Page 208 of Hot Cops

The doorbell rang and she slipped on her strappy high heels. She loved the power the four extra inches of height inspired in her. She opened the door, anticipating Jarod’s face when he saw her.

What she didn’t expect washerreaction tohim.

He was wearing a button-down shirt and dress slacks, an outfit she’d previously considered the safest attire on earth. However, on Jarod, it made her think all sorts of nasty thoughts as she pictured herself in the role of a naughty schoolgirl to his conservative teacher. Or better yet, a slutty secretary to his firm, powerful boss.

“Hi,” she said, wondering where that breathless quality in her voice had come from. She sounded like a fool.

He walked inside, put down the bag he’d brought on the table by the door, took the two steps necessary to reach her and kissed her. Really and truly kissed her. Stephanie was beginning to get spoiled by his lips. One touch and they sent her spiraling into orbit.

He cupped her cheek as he pulled away. “You look fucking hot.”

She grinned, running her hand along his muscular chest. “So do you.”

He’d been in the apartment less than five minutes, and she was already prepared to move things along to the bedroom. Unfortunately, Jarod—the coldhearted bastard—had managed to cool off, stepping away as if completely unaffected by her kisses. He picked up the bag, pulling out a bottle of wine and a couple of candles. “For our dinner.”

She wondered how he’d react if she shoved the wine and the candles up his ass. Forcing herself to take a calming breath, she focused on the task at hand. It was still early in the evening, and she had plenty of tricks up her sleeve.

Her cat appeared from behind the sofa and came to investigate.

“And who is this?” Jarod asked.

“My naughty baby girl, Heineken.”

“Heineken?”

“I call her Heinie for short.”

She was pleased when Jarod bent over to pick up her cat, scratching Heineken between the ears. Before long, her kitty was purring, and she wondered if there was any female—human or otherwise—who could resist the hot cop.

“Thanks for the dinner invite.”

His words drew her attention away from his strong fingers stroking Heinie’s fur. She was actually starting to get jealous of her own damn cat. “Speaking of dinner, I need to go check on the baked spaghetti.”

He followed her to the kitchen. “Smells delicious. Garlic bread too?”

“Would I forget that?” They’d recently discovered their shared love of garlic, joking that if they both ate it, they wouldn’t have to worry about bad breath. “I still need to make the salad.”

“Let me help.” Jarod washed his hands then grabbed the head of lettuce, cleaning it in the sink. Stephanie hit Pandora on her phone and sent the music to her Bluetooth speakers. They prepared the salad in companionable silence. When Jimmy Buffett’sVolcanostarted playing, Jarod took her hands, spinning her around the kitchen in an old-fashioned dance, both of them singing along. As the song ended, he dipped her, giving her a quick kiss before releasing her.

Just like that, she was on fire. And once again, Jarod regained control in an instant. If this night didn’t end with him in her bed, fucking her senseless, she’d kill him. It was as simple as that.

The oven timer beeped. She dished up the spaghetti and garlic bread while Jarod set the dining room table. When she carried out their plates, she was surprised to see he’d lit the candles he’d brought, dimming the lights.

There was no other word to describe the room. It was romantic.

Jarod fiddled with her phone until he found Adele. A slow, sultry tune completed the effect. Damn him, it was perfect.

As they ate, they talked about concerts they’d attended. Stephanie was a diehard Parrothead, and Jarod laughed as she described the tailgate parties prior to Buffett’s shows—complete with topless lifeguard stands and body shots.

His taste in music ran to classic rock. He’d seen Black Sabbath, Santana and Foreigner. She rolled her eyes when he actually bragged about attending a Bon Jovi concert.

“Oh my God. You can’t seriously think that’s cool.”

He raised an eyebrow. “First of all, I really like their stuff, and secondly, this criticism is coming from a woman whose idea of concert cool is Hawaiian shirts, grass skirts and leis.”

“Whatever,” she said, grinning widely at his jest.

After dinner, Jarod helped her clean up, loading the dishwasher as she wiped off the table and counters. He poured the last two glasses of wine from the bottle, handing one to her.

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