Page 4 of At Her Pleasure

She was a scrapper, but that didn’t tell him what her actual fighting skills were. His training, not to mention his weight and height, might mean he really couldn’t offer her a fair fight. But she didn’t look like she felt that way.

In this world, a woman with her looks hooked up with someone for protection. He’d bet good money she hadn’t done that.

He took a measured moment to reconsider his actions, to acknowledge if he ended up dead from being this much of an idiot, he deserved it. Then he cut the zip tie, stood and backed away. “Get up.”

As she rolled to her knees and stood, he kept his eyes on her and clicked the button on his radio. “65 Adam. 10-85, situation resolved. No arrest made. I’m going on dinner break, 10-63.”

“Roger 65 Adam. Dinner break confirmed.”

Her eyes were wary, but interested. Behind a whole wall of distrust. Still no fear.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he said. “Do you want a fair fight?”

“What’s my other option?”

“Get your ass home. Or I haul you in on trespassing and drunk and disorderly conduct.”

A sneer. “I’m not drunk. What are you calling a fair fight?”

“Hand to hand, whoever pins the other for eight seconds. Like a rodeo. No hitting in the face or genitals. Everything else fair game.”

“You can follow those rules. I won’t. It’s not a real fight if there are rules.”

“Winning a fair fight means you can respect your opponent when it’s over.”

“Respect is like ruffles on a dress.” She barked out a laugh. “Worthless and pretty. Much like you.”

His lips quirked. “You think I’m pretty. Be still my heart. Is this fight happening or not?”

She didn’t move, so he took that as a yes. He unholstered his Glock to drop out the mag, then re-holstered it and unhooked his belt. He set it aside, pocketing the mag in his trousers before he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Her eyes went to daggers. “Is this how you get bitches to fuck you? You get me pinned down, cop, and try to put your dick anywhere, I will tear it out by the root and—”

“Stop.” His growl brought her up short. “This isn’t about that. You have my word. If I get blood on my shirt, I have to explain it.”

“So what are the stakes?” she asked.

“Just a fair fight. Whoever wins, you go home. I go home. That’s it. Unless you’ll let me buy you a sandwich and a cup of coffee. You look like you could use it.”

When she gave him that scornful look rather than an answer, he left that hanging, and nodded down the slope beside them, toward a scrubby patch of grass, a shallow pit that had once been a gazing pool. “We’ll go there.”

“What’s wrong with here?”

He glanced toward the smaller gravestone. “This will get rough. We don’t want to trample her grave. Right?”

Her gaze flickered. Despite her disdainful expression, he also noted her eyes coursing over his shoulders, bared by the tank beneath his uniform shirt. He knew he was pleasing to a woman’s eye, even without the uniform’s appeal.

“Pretty enough for you?” he asked.

“Get over yourself, fuckhead.”

He almost laughed. His ever-present restlessness was a form of claustrophobia, and this bit of craziness he was indulging in with an angry, savage girl felt like he was breaking out. Hell, he was putting his job on the line here. Might as well enjoy the torching of his police career.

He gave them both one more chance, though. “So what’ll it be? You going to get on home, or you want a chance to kick my ass?”

“When I win, you give me back my knife.”

When. His lips twitched. “Long as you don’t try to use it on me. You do, you’re going to jail.”

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