Page 14 of Welker

Now, if she dropped her stubbornness and went with the flow, she’d get a chance to see his place up close and personal, which…

Fuck. What a nightmare. Living with him for any period of time wasn’t going to be easy.

Moira had two, distinct personas, both of which she’d maintained for years. She kept herself tightly buttoned up at work and while spending time in public, even holding aloof when attending SWAT’s after-hours gatherings. But when she got home to the safety of her own house, she always shook the prim-act loose; let her hair down, literally and figuratively, and forgot about her official duties and the face she normally showed the world.

If her teammates and colleagues ever saw her, at leisure, dancing barefoot to loud seventies music while cooking up recipes she earnestly copied from the chefs on TV, they’d probably shit bricks.

And now…?

Not having access to her safe space—her own home—she’d have to stay stuck in her public image for every minute she was bunking at Welker’s. And that was going to be a misery. Moira really enjoyed her down-time. It recharged her batteries, made her feel as if she wasn’t just going through the motions of living. But she certainly wouldn’t be comfortable letting her wild-side free around her LT. He got under her skin too much for that.

Right.

Like she didn’t know why that was.

Of course she did.

It was his persistence—unlike any other person of her acquaintance—teasing her like she was part of the gang, making sure she was included in everything, making her feel…normal.

Secretly—because she’d never let him know it—Moira liked the way he kept at her; that he wasn’t turned off by her taciturn ways. But that didn’t make him less, off-limits. Because he was a confirmed ladies-man.

That small reminder of the way Welker went through women, had Moira souring. His behavior was a hard, “no”, in her book.

Which also begged the question, how were their living arrangements going to work out for him? For her? If she was in his face for any period of time, he’d either have to curtail his extracurricular activities, or parade his bimbos by Moira on his way to fucking their brains out in his bedroom.

Unacceptable. It being highly reminiscent of her father.

If she were truly going to stay with him—and as far as she was concerned, the jury was still out on that one—some sort of agreement would have to be reached. Like…no fucking woman in the house while she was around.

She eyeballed Welker where he stood, talking to Mason, occasionally flashing that huge grin at the boss.

Moira bit back a huff. Yeah, the man’s smile was breathtaking. As were his grimaces, his goofy faces, and his occasional, thoughtful pondering look. If she were honest, there wasn’t a lot about the blond-haired, dark-eyed man that wasn’t pretty spectacular.

She didn’t want to notice him; didn’t want her eyes to track him when he wasn’t looking, but the man was gorgeous. Six-foot-two, with shoulders that were broad, hips compactly lean… And that intriguing scar down the side of his face he never spoke about, made him appear…rakish.

The full package.

Of course, Moira didn’t believe for an instant that she’d be on Welker’s desirable-female-radar. She’d seen the interest the gregarious man gleaned whenever the team went out in public. She’d witnessed the plethora of come-ons from the most beautiful of women. Which meant, as much as she agreed with that bottomless female populace about how compelling he was, there was absolutely zero chance Welker would ever look at her in a sexual way.

But did she want that? Moira chewed her lip. That was the question of the hour. And one she hadn’t asked herself very often in her thirty-four years.

From a very young age, she’d purposely made herself…sexless. It had been a necessity since a string of her father’s “friends” had begun hitting on her during her adolescence when her chest had expanded to proportions much larger than those of her similarly-aged schoolmates, and even much older girls. Dear old Dad hadn’t been interested in protecting her—or hadn’t ever noticed—so she’d used every tool in her young arsenal to make herself less appealing.

After a while, with her plain-Jane strategy firmly in place and working, Moira had, thereafter, found it easier to keep her asexual-like armor intact, than to deal with handsy assholes.

The only time she’d experimented with a different look, had been when she’d gained some confidence in college.

Not outing herself to her nice-enough roommate or her fellow classmates, she would occasionally and secretly don a dress she kept in her junker car, put on make-up, let her hair down, and…troll.

Yeah. She admitted it. She’d been hungry and…horny; needing to see to a new side of herself that had secretly thrilled her.

Her success rate had been pretty good, too, if she remembered correctly. She’d gotten phone numbers, dates, made out just enough to orgasm, and had even, eventually lost her virginity to a very nice guy from a neighboring school; a man with whom she still kept in touch via social media. Jory was a kind, intuitive nerd, who’d heard the story of her fucked-up childhood, and understood.

But alas, the physical relationship between them hadn’t produced very many sparks on either side, and they’d eventually parted as good friends when college was over, after which he moved to the west coast.

Jory was now happily married with a child on the way, and Moira was so pleased for him. She’d met his wife at their wedding, and the woman was perfect for her scholarly friend, not resenting his friendship with Moira at all, which had allowed their platonic relationship to happily continue, albeit remotely.

Moira had tried a few more sexual partners, post-Jory; but had returned to her wallflower philosophy as she went off into the big bad world. Jory was aware of that fact, lamenting constantly that she was a wonderful woman, and needed a good stiff dick between her thighs to bring her out of her doldrums.

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