Page 7 of Swept for Forever
I didn’t take women home if I could help it. It was easier this way. Cleaner. No awkward goodbyes at my door, no lingering looks like they were memorizing the space for next time.
There wouldn’t be a next time.
I blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling, my shoulder still sore from last night. I’d spent way too long throwing darts with a woman who refused to quit. One round turning into three, then five, then…
Well. Here we were.
The bed shifted beside me. “You’re up already?” A dawdling sigh followed.
I glanced over. She was watching me, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, her lips curved in a sleepy smile.
“Old habit,” I murmured, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
She stretched, arms overhead, making no move to cover herself.
“How come we’ve never done this before?” she said.
“Because I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
She laughed. “Dom. How many times have I saved your ass?”
“Plenty.”
“So basically, you’re telling me that either we stop working together, or this doesn’t happen again. And I can’t see either one being realistic.”
I kissed her forehead. Susan Nolan. She was quick with a joke and hell on cross-examination. A forensic expert who’d pulled my cases back from the brink more times than I could count. Smart. Capable. And as I’d just learned, very good in bed.
But I’d meant what I said. I didn’t mix business with pleasure.
“You should stay for breakfast,” she said. “We could grab a drink later this week.”
The words were casual, but there was a flicker of something else there.
I trailed my fingers along her bare shoulder before pulling back. “Susan, you’re incredible.” I met her eyes. “But I don’t do encores.”
She let out a short, resigned laugh. “Dang. Is this your idea of charm? Because it’s working. Barely.”
She sat up, dragging the sheet over herself. Her thighs pressed together like she could still feel me there, maybe craving another taste. But she shook her head as if she knew this was coming.
I never lied. I never sold them a dream, never promised anything past the morning after. They always knew the score.
She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Your loss, Powell.”
I grinned, grabbing my jacket from the chair. “I know. But I’ve got to take care of my heart.”
“You don’t strike me as a man who gets his heart broken.”
“I don’t.” I shrugged into my jacket. “But I’ve had it stop on me before.”
Her brow creased. “Wait—serious?”
I didn’t explain.
Women didn’t break my heart. Cases did. The late nights, courtroom marathons that bled from weeks into months, and coffee strong enough to wake a corpse. I’d burned myself out too fast.
Three years ago, at thirty, I had a heart attack.
Propped on one elbow, she studied me for a second. “You still haven’t answered about mixing business with pleasure. Are we done working together? DNA pulls? Reading traces no one else can? You know you’re screwed if I switch sides.” Then, with a wicked grin, she let the sheet slip from her shoulders. “And as for the pleasure part…we both know you can’t resist me.”
