She thrust back her head again, gasping for breath, the air itself seeming to burn as fiercely as her skin.
Then the shuddering began and she grabbed his shoulders, pushing him deeper still, wanting to feel every inch of him through every inch of her. Pleasure began to explode as his movements become faster, more urgent.
"Look at me," he growled.
Her gaze met his, and something deep inside quivered. His eyes burned with desire and passion, but something else, something she couldn't name, seared the gray depths, stirring her in ways she didn't think possible.
"You are mine," he said, and his hoarse voice seemed to echo through her mind, through every fiber of her being.
Yes, she thought. Yes!
Then the passion exploded and she was quivering, trembling, whimpering, as his warmth spilled into her and his body went rigid against hers.
Finally, she collapsed against him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tight it felt as if he never intended to let her go. And as much as she knew he would, she still reveled in that brief, and oh so glorious, sensation of belonging.
For several minutes neither of them moved. The air stirred around them, lifting the heat from their skin without managing to chill. From the general direction of the kitchen came the rattle of harsh breathing, and she half smiled, knowing then that Dan had indeed watched—and enjoyed. A normal woman might have been embarrassed by that knowledge, but she was a shifter. Exhibitionism was almost as natural as an extremely high sex drive.
She was just glad face shifters seemed to share the same natural urges.
Grey stirred, pushing her back from him a little before cupping her cheeks with his palms. His gaze held hers for several seconds, then he smiled, and gave her a sweet, gentle kiss. "I don't think I'm ever going to be able to get my fill of you."
Her heart did another of those uneven little dances. Did that mean he intended to keep on seeing her after the killer was caught? Lord, she hoped so.
"I thought you had a killer to catch?"
"I do. But the killer strikes at night. That gives us most of the day to play."
"I do need to get some beauty sleep, you know," she said dryly.
His thumb skimmed to her mouth, outlining it gently, sending another tremor through her. "Why? You're beautiful enough as it is."
She grinned. "You haven't seen me pre-breakfast, before coffee. Totally horrible."
"Well, technically, I have, seeing we came here to have breakfast."
"Yeah, but that's different to waking up beside me after a long night. Believe me, that can get hideous."
"Somehow, I doubt that." He slid the dress back up to her shoulders, then zipped it.
Footsteps approached as she climbed off him. She looked over her shoulder as Grey hastily adjusted himself. It was Dan, and his smirk was as wide as the Grand Canyon. He was also carrying a pot of coffee, and she couldn't help grinning.
He'd lived up to her expectations all right.
"You folks seem to be enjoying the… er… meal so much, I thought it only decent I give you a free cup of coffee."
"That's mighty nice of you," Grey said, voice bland. "But can we get that to go? We need to leave."
"That's a bit of a shame."
Her grin broke loose. "Don't think we'll make a habit of enjoying breakfast so much, Danny boy. It might not be good for your heart."
Dan met her gaze, brown eyes twinkling. "Don't you be worrying about my old ticker, lassie. And the occasional hard workout does it the world of good."
She smiled as he walked away, but the amusement quickly faded when her gaze met Grey's. "So why do we have to go?"
He nodded toward Dan. "He'll be a little more aware of what we do and say from now on. I can't answer any more questions here. It's too dangerous."
He wasn't lying, and yet… she had an odd sense that there was an ulterior motive behind his words.
"So, we find another diner. There's plenty around."
"Do you really think we can hold off touching each other in another diner?"
The look he gave her was smoldering, full of heat. And yet, she wasn't buying it. Not entirely. Oh, she had no doubt that he did want her, and want her badly, but there was also an underlying niggle that he had plans for her. Plans that she couldn't even begin to guess at.
So why did she trust him so much?
Instinct, she thought. It told her he didn't intend to harm her, and she believed that one fact totally. Whether that made her the world's biggest fool or not remained to be seen.
"I'm not sexually deprived." Well actually, she probably was, but that was beside the point. "And I think we can manage to keep our hands off each other long enough for you to answer questions."
"Your apartment would be safer. Easier."
Again with her apartment. "Why are you so determined to get me back there?"
"It's safer, simply because we don't risk being overheard."
He hesitated. "In my line of work, you learn not to trust the face of the person sitting next to you."
His words had her looking over her shoulder, which was dumb when the diner was empty. "My home is my sanctuary.
I rarely invite people back there."
His gaze darkened almost imperceptively. "You still don't trust me?"
Which is not what she'd said at all, though indeed that was part of the problem. She hesitated, then said, "I have no way of checking out anything you've said, Grey. No way at all."
Anger flicked through his expression. "I thought a beagle relied on instinct?"
"They do, but I've learned to doubt."
"Then what do you suggest?" His expression had gone neutral, but there was nothing neutral about his voice as he added, "That I walk away, leave what's going on between us?"
His anger burned around her, flaying her skin as sharply as a whip. Whatever else was going on, there was no doubt in her mind that while this man might intend many things, harming her wasn't one of them. Would it be complete foolishness to let him inside her apartment? Probably. But what other choice did she really have? He seemingly had the answers she—the department—needed.
She considered him a moment longer, then said, "Give me the name of the other possible victim. I'll pass it on to my department."
"Genny Jones, Twenty-Fourth Street, Marshell apartments." He paused, then added, "It won't do them any good. They have no idea who to look for."
"Well, apparently, neither do your people; otherwise five women would not have died." She gestured toward the pay phone on the other side of the room. "Do you mind moving?"
He shifted. She climbed out of the booth and walked across to the phone. After digging her credit card out of the special compartment in her coat, she swiped it through the phone slot and dialed Jack's cell number.
He answered second ring. "Senior detective Jack Turner speaking."
"Jack? It's Eryn."
"Why the hell are you calling?" Though his voice warmed immediately, he sounded tired, almost sleepy. Maybe she'd caught him in bed. "Thought you'd be dead to the world by now."
She grinned, and refrained from reminding him she was a shifter. With a shifter's stamina. "I've got a name for you."
Bed springs squeaked, then paper rustled. "What?"
"Genny Jones. Her address is apparently the Marshell apartments, Twenty-Fourth Street."
"And she is?"
"Probably the next victim."
He paused. "I don't think I want to know how you know this."
His words suggested he'd already guessed. "We're at Greasy Dan's."
"Damn it, Eryn, you know—" "He's not the killer."
"You willing to stake your life on that?"
Her gaze went to Grey's. He was leaning his butt against the table, his arms crossed and face absolutely expressionless. Yet she could taste his annoyance at her actions as surely as she could still smell his raw masculinity and thick desire.