My Killer Vacation(51)

No matter what happens.

With that uncomfortable thought hanging in the air, I squeeze the clutch lever and start the bike, slowly pulling onto the road, exhaling jaggedly at the way her thighs tighten on either side of my hips, arms cinching around me like a belt. I go slow. Slower than the speed limit. Every pothole and road sign is a potential threat.

“Faster,” she calls over the wind, squeezing me. Even though gunning the engine makes me feel like I’m going to be sick, I do it anyway, because I’m proud of her. For being brave. Facing her fear. Trusting me to do it with her. And hell, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the way she clings to me, her warm pussy against the small of my back. Her sexy, thong-clad butt is perched on the rumbling engine of my bike and that makes me hungry. Makes me think of hot, sweaty sex. Makes me think of us in bed, instead, while she screams faster in my ear. Why won’t I just beat off and get rid of some of this pressure between my legs? Just this morning, I returned to my motel room to shower and change. Could have worked out some frustration with my hand, but I couldn’t do it, despite my dick being harder than a two-by-four. My body knows nothing is going to come close to the real thing. Taylor.

God, I want to fuck her so bad. Might as well admit that I can’t…I can’t do it because my heart is involved. Or I would have spent the night in her bed by now. In and out. No entanglements. No sickening fear of missing something in the case and getting her hurt.

Or worse.

My hands are starting to turn to jelly on the handlebars, so I swallow the dark direction of my thoughts and focus on getting her to town safely. When we reach downtown Falmouth, it’s packed.

“Oh, I forgot,” she calls into the dying wind. “The rally.”

I nod, slowly navigating us into one of the municipal parking lots. There isn’t a spot in sight, so I park illegally between a car and a gate, earning me a smirk from Taylor when I draw off her helmet. “So.” My voice sounds like cut glass. “What did you think?”

“I loved it,” she breathes, putting her arms around my neck. “Thank you for convincing me. And not making fun of me when I balked.”

“No one makes fun of you ever again,” I blurt.

It’s such a stupid thing to promise. I have no way of making that guarantee. But what else am I supposed to say when she’s beaming at me like I’m her hero? Are vows just going to come flying out of my mouth now? Next I’ll be promising her a house and babies and a trip to Disneyworld. Matching shirts don’t sound quite as heinous as before.

Jesus. Listen to yourself.

I haul her off the bike and keep her up against me, on her tiptoes, her face flushed with exhilaration from the ride. And there isn’t a damn thing in this world that could stop me from kissing her. I surprise myself by locking our mouths together carefully, gently, winding her hair around one of my fists and slowly introducing my tongue, stroking it against hers, savoring her flavor. Her apple scent. Rumbling when she whimpers, maintaining the slow pace. Devouring her gradually from above. This kiss is different than the ones before. I’m…what am I doing? Adoring her? That’s what it feels like, this deliberate wind of tongues, the succulent, nibbles of her lips, my lips, in between the longer, deeper bouts of kissing. We’re making out like we have all the time in the world and fuck, fuck I like that too much. All the time in the world.

With a curse, I force myself to break the kiss.

Taylor leans into me dizzily, tightening a screw in the center of my ribcage. What the hell am I going to do with her? I distract myself by retrieving her purse and handing it over.

“I’ll go with you to the library,” I say abruptly, brushing my knuckles against the back of her hand, hoping she’ll want me to hold it again. When she places her smaller hand in mine, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was keeping prisoner. “Then you can sit in the police station during my meeting.”

“I won’t be able to browse with you looking over my shoulder. Besides, it’s broad daylight,” she says, shaking her head. “Go to your meeting. I’ll meet you afterward.” She grins at me. “We can get ice cream.”

I snort. “Do I look like the kind of guy who goes on ice cream dates, half pint?”

“No,” she sighs. “I guess you don’t.”

We walk in silence for a few seconds. “What flavor are you getting?”

Her fingers squeeze mine. I’m fucked.





“Friends and residents of Falmouth and Barnstable County,” the mayor says into the microphone, her voice echoing down the town’s main shopping street. “I hear your complaints—and rest assured, I am here to help.”

Taylor and I slow to a stop outside of the police precinct, taking in the scene in front of us. The mayor is standing in the back of a truck, holding a microphone attached to a makeshift sound system. There are magnetic signs clinging to the doors of the truck reading, “Re-elect Rhonda Robinson.” Spread out in front of her appear to be hundreds of locals holding posters and wearing shirts that say, “Renters: Go Home.” They chant those words over the mayor’s speech, despite her bespectacled assistant, Kurt, making calming gestures at the crowd.

Is it my imagination or is Kurt looking at Taylor instead of the swelling audience?

Nope, he just did it again.

He pushes his glasses up his nose, fumbles his clipboard and leans sideways to get a better look at her through the teeming mass of bodies.