Cold Case, Hot Bodies

Sheila sounded tipsy, a good sign. “Are you coming now?”

“There’s more than one way to take that.”

“Not once you get here.”

“On my way,” she said, giggling. “Keep the bed warm.”

“I’m getting sleepy,” he returned with mock grouchiness. “Are you sure you’re going to show?”

“Put a key under the mat, sailor, and let Gem O’Shea wake you up.”

Not a bad idea. “Done. Two pots on the porch are planted with ivy. The key to the lobby doors will be in the one on the right. I’m the first door on the left—I’ll leave it ajar.” Maybe that wasn’t the brightest thing to do, but the neighborhood was relatively safe nowadays, and besides, he’d put his gun under the bed.

“Given what I’m going to do to you,” she was saying, “you’ll think you’re dreaming.”

“So you have plans for the bawdy house?”

“Just call me Gem O’Shea.”

She ended the call, and he grinned. “My kind of girl.”

Yawning, he thrust his legs into jeans, took the key to the planter and returned. Then he found a pen, scrawled “I’m in here, babe,” and taped it to the door, drawing an arrow toward the bed. The tenants were tucked in for the night and wouldn’t see it. Absently scratching his chest, he stared into the open folder before transferring it to the floor, suddenly glad Eliana had reminded him to bring sheets, a blanket and towels. Without a boiler, the steam heat hadn’t come on.

Where the hell was Sheila? He could sure use some body heat. After taking another swig of whiskey, he set the bottle on the nightstand, along with his wallet and badge. Checking to make sure his gun was under the bed, he switched on the video recorder.

Sheila was going to love his surprise. Pat would get a kick out of the story, too. Suddenly frowning, he thought about Pat’s engagement, then pushed aside the thought. Everybody he knew might be settling down, but Dario wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his own lifestyle.

Rummaging in his jeans pockets, he put some open condom packages and a twenty-dollar bill on the nightstand. Since Sheila was intent on playing Gem O’Shea, he’d pay her. As soon as she got here, he’d turn on the light, then they could make the homemade movie while polishing off the rest of the whiskey.

He smiled. He was glad he’d met Sheila. All she cared about was sex. She was like a female version of him. His other half. Taking off his briefs, he tossed them to the floor. Might as well be ready when she gets here, he thought.

A second later, he was out like the light.

“WAKE UP, SAILOR.”

Husky murmurings sounded beside Dario’s ear. Hot breath tickled his earlobe. His head was pounding, and he groaned when he realized he must have had way too much to drink last night. The warm whiskey had tasted great going down, burning a path from his mouth to his belly, just as surely as a kiss, but now…

Fingernails raked upward on his bare chest, then stopped to trace circles around his nipples. He groaned again, arousal catching him unaware. Music was playing, sounding faraway. Probably coming from one of the other apartments, he thought, but who was up so late? Zu and Ling said they went to bed early. Brice and Carmella had to work. And Rosie had a kid. Maybe he’d just drifted, and it was still only a little after midnight.

Weight was bearing down on him. Sheila, he guessed. He’d tossed and turned, so the sheet had tangled around his legs, and now, even if she hadn’t been on top of him, he couldn’t have moved. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw only vague shadows, enough to know he wasn’t dreaming. A woman was definitely straddling him.

“Finally,” he whispered. Shutting his eyes again, he lifted his hands, curving them over hips. Nice, plump womanly hips. Not too skinny—he hated women who starved themselves—but not too padded, either. Just right. It was one of the many things he liked about Sheila. After uttering a lusty sigh, he smiled. Her muscles flexed beneath his fingertips as she rocked against him, her inner thighs squeezing.

She was so responsive. That was another thing he liked. Now, if she’d only move upward a tiny inch. She was a hair’s breadth from where he was aching for her. So close.

Please. He thought the word as soft hands curled around his shoulders, then dug deep—now exploring dips and crevices around his collarbone. After a moment, flattened palms pressed down hard on his pectorals, feeling like heaven.

“What time is it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over all the racket. It was hard to believe somebody thought whatever was playing was music. He slitted his eyes open, but again, saw only inky darkness. The music sounded like show tunes, maybe something from Broadway.

“Three,” she whispered.

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

No wonder he felt like hell. “Better late than never.”

“Do we still have time?”

He didn’t have to be at work until nine. “We can get a lot done in six hours.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it earlier, the way I promised.”

“Me, too.”

“You feel sorry,” she whispered, the brush of her belly making clear what she meant. He was as hard as a rock. Her voice sounded deeper than usual. So husky that she didn’t even sound like Sheila. She must have felt as sex-crazed as he, waiting all day for this. That’s why she was talking like a sex siren from an old movie. She sounded like Bette Davis, Lana Turner and Marilyn Monroe all rolled into one. All shivery and whispery, as if she’d had way too much to drink and had just smoked cartons of cigarettes, and was offering him something forbidden. He imagined her in a black-and-white picture, wearing a slinky gown, and holding a highball glass and a long black cigarette holder.

Then he remembered she was pretending to be Gem O’Shea. That’s why she’d worn a wig, too. Long strands of hair were brushing his face, teasing his cheeks and shoulders.

He rubbed her thighs, stroking them with the backs of his hands and shifted his weight, straining unsuccessfully to feel the crushing pressure of her pelvic bone against his erection. When she just missed the magic spot, he uttered a frustrated sigh. She was still in outerwear, a jacket and tight leggings, no shoes. “That’s the great thing about clothes…”

“What?”

“We can get rid of them.”

“That’s why I came over.”

Cold insteps with high arches were molding his calves, warming themselves. Threading fingers into her hair, he explored the wig and chuckled. Sheila really was great. She’d do anything to please a guy. What an imagination. “Are you ready to make up for lost time?”

“If you can forgive me for being late.”

“Kiss me and I’ll think about it.” Splaying his fingers, he dragged them through her hair, using the strands to pull her face down to his. Her mouth was open, and it melted against his as their tongues meshed, sparking electricity that began dancing wildly down his nerves, making them sizzle at the ends. Rushing between his fingers, tendrils of hair felt like palm fronds under water, softer than anything he’d ever felt, even softer than her mouth. His hands found her waist again, guiding the movements of her lower body, urging her closer, as he brushed his kiss-dampened mouth across hers.

When the friction turned maddening, he feathered, then nibbled. Judging by her soft whimper, it was working, really turning her on. She whispered, “What do I have to do to make absolutely sure you forgive me?”

“This.” He arched his hips, his body surging.

She pushed back, her thighs quivering, the inner flesh shaking deliciously as she scooted into the cradle of his legs and settled on the hard ridge of his sex. He gasped, a shiver ripping through him. Something in the back of his throat caught, and he said, “I’m glad you made it.”

She was panting softly, rolling her hips with the dexterity of a belly dancer and grinding herself against his groin. “I can tell.”

As she undulated, waves of need lapped through him. Pliable, ready lips fit to his again. Wet and promising, they clung as if she didn’t want to let go. His sentiments, exactly. Tonight, she didn’t even taste like Sheila. Her usual mint flavor had been replaced by chocolate and coffee, and the lipstick he’d eaten off was raspberry. Not a hint of alcohol, which was what he’d expected, given how tipsy she’d sounded on the phone.

“I tried to hurry,” she murmured.

“You’re here now,” he whispered back.

Against his, her cheek still felt cool from the night air, making the spear of her tongue seem even hotter. It was warm and runny—like hot honey or butter or molasses. It was like lazy sunshine on a Sunday morning, streaming through a window. And it was climbing, too, just like the sun, its radiance gaining intensity and heat.