’s sister’s posse, consisting entirely of a bunch of crazy women, the only difference in that was the level of crazy each one was.
Proof positive of this crazy, the Fuck Pool.
He’d been in when they did it to Mag and Evie.
But starting a pool on when he and Ryn were gonna get down to business and members of his crew, Ryn’s gang, or the Rock Chick posse were not going to fuck with them in order to delay the inevitable so it might hit on the day they’d put money down for it in the pool.
They were going to do it when they did it without anyone banging on the goddamned door to stop them.
“I’ll take care of this,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked.
He looked down at her. “The Fuck Pool.”
“Oh,” she mumbled, and he knew she knew about it when it looked like she’d laugh.
Another knock came at the door and he was guessing one of his boys, because it was a loud, not-to-be-denied cop knock.
None of them were cops.
All of them were veteran soldiers who now worked domestic civilian contracts for Hawk Delgado.
So they’d all had occasion to use that knock.
“This isn’t funny,” he told her, shifting away from her.
“It’s kinda funny.”
He gave her a look as he put his feet on her sheepskin rug.
He was right.
It felt as good in the morning as before he climbed into her bed.
Another knock came when he was yanking up his jeans.
He nabbed his shirt and headed to the door, shouting, “Cut it out! I’m coming!”
He was still pulling on his shirt when the window in her door came into view, and he saw through the curtain two bodies in the vestibule that led outside.
These bodies did not belong to his crew, her crew, the Nightingale crew (who were all hooked up to the Rock Chicks) or even outliers. Like members of the Chaos Motorcycle Club (who were allies, and in Boone’s case, since he was tight with Joker and Snapper, buds).
He unlocked the door and opened it.
Cop knock because they were cops.
Plainclothes.
But he could smell it on them.
Though there was something off about the scent.
“Is this the residence of Kathryn Jansen?” the one in front asked.
“Who’s asking?” he returned.
They both pulled out badges.
He studied them closely and made a “hup” noise when they moved to stow them before he was done memorizing the badge numbers.
They seemed impatient with this, but Boone did what he had to do before he looked between them and asked, “What’s your business with Ryn?”
The one in front was spokesman.
“Is she home?”
“I’ll repeat, what’s your business with Ryn?” he said.
This time, the one behind spoke up.
“Corinne Morton was found dead last night. Homicide.”
Corinne Morton.
Cisco’s attorney.
And the person who set Ryn up for a chat with the guy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“It was reported by her husband that Kathryn Jansen is an acquaintance and she was at their home two nights ago. That’s what this is about,” the guy in back said.
No, what it was about was that husband shared Ryn had a chat with Cisco in Corinne Morton’s house two nights ago, something Cisco asked Morton to arrange.
“Names,” Boone grunted.
“Detective Mueller,” front guy said.
“Bogart,” back guy said.
“Straight through to the living room,” he instructed. “I’ll get her.”
He opened the door farther, but stepped the other way, so he was blocking the hall to her bedroom, which had its door at the end.
Him doing this didn’t stop both men trying to see past him as they moved in.
When they were through, he closed and locked the door, checked they stopped in the living room, and turned to hoof it down the hall.
She was standing in the door, nightie gone, and thank fuck she didn’t put on those seriously sweet, but also seriously sexy-short cutoffs. She had on a pair of joggers that ended just below her calves and were camo, except the camo was tans and beiges and pinks. She’d pulled on a tight pink tank up top under which she had a bra.