Provocative Passion

“Listen to me, So-So. If what I’ve heard is true, you’ll soon be in a position to delegate having somebody to do everything short of wiping your nose for you. Just keep a low profile on this.” She scratched her temple and grimaced. “The curtains are being pulled off a lot of shady windows in this city. Things may get a lot worse before they get any better, so you just be careful, Detective. We can’t afford to lose any more good cops.”

The easy glow returned to Paula’s face and she reached for her coffee mug. “You just delegate and chill out. I’m sure you can find finer ways to spend your time and with finer people. Initials S.R.,” she sang.

Sophia smiled, unable and unwilling to discuss the shiver that danced up her spine.

Chapter 2

Sophia rushed home right after her shift. It was something she rarely did. There was always one more thing to be done—one last report to file, one more lead to follow. That was before Santigo Rodriguez had resumed his place at the top of her thoughts.

She showered, changed and, so as not to appear completely desperate for his company, entertained herself by reading up on the notes she had from the Waymon Cole case. She scoured the pages for anything that might offer a lead to the food chain Paula had alluded to.

Her mind wasn’t on it, though. The words were practically blurring together on the pages. Damn it! she thought, suddenly resenting Tigo’s reappearance in her life.

She was just getting used to getting along without him. Wasn’t she? Sophia couldn’t or wouldn’t answer the question. Just as well since her doorbell was ringing. Quickly, she brushed her hands across the seat of her shorts and went to answer the door.

Tigo’s glare held the unmistakable tint of amusement. “A cop shouldn’t be so careless. You didn’t even ask who it was.”

Sophia tossed her head, sending her high ponytail swinging playfully. “I’ve got a gun,” she reminded him.

He bowed his head, nodding while he leaned on the door frame. “What if he didn’t give you time to pull it?”

Sophia bit her lip, happily willing to melt in response to the alluring depth of his voice. “I do have other ways of defending myself.” She almost didn’t recognize the breathy tinge to her words.

Tigo pushed off the jamb. “And what if he did something you couldn’t defend against?”

Her gray stare was fixed on his mouth. “Like what?” At that point she didn’t care how breathless she was.

Santigo didn’t disappoint. He’d barely dipped his head to oblige her unspoken plea when Sophia moved to her toes and eagerly drew him to her.

One of them moaned. Tigo rested his lean, athletic frame against the door, still holding her securely to him. Sophia savored the lunges of his tongue in her mouth and met the powerful drives of it against hers with her own thrusts of equal intensity, equal need.

She moaned, that time clearly recognizing the gesture as her own. She locked her arms around his neck, wantonly rubbing her body against his, needing to feel every inch of him.

“Sophie.” His whisper sounded suspiciously like a whimper. He curved one hand around her bottom, his thumb grazing the hint of cheek visible beneath the frayed hem of her cutoffs. “Babe?” he murmured amid the lusty thrusting of their tongues.

“Hmm...” Sophia had sealed herself against him so that not one ounce of space existed between them.

“Soap,” he growled his pet name for her and squeezed her bottom with a bit more insistence.

Sophia shivered from the sound of the endearment that she hadn’t heard in so long. It was then that she heard the rustling emerging from below and realized that Tigo was tugging her back. She blinked, taking stock of her actions and the burning sensation in her cheeks.

“I promised dinner,” he said and gave the bag he held another shake.

Sophia hadn’t even noticed it before, and she could not have cared less whether or not he’d kept that particular promise. She wasn’t hungry for food. Still, she recognized the logic in exercising a little more...restraint.

“Right.” She turned away to indulge in a few deep breaths and the necessary lash fluttering while she composed herself. “Do we need plates?”

Tigo shook the bag and moved off the door. “Only if you have a problem eating out of the box.”

Sophia whirled, observing the bag with more interest. “Chinese?”

“Uh-huh.” The striking length of his sleek brows merged to form a frown. “You still eat it, don’t you?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

He laughed and moved farther into her cozy apartment. “Where would you like to have it?”

Sophia could have swooned then for sure. Chinese food in bed, before and after sex, had been one of their many indulgences during the course of their very passionate relationship. Whatever differences they may’ve had outside the bedroom carried no power inside it.

Tigo waited patiently for Sophia’s response, knowing exactly what was going through her mind. It’d been going through his mind all day, longer.... He took stock of her attire. She wore a simple ensemble consisting of a throwback Eagles jersey that virtually covered the denim cutoffs beneath it.

Simple attire or not, it gave him all kinds of ideas and returned all sorts of memories.

“We can eat right in here.” Sophia threw a loose wave toward the living room. “At the coffee table.” Overrun by memories, as well, she knew she was doing a poor job of hiding her fluster.

They studied each other. One quietly observing the other. Just as her eyes had lingered on his mouth, Sophia was fixated on the gold chain he wore, just visible below the open collar of his burgundy shirt. The tails hung outside the waist of his black trousers. Jewelry had always seemed out of place on other men in Sophia’s opinion. On Tigo, it was just right. The piece had belonged to his father, who had died of a heart attack the summer before Tigo had started middle school.

“Would you, um...like a beer?” She asked once her unhurried perusal of his body had concluded.

“I’d like a lot of things, Soap.” He turned away then to give her time to absorb his meaning. “But I’ll settle for a beer.” He started setting out the dinner.

* * *

“Why’d you call me after all this time, Tig?” Sophia queried in a soft, careful manner. They’d eaten in a surprisingly comfortable silence for almost thirty minutes. “I couldn’t have looked that good the day you saw me at lunch with Clarissa,” she murmured into her pint of shrimp lo mein.

Santigo smirked from his reclining position on the large navy armchair that flanked the sofa. “You have no idea,” he replied.

“So what?” She looked up to meet his eyes, unmistakable challenge enhancing her dark lovely face. “Is this about ringing up an ex-lover for another go? Ah...there it is.” She caught sight of the jaw muscle he clenched. “I was wondering if you still had that temper.” She snuggled into the sofa, intent on capturing one of the plump shrimp amid the noodles.

“Yeah, I’ve still got the temper, Sophie. Stupidity always brings it out in me.”

Sophia caught the shrimp and popped the morsel into her mouth. “Stupidity? Hmph, I thought I was being very perceptive.” She managed to sound cool enough when it was all she could do to chew her food as she weighed his reaction.

When there was no reaction, she returned her flint-colored gaze to the pint of food. “Why did you call me, Tig?” she whispered.

“I miss you. I miss you in every way.” There was no hesitation in his response.

Sophia worked the chopsticks deeper into the box and smiled. “So this was about calling me up for another go?”

“Is that why you answered?” he countered.

“Of course not.” She cleared her throat on the lie.

What else could she say, though? That she hadn’t had sex with anyone since him? That on more occasions than she cared to admit, she could only fall asleep after pleasuring herself using memories of them together for stimulus?

She observed him covertly through the thickness of her lashes. He was a picture of ease. She’d be a fool to say he didn’t affect her. What woman wouldn’t be affected by him? His features were a perfect mesh of his biracial heritage, compliments of his African-American mother and Puerto Rican father. His eyes even carried traces of both parents. The gold flecks were a testament to his mother’s rich hazel gaze. They sparkled amid a sea of bottomless ebony, compliments of his father. The fierce perfection of his features was softened by the easy humor that lurked in his stare.

What woman wouldn’t mind being the target of his attention? Sophia asked herself again. He’d always been able to gauge the tracks of her thoughts using little effort, and she resented him for it.