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
38
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