Free Take Another Look by Rosalind Noonan Page A

apartment door and gestured for her to go in. She breathed in the lemony scent of the familiar vestibule, flicking on the lights with her cuffed hands. Home. The familiar space restored her sense of confidence, her equilibrium.
    â€œNice place,” he said, closing the door behind him. In the warm light of her apartment, he looked handsome and distant. His crisp navy uniform was a bold reminder of his authority over her. He paused at the collage depicting an ocean cove. “Did you do this?”
    â€œI did.” She noticed how he filled the hallway with a masculine aura, big and bold.
    â€œReminds me of Half Moon Bay. I’m a surfer.” He folded his arms, biceps shifting where they touched the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.
    She imagined his body in a wetsuit . . . or maybe just the bottom half with the top pulled off and dangling, the way guys hung out on the beach. Maybe she’d seen him at the coast. “You look like a surfer.”
    His dark eyes glittered as he reached for her hands. “How’s that?”
    â€œTanned. Strong.”
    He unlocked the cuffs, folded them into small rings, and snapped them back onto his leather belt. “Let me see your arms.” He turned her hands and ran his fingers over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrists. “Look at that; you might have some bruises. Sorry, Jane. If every perp was like you, I’d invest in cuffs lined with velvet.”
    She squinted at him. “Now you’re kidding me.”
    â€œI am.” He was still massaging her wrists, pressing into the tender pad at the base of her thumbs. The shift intrigued her. So Officer Dixon had a softer side. She didn’t mind that he held onto her hands, finding the sweet spots in her palms and squeezing the tension away. She knew he was stepping over the line of procedure, and the fact that he was interested in her sounded a glad ping in her head. Men like him had always been out of her league—too good-looking and sure of themselves to give her a second glance. But Dixon wanted her—there was no question about that. Her heart raced at the realization that she had risen in stature; she was playing a woman’s game now.
    Here was a way to cling to her transformed self, the new Jane who held court in the bar. The new Jane, attractive and entertaining.
    When he pulled her into his arms and pressed his teeth to the tender spot on her neck, she let go and threw herself into the abyss. Dark and daring, wild and impetuous. His mouth was voracious, his touch heated by desperation. And the danger of it . . . the exquisite danger intensified every sensation.
    There was no awkwardness, no grappling or miscommunication. He knew what he wanted. He knew how to get it. Jane followed his orders, moving to the couch, stripping off her clothes, piece by piece, until they were skin to skin. Her initial fear turned to intrigue and finally release as pleasure crashed through her body.
    Afterward, he stroked her hair back, surprisingly gentle now. “Good girl,” he whispered. “I knew you’d be a good girl.”
    Ordinarily she would have taken offense, but somehow his words filled her with pride. She had been good. It had been great—the hottest sex she’d ever had. Her heart purred with satisfaction.
    He drew her hair back, pressed his lips to her neck, and sucked hard until she cried out in pain. What the hell?
    â€œI always mark my territory,” he said without apology.
    Did that mean she was his girlfriend? The notion added sweetness to the afterglow. Apparently Officer Dixon was more sentimental than she’d realized. As the sting on her neck receded, she relaxed and reached for him, wanting the reassurance of his body against hers.
    But Dixon was already sitting up, gathering his clothes. Contact over. She shivered and curled up on the couch as embarrassment cooled her skin.
    When he asked where the bathroom was, Jane pulled her T-shirt