Page 7 of At Her Pleasure

Her gaze lifted, met his. Ignoring the mags and the gun, she retrieved the sheathed knife and hooked it back into her waistband beneath the hem of the shirt. The move gave him another glimpse of her pale flesh.

She brought the rest back to him. “Pull out your flashlight and shine it on your chest so I can see what I’m doing.”

Before he complied, he moved the belt and holster to his other side. She was opening the kit, but she noticed. “Damn, I was planning on shooting you after I finished stitching you up. Way to thwart my evil plan.”

Her mild tone was a contrast to her intent gaze as she lifted the tissue forceps, used the needle holder to pick up the curved sharp, and went to work.

She stitched him up as efficiently as any paramedic he’d seen. His flashlight hand twitched a little with the first needle insertion. As he felt her attention, watching how he handled pain, her interested look made things tighten in him, lower down.

The shadows covered it, or at least he thought they did. When she finished up and set the suturing tools aside, she put her palm firmly over his erection.

His head came up and their eyes locked. She pressed against his cock, fingers curving over it through those damnably thick uniform pants. “You like the pain.” Her voice was oddly flat. Lips parted. Moist. He could feel the heat of her breath. See her teeth. His arm throbbed where she’d bitten him.

He saw no need for anything but raw honesty. “I like taking the pain a woman can give out.”

“What would you have done if you’d won the fight?”

“Whatever you wanted.”

She swallowed, drawing his gaze to her throat. For the first time, he saw confusion in her beautiful dark eyes. As he’d suspected, what was there wasn’t yet mature enough to acknowledge what he was voicing, but something deep in her understood. He wondered if she’d live long enough, or have enough of her spirit survive, to learn what to do with it.

He wanted that to happen.

She returned to tending him. He grimaced as she applied the antiseptic and taped bandages in place. Thanks to the length of the cut, it took two of the large squares. When she was done, he rose. He wasn’t lightheaded, which meant his blood loss had been minimal. His steadiness seemed to reassure her, too.

“Pack up your shit,” he said. “My mealtime’s about over and I need to show you something.”

He stripped off the ruined tank, put his uniform shirt back on, tucked it in, and hooked his belt in place. But as his gaze went up the hill, he thought of something else. He’d make time for it, even if his sergeant gave him shit about pushing the limits of dinner break. “Hold on. Don’t leave. I’m going to the caretaker’s shed.”

He strode away. She might ignore him and ghost, but he was still going to do what he intended. At the shed, he picked up the rusted sledgehammer next to the old wheelbarrow. When he started to shoulder it, the stitches pulled against his raw flesh, so he gripped the neck and handle and carried it in front of him.

She’d get pissed if he tore them.

When he came back, she was still at the dried-up pond, though she’d packed up her bag and had it hanging on her shoulder. As he headed toward the gravestones, she came up the hill to join him. She stopped at the smaller one, watching him with wide eyes. He was grimly pleased to do this, to show her how he could put his strength into her service. He paused long enough for her to see his intent, to tell him no, if it wasn’t what she wanted.

Instead, she squatted on her heels and put her arms around the stone again. He saw enough of it to read the name Cissy, and a birth and death date that said she’d died in her teens. A sister, he assumed, because of the proximity to the mother’s grave.

He gauged the distance was enough to keep the girl safe from flying debris, then swung the sledgehammer.

He modified the stroke to protect the stitches, but he was going to do the damage needed. He was destroying more than stone here. In three swings, he turned the larger headstone to rubble. He didn’t look at the name.

“Will anyone replace it?” His voice was rough, thick.

She shook her head. A blinding mix of emotions possessed her countenance. It was like staring into the sun until his head ached and his eyes ran with tears. The pain beyond her rage made her look incredibly vulnerable. Artemis standing over the fallen.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly. “Let me show you what I wanted to show you.”

He headed toward his car. A glance back confirmed she hadn’t moved. She was staring at the remains of the gravestone. He stopped and waited for her.

After a few moments, she lifted her gaze to him. Her face had gone back to that neutral mask, her eyes unfathomable. She moved in his direction.

When they reached his car, he opened the passenger door for her. “I prefer to drive,” she told him.

“Sorry, only cops get to drive cop cars. Be happy you’re riding in front.”

She settled into the seat with a sniff, her arms around the backpack. But as he circled around, she leaned forward and pushed the siren button, giving him a wicked look as the noise nearly shattered his ear drums and blue lights flashed in his eyes. He got in, giving her a reproving look, and switched them off. He wanted to smile, but the light had shown him the hollows in her cheeks, the feral animal look.

A mysterious and strong young woman, but a hungry and poor one. Probably a breath away from being another ToyBoy or Balloon.

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