Free Give In To Me by Lacey Alexander Page B

bit. It was hard to sit there acting like someone who was in full control
     of herself, of this situation, when she knew they were both recalling how she’d given
     in to him in the alley. In fact, it was suddenly difficult to take a full, deep breath.
     And looking at him wasn’t helping the situation. She’d never experienced such a purely
     magnetic attraction to anyone in her life.
    She drew her eyes away, peered out the windshield at his building. “Even so . . .”
    Next to her, he sighed. “Look, I’m not an ax murderer.”
    She let out a breath, albeit a shaky one—which she hoped he didn’t notice. And she
     cautiously shifted her gaze back to him as she asked, “Then what are you?”
    “I’m a cop.”
    She flinched, blinked, utterly taken aback. “Seriously?” she asked, sitting up a little
     straighter.
    “Seriously. Feel better now?”
    And in fact, she did. How could she not? It didn’t mean he was a saint—but it also
     meant he probably wasn’t a criminal, either. Feeling contrite, she nodded.
    To which he replied, “Good. Now let’s go in and order some pizza. I’m starving.”

Chapter 5
    D espite herself, she felt just as uncomfortable in his apartment as she’d expected.
     It was an average place—though probably overpriced due to the location—that somehow
     didn’t look completely moved in to. Curtains, or maybe a few pictures on the walls,
     would have made it feel much warmer. But maybe she shouldn’t be surprised by the starkness—Rogan
     Wolfe didn’t exactly seem like a sentimental guy. Or like a guy who minded things
     feeling a little stark.
    She sat perched on the edge of a black leather sofa, not quite able to lean back and
     relax, as he ordered the food they’d agreed on after pulling out a delivery menu from
     the nearest pizza place. She’d noticed he had a whole drawer of delivery menus and
     wasn’t surprised to find he was a guy who ate on the run a lot and probably wasn’t
     secretly a gourmet cook.
    Now he was in the bathroom—he’d offered it to her first, to tidy up, and though her
     hair was in disarray, she’d actually discovered, to her shock, that she thought it
     almost pretty. Messy hair when she was in her bathrobe in the morning just looked . . .
     messy, but it turned out that messy hair while in a top and skirt, even if a bit soiled,
     suddenly looked . . . tousled. Carefree. Maybe even a little sexy.
    Not that she should want to look sexy for him. But she couldn’t deny that she did.
     She wasn’t sure what she wished would happen here, at all, but she knew she wanted
     to remain worthy, in his eyes, of having been just as kissable in the alley outside
     the café as she’d found him to be.
    When he came back to the living room a few minutes later, he’d exchanged his dirty
     jeans and tee for clean ones, and he smelled clean, too—like soap, but still a little
     musky, masculine. Maybe that part of him was a scent you couldn’t wash off. She tried
     not to be nervous at his return, even if his fresh clothes made her all the more aware
     of her dirty ones.
    She hoped perhaps he’d settle in the reclining chair adjacent to where she sat, but
     instead he joined her on the couch. And she hoped he might turn on the TV or something,
     just to give them something to look at besides each other, but he didn’t do that,
     either. He wore that familiar arrogant, amused expression when he said, “You can relax,
     Ginger. Lean back. Get comfortable.” He’d sprawled rather sexily on the other end,
     taking up a full half of the sofa with his tanned, muscular body.
    She met his eyes to say, “Why must you keep calling me that even now that you know
     my name?”
    He gave his head a slight tilt. “Guess I always thought Ginger was sexy as hell. Just
     like you.”
    She tried to keep breathing as the warmth of a blush rose to her cheeks. She hadn’t
     foreseen that answer or she wouldn’t have asked. And she decided not to respond