Page 211 of Come Back to Me

He cups my cheeks and draws me nearer, only stopping when his lips brush mine.

I’ll admit to kissing a lot of frogs in my time—Dion being the douchiest of them all—but there’s something about Cody’s kisses. They’re better than tequila, stronger than caffeine, sweeter than Harry’s butter tarts (sansspit), and more addictive than nicotine.

Channel Pigeonberry energy drink but make it intravenous and you’re not even close to describing the effects his lips have on me.

With a deep sigh, I slide my arms around his waist and hold him tight.

Despite his assurance that he was telling me the truth about the dangers he just faced, I don’t hold much stock in his reaction. The man watched his best friend explode in an aircraft—what the hell is some shootout in the back end of nowhere?

Marty and Dion puked, so the scene was grizzly enough to trigger a heavy response in someone who hadn’t already dealt with so much worse.

My heart hurts for him—that he’s so desensitized. What do we do to our people? Sending them off to warzones, expecting them to come back normal, and not giving them the help they deserve after the sacrifices they made?

My thoughts disintegrate when he spears his tongue into my mouth, stroking it along mine until we’re doing that thing he taught me—a mutual stroking.

So hot.

It’s like when his dick’s inside me, only not as good.

But still yum.

Better than another guy’s fingers on my clit.

When he twists us around so that I’m the one leaning against the desk, I groan as he yanks me higher, until I’m sitting on the edge.

When he rejoins me, I can’t stop myself from reaching between us to stroke his cock through his pants.

“Fuck, what you do to me, Tee!” he hisses, dropping the kiss for a scant handful of seconds.

But he doesn’t let me answer. He’s too busyshowingme what I do to him.

As he fucks my mouth, I keen, starved for him even as he’s here, his hands on me, his body towering over mine.

I rock back on the table, relieved when he follows. As his weight settles above me, his dick finds its home with perfectaccuracy. One second, my clit has no contact, the next it’s got everything it needs to go off like a rocket.

He grinds into me, rocking harder and faster, thrusting. The friction and the pressure and the heat has me grabbing a hold of his head and yanking at his hair as he swallows my cries.

One second, I’m inches away from coming, far enough over the brink that my heart’s about to burst, the next he’s off me, tugging my perplexed self upright, and he’s shoving me away from the desk.

Before I can so much as blink in bewilderment (grrr, I was so frickin’ close too), he’s yelling hoarsely, “Come in.”

“Boss,” Dion grumbles. “Reilly wants to talk to you in his office.”

It’s a testament to how much I piss Dion off by breathing that he doesn’t even glance my way.

And he proves how much of a crappy cop he is because he doesn’t even check out Cody’s wild hair or kiss-sore lips. If anything, he looks like he needs to take a shit.

(Constipated much?)

“Tell the old bastard I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Cody snipes.

Dion smirks. “Can I use those words?”

That earns him a grin, but Cody flicks his hand, and Dion takes it for the dismissal it is.

As soon as the door shuts, he turns on me and drags me against him, tightening his arms around my waist.

“That was close,” I rasp, realizing that I didn’t care if we were caught.

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