Free If Wishes Were Horses by Joey W. Hill

but likea mountain lion.
    “Back off.”
    He deliberately lifted his hands, took two  steps back behind his counter. Lacing his fingers together on the glass, he leaned forward, bringing that heady male cologne scent and his dark eyes to within six inches of her face. Even leaning forward, he was an inch taller than she was. She refused to back up, though every muscle tightened to painfulrigidity, except her thighs, which had an infuriating tendency to loosen at his nearness.
    “Tell me, Chief Sarah, how many respectable citizens of Lilesville do you thinkspent last night handcuffed to their beds, their kneecaps brushing their ears while they screamed for more?”
    Anger management was part of cop training, but every officer learned to deal with it in his or her own way. Hers was visualization. In the space of three slow blinks she

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    If Wishes  Were  Horses

    imagined in  great detail taking Justin Herne  by the neck, bashing  his head through the display case and letting his unconscious body lie there sprawled among the delicate  nipple chains and elegant slave collars.
    The purple velvet one with teardrop diamonds and a yin yang silver pendant would look great with a cocktail dress she  had. She noted it cost seventy dollars.
    Sarah smiled at him. If she were a wolf, light would have glittered off her fangs.
    “It happened, Herne,” she said, taking a step forward so  her hips were against the counter and they were nose-to-nose. She was  proud to hear her words come out in an  even, steady tone that she hoped matched the expression on her face. “Maybe it was  more over the top than either of us expected  it to be, and maybe that’s making us both  edgy.” She  straightened, stepped back. “We’re adults. It’s over, and I say we  leave it at  that. “
    I don't think so.   It pissed him off, but not  at  her. His anger left, sliding down  the
    same drain as hers.
    He straightened, and it  called to  his mind  two martial arts combatants, bowing at the end of a match that left each with an increased respect for the other.
    “I'm sorry,” he said. “You didn't deserve my crudity.”
    “I shouldn't have cursed at you, Mr. Herne.”
    A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I don’t regret last night. In fact, I thought—”
    “Don't think too much,” she said, moving away as Laura and her niece came to thecounter to discuss their order.
    Wrong tactic. His police chief had shields,  and she would erect them as fast as hiscock was rising at the sight of her in her  snug knit shirt and tan shoulder holster. Her jeans were not overly  tight,  but they hugged her ass and made him want to  bite into  the crotch, into the arousal he felt certain soaked the undergarment beneath. Her color washigh, the pulse beating fast in her neck. During their exchange, her nipples had become prominent, despite the  padding of her bra.
    He had  taken her down, this warrior who  had trembled in his arms and made himforget anything but how much he wanted her.
    He had been a Wiccan priest long enough  to discern the difference between thepost-high of ritual and the mundane planes. He had schooled himself to a rigid discipline of recognizing it, because it was too  easy to get lost in the euphoria of Their power. When he came into her home, the lingering awareness of the Rite had brought him the strong smell of her arousal, his elevated animal instincts honing in on  her. They let him know she would open to him, and  a part of him had seized the knowledge, ridden up and over any civilized  veneer he pretended to have,  because   she was his .  Theirs was a true call of flesh to flesh, whether it be in the service of the Lord and Lady, or just for a strong powerful  fucking, a mutual possession. He even felt it this morning at the sight of her, the smell of her. She hadn’t showered yet. The surge of possession was so strong it had made him turn nasty, go for the low blow.   His   warrior