“Are you alone, Officer Keenan?”

He nodded and she pushed past him and into his apartment. Clearly one of them had to make the first move or she’d be at the front door forever.

In the middle of his living room she turned to face him as he closed the door. “Want a beer? I brought a few.”

“Make yourself at home.” His lips twisted in a sarcastic smile and she liked it. He had spirit.

She put the beer on the table and bent at the waist to untie her boots before taking them off. “I wish we had hardwood floors.” She sashayed past him and put her boots next to his at the front door. Instead of moving back into the living room, she leaned against the wall in the entry hall where he stood.

“Why are you here?” he asked. Not hostile. Wary. Curious.

“I’m a very blunt woman.” Her reply was a challenge, and he barked a quick laugh, deep and husky. Lord.

“I’ve noticed.”

“I know. Every night when I get home from work.” Take that.

The air thickened with tension as they took each other in. He wore a cotton T-shirt—ugh Toby Keith. Still, her revulsion tempered as she meandered south and saw the taper of a slim waist and thick thighs covered in worn denim. Dirty denim. She’d always thought the term was stupid until she looked at the nearly threadbare spot over his fly and never felt dirtier. His c**k strained at the material and it was her he stood at attention for. A particularly vivid impulse to drop to her knees and suck him off right then and there sped her pulse.

“So?”

His voice brought her back, her gaze moving to his face. That sexy evening stubble gleamed in the low light from the lamp in the other room.

“I’m here because I want you. I think you want me too.” She toyed with the button on her jeans as her ni**les pressed wantonly through the material of her own T-shirt. PJ Harvey. Probably gave him the same mental lip curl Toby Keith gave her. Good god, if they did f**k, it was going to be all teeth and nails and feral action.

A shiver worked through her at the thought.

She what? Todd drank in the sight of her. Leaning indolently against his wall, her br**sts offered toward him with the arch of her stance, she shouldn’t have been so ridiculously hot but she was. Presented like a gift.

He couldn’t find fault with the tight ni**les on what appeared to be braless br**sts, high and proud. What healthy man could look away?

Her belly was flat and he caught the tip of a tattoo that had to cover her just above her pu**y. Dizzily he tried to tell himself  p**n  stars had those tattoos. That wasn’t sexy, right? A laugh nearly escaped him at the thought. She was ridiculously sexy.

Fuck. His c**k was hard enough to drive nails with.

“So this is what? A booty call?” He tried to sound casual, disinterested, but her eyes flicked back to his c**k straining against his jeans and that smile, her I’ve got a secret smile, broke over her lips.

“Tell you what, Todd. Let’s have a beer and we can go from there. Unless you aren’t interested and that c**k is hard for someone else. In which case, I can leave and we can pretend this never happened.” One of her brows rose slowly, the one with the ring in it.

He contemplated telling her he wasn’t interested. For like a third of a second. Instead he nodded and walked into his living room.

“I’ll put the beer in my fridge.” He pulled two out before disappearing with the rest. In his kitchen, he desperately struggled to get a handle on his rioting hormones as he tossed the bottle caps.

When he got back, he found her kneeling backward on his couch, looking at the CD rack behind it. Her sweet ass canted in his direction.

“Country, huh?” She spoke without looking back as he walked around behind the couch to face her, handing her a beer. Better not to be back there with her ass presented that way. He loved to f**k from behind with a woman in just that position. It didn’t happen very often, but he craved it nonetheless.

She took a long pull from the bottle and he watched as her throat worked. A visual of how she’d look as he fed his c**k to her shocked through him a moment.

“Yeah. I take it you don’t like country.” A smile threatened until she put her beer aside and reached to grab the belt loop on his jeans and pull him closer.

“I like some country.” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. An involuntary shiver worked through him as he watched her hand move from the loop, nails scoring his c**k through the thin denim.

He hissed, arching toward her, and she smiled.

“I like Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn. The Dixie Chicks are good. I just heard them the other day. My mom raised us on Conway Twitty and Tammy Wynette. I love music of all types.”

Her fingers traced down the line of his zipper as she looked up into his face—waiting for him to refuse. Yeah, like that was going to happen.

He flexed his hips instead and watched, rapt, as she slowly pulled his zipper down, the metal rasp loud over his breath.

Gentle, cool hands pulled him out.

“No underwear. My. Surprise, surprise.”

“I like it when my c**k rubs against my jeans this way.” He’d never spoken like that to a woman before. It made him harder.

She angled him and the air shot out his mouth as her tongue circled the head, the tip digging into the sensitive spot just beneath.

He did what he’d wanted to do for the last year. He ran his palms over her hair, wondering at the texture of the ropes. Not hard or wiry, not fragile. Unique and unexpected, a lot like she was. A wisp of tenderness wafted through him briefly.