She trailed her lips along the side of his jaw and then followed with her tongue. "You taste good." She liked the huskiness of her voice, making her feel strong and bold and sexy. She edged her way to the corner of his mouth.
Rafe groaned and flipped her onto her back, nudging his knee between her legs, grinding his mouth into hers and plunging his tongue inside. The insistent thrusting of his tongue urged her on, his weight on her body a heavy welcome. A warm gush of arousal dampened the flesh between her legs and she thrust her hips upward to meet him.
"I want more of you," she breathed rapidly, tearing at his shirt.
"Ah, Isabella, wait, slow down," he groaned against her temple. He lay unmoving on top of her a moment, his weight supported by his arms. His heart raced against her breasts, and she held her body still, knowing he was trying to control himself, even as she fought every screaming instinct to undulate against him.
Finally, he lifted himself off her and jerked her tee-shirt over her head. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of the sweats, he pulled them smoothly down her legs. They landed on the floor with a soft thud, followed quickly by his own shirt. She reached for him, trying to loosen the thick shaft of him from his sweat pants.
"No, God, no. I'll be too fast. You first," he panted and trailed his fingers lightly between her breasts and down her slick thighs before cupping her buttocks with both hands and lifting her to his mouth.
As he planted firm, moist kisses low across her belly, her muscles spasmed in anticipation. His lips, those beautifully carved lips she'd watched all night, continued a sensuous journey to the crevice of her leg and trailed along her inner thigh. He lifted her hips higher and, like a man well used to satisfying a woman, circled his thumb with exquisite pressure around the perfect spot.
All thought vanished with the next ragged wave of pleasure. Bella bit down hard on her lower lip and hung on for the sweet, tortuous ride. She dug her fingers into the wiry crispness of his hair and let the first throbbing waves of release wash over her.
"Oh, oh," she gasped and then gnawed at her bottom lip again to keep from moaning aloud. When she came, his fingers joined his tongue and she felt filled and stretched, pulsating in hard, rolling spasms of pleasure that crested again and again like foaming breakers on the shore.
"Oh god," she whispered on a groan, unable to hold back any longer. "Oh my god."
He slid up her moist body to kiss her mouth, continuing to kiss her, fondle her, and nuzzle her neck, his fingers deep inside her, until her throbbing climax ebbed and crested again and finally gave way to a tender fullness between her legs.
At last, he rolled to his side and pulled her naked body close to him, covering them both with the sheet. She felt the still-hard thrust of his erection against the back of her thigh. His heart thrummed an urgent bass rhythm beneath her ear until it gradually gave way to a sure, steady drum beat.
She drifted off, incredibly relaxed, the concerns of her current case on hold, her meeting later today with the stubborn DEA agent forgotten for the moment. She thought smugly that she owed Rafe. And in a few hours, she'd let him collect on the debt.
Chapter Eight
The vibration of his cell lying on the bed stand roused Rafe from a light sleep. He struggled to remember why his head pounded as the naked ass tucked against him and the warm body attached to it tortured his hard-on. He swung his gritty eyes toward the alarm clock sitting beside his cell phone and watch on the bed stand.
Eight-sixteen! He should've been in the office already. In the fraction of a second before he saw the black strands of hair draped over Isabella's face and remembered the events of last night, he reached for the phone and swung out of the bed.
In the bathroom, he sat on the closed toilet seat and flipped open the cell. "Hashemi."
"Agent Hashemi, you'd better get down to the office right away." The normally unflappable voice of his assistant quavered through the receiver.
"What's wrong, Mrs. Roberts?"
"Detective Jensen is waiting for you." She paused and lowered her voice, heavy with disapproval. "Waiting. In your office. You know I don't like anyone going in there when you're not here."
Marilyn Roberts had been with Rafe nearly seven years, his first secretary – assistant she insisted on being called – in his Los Angeles office. She organized his life and ran his office with military efficiency. She protected him with the ferocity of a pit bull and made the best damn coffee he'd ever tasted. But she was a little obsessive about the sanctity of his office.
It was in his best interests to keep her happy. "I'll be there right away," he promised, closing the phone.
He relieved himself, flushed the toilet, and stared at his scruffy reflection in the bathroom mirror. He splashed cold water on his face, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. The rest of his grooming he left for later. By now he was sure the bathroom noises had woken Isabella up, and he was already regretting his lapse of judgment last night.
When he opened the door, she was sitting upright, her legs crossed yoga-style, her hair in wild tangles around her naked shoulders. The bed sheet covered what he vividly remembered as very full and beautiful breasts.
She smiled. "Hi."
He smiled back and sat on the edge of the bed smoothing a black strand from her cheek. "That was my office," he said tilting his head toward the open bathroom door where the cell phone lay. "I'm sorry, but I have to leave."
"Oh." Her face deflated like a disappointed child, and after a moment she scrambled off the bed and retrieved the tee-shirt from the floor. She pulled it over her head and tugged downward, but the shirt barely covered the tops of her thighs.
"Hey, you don't have to go, though. I have to put in a few hours following up on that incident at Stuckey's. I'll be back by noon." He glanced at the bedside clock. "One at the latest. I promise."
"You know, really, I should just go. This…" She waved her hand vaguely at the jumble of bedclothes. "This isn't… I don't usually… "
"Look, stay, relax, have some coffee." He walked to the closet and pulled out his blue striped dress shirt. "I'd like to see you again. Honestly. So, if you feel the same, stay until I get back."
Isabella lifted one dark eyebrow and he knew he'd tossed out too casual an offer.
"Or leave a phone number, okay?" he said hurriedly.
She gave a tiny nod and appropriated the bathroom. Moments later he heard the water running. As he dressed in fresh underwear and socks, his mind raced with a dozen questions about what the investigators had discovered last night. Nothing definite or Max would've tagged him. Still, he needed to get there as soon as possible.
He glanced toward the closet where last night's jacket hung, Lupe's information folded carefully in the inside pocket. Christ! Last night he'd let his senses get so addled that he'd risked blowing his informant's cover. Let his guard down so that he hadn't even seen the attack in the alley coming. Gotten entangled so deep with a woman that he'd taken her back to his apartment when the smart thing to do would've been to put her in a cab and send her on her way.
Now his white-knight conscience was intervening. He sighed heavily. God knew, he was no saint, but something innocent and almost virginal about Isabella made him believe her. She'd told the truth. Last night wasn't typical behavior for her.
He opened the closet and grabbed his tan suit and silk tie off the clothes dowel and finished dressing. Gathered his briefcase and holstered his weapon. When he heard the water shut off, he listened at the bathroom door. He rapped softly.
No answer.
"I'm sorry, Isabella," he said through the door. "I really am. But I've got to get to work."