Page 43 of Sirens
She glanced over her shoulder at him, an impish grin playing on her lips. “Doing what, deputy?” she teased, feigning innocence while straightening up.
“Killing me, slowly,” he admitted with a rueful chuckle, closing the distance between them with two decisive strides. “We need to get out of here, or I’m gonna do something impulsive…like kiss you again.”
Instead of stepping back or showing any signs of reluctance, Maggie set down her phone camera with deliberate care and faced him fully, her green eyes alight with mischief. Without a word, she closed the remaining gap and pressed her lips firmly against his.
The world outside the basement seemed to vanish as the kiss deepened, their breaths mingling, the taste of her sending every other thought scattering. The deep freezer became a mere prop in the devastation of their passion.
Devouring her delicious mouth, Trent had no trouble finding the curves of her hips as he lifted her onto the deep freeze. The act was a dance of control and surrender, one he performed with a growing hunger.
Maggie made a soft noise of approval, encouraging him, parting her legs instinctively. Trent slid his hands up, pushing her skirt to bunch around her waist, and kissed her fiercely through the thin barrier of her leggings and panties. The heatand dampness he found there sent a jolt of desire through him, so intense it bordered on pain.
Trent groaned, possessive need coiling hot and tight in his gut. He wanted nothing more than to strip her bare and take her right here, hard and fast against the wall. Bent over the freezer with that sweet ass high in the air. But he forced himself to slow down, to gentle his kisses and ease the grip of his hands.
He sank to his knees before Maggie, gliding his hands up her bare thighs to grip her hips. Her skin was silky smooth under his palms, and he groaned at the scent of her arousal.
“Trent,” she whimpered, fingers gliding over his hair.
The sound of his name on her lips was his undoing. He buried his face between her thighs, licking and sucking at her clit until her moans rose in pitch and her hips bucked against his mouth.
He slid two fingers into her slick heat, crooking them just so, and Maggie came with a sharp cry that rang off the walls. Her inner muscles clutched at his fingers as her orgasm rolled through her in waves.
The silence of the room was quickly filled with a chorus of sighs and soft moans as Trent lavished attention on her with an eager tongue, tracing the contours of her desire with a reverence befitting the goddess beneath him. Each breathy whisper from Maggie echoed off the walls, creating an intimate symphony that felt sacred in the cool, musty air.
Maggie white-knuckled the edge of her perch as he rested her legs on his shoulders. She undulated, urging him closer, her hips rising to meet his mouth as waves of pleasure cascaded through her. The sound of her bliss, unrestrained and resonant, swirled around them, mingling with the scent of old wood and an age long forgotten.
Trent gentled his touch, laving at her until the tremors eased and her hands loosened their grip on the edge.
Only then did he raise his head, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
The sight of Maggie splayed out before him, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pleasure, was nearly enough to make him come in his pants.
As if reading his mind, she glanced down at his hips, her gaze widening and then glazing with a dark hunger.
Her questing fingers beat his own to his belt, wordlessly grappling with it.
Struggling for breath, Trent glanced over her shoulder and saw the one thing that could quell his lust faster than the ice bucket challenge.
Kiki Forrester stood in the doorway, one brow arched, arms folded over her chest.
Not only was the regal, forty-something indigenous woman the sheriff and his boss…
She was also the last woman he’d slept with.
EIGHT
Shake and Strain
TO POUR INGREDIENTS AND ICE INTO A SHAKER TIN TO SHAKE AND DRAIN THE LIQUID OUT OF THE TIN
“Kik—er, Sheriff Forrester.”
Not since her senior year at William Cullen Bryant High, when Mr. Hill had busted Tony Bianchi getting a blowie from the marching band’s student teacher in the woodwind closet, had Maggie seen someone get their pants buckled so quickly.
That it was McGarvey now behaving like he’d been caught with his hand—or other applicable piece of anatomy—in the cookie jar somehow made it considerably less entertaining.
That McGarvey was behaving this way while Maggie still sat with her knees wide enough to straddle a Clydesdale while a drop-dead gorgeous woman who looked like she might run triathlons for fun stood in the doorway?
That shit there brought a tsunami of scalding shame.
