Page 6 of The Policeman Bidder
Our mouths crash together like the thunder behind us, all heat and frustration and years of unsaid things. She tastes like rain and fire and something I've been starving for. I cup her face with both hands, thumbing the line of her jaw, and she melts into me like she was made to fit against my body. Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers threading through my hair and tugging in a way that makes me groan against her mouth.
I back her against the wooden post of the shelter, lifting her slightly so we're perfectly aligned, her softness pressed against my hardness. She makes a small, needy sound that nearly undoes me, and I explore her mouth more deeply, tasting, claiming, apologizing.
When I break the kiss, it's only because I want to look at her—need to see her face, to know this is real and not another dream that will leave me aching when I wake.
She's breathing hard. So am I.
Her lips are swollen, eyes dark with desire, cheeks flushed. She's never been more beautiful than in this moment, wild and disheveled and looking at me like she's seeing me for the first time.
And when she speaks, it's barely a whisper, a confession meant only for me.
"You're not the man I thought you were."
I brush a damp strand of hair from her cheek, letting my fingers linger against the warmth of her skin. "You have no idea who I am."
She lets out a shaky breath, her hands still resting against my chest where she can surely feel my heart hammering. "Then show me."
And if we weren't standing in a public shelter at the edge of a forest in the middle of a thunderstorm, I'd do exactly that. I'd lay her down and worship every inch of her until she forgot every reason she ever had to hate me.
But I'm a gentleman.Mostly.
So I kiss her again—slower this time, deeper—my hands framing her face like she's something precious, which she is. I pour everything I can't say yet into that kiss, and promise myself that tonight isn't the end of this.
It's the beginning.
Five
Junie
BythetimeWestonwalks me up to my front door, I'm soaked, half-dizzy from kissing, and dangerously close to forgetting every single reason I was supposed to stay mad at him.
The storm passed eventually, leaving behind a world washed clean and glistening. We hiked back to his truck in companionable silence, hands brushing occasionally, both of us smiling like teenagers who'd gotten away with something. The drive home was quiet too, but not uncomfortable—a different kind of quiet than before. A quiet filled with possibility rather than tension.
Now we stand on my porch, the setting sun painting everything in warm golden light. I should say goodnight. I should thank him for the donation to Roots & Wings. I should do anything except what I actually do.
I unlock the door with shaking hands.
"Come in," I say, barely above a whisper, not trusting my voice with anything louder.
He hesitates for half a second—just long enough to prove he's a decent guy—before stepping inside, closing the distance between us like he's been waiting for an invitation he wasn't sure would come.
The air between us is thick with anticipation. My damp sweater clings to my skin, and droplets of water still cling to his dark hair. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, then turns to face me with fire in his eyes.
"Junie," he says, voice low, rough with restraint, "tell me no if you don't want this."
I walk straight into him, eliminating the last few inches between us.
"No."
He blinks, confusion clouding his features. "No?"
"No, I don't want to tell you no," I clarify, feeling a smile tug at my lips.
He lets out a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then he's kissing me again—even deeper this time, hungry and reverent all at once. His hands slide into my damp hair, tilting my head back to give him better access as his tongue explores my mouth with thorough precision.
I feel the solid wall of his chest against mine, feel his hands sliding down my sides, patient and sure, like he's learning me by touch alone. His fingers find the hem of my sweater, hesitating there, asking permission without words.
"Yes," I breathe against his mouth, and when he lifts my sweater, I raise my arms obediently. It hits the floor with a wet plop, forgotten.
