Free The Pied Piper by Ridley Pearson

them hard, put them away wet, and rarely returned. The first attempt at hand holding or sweet talking and LaMoia launched into his litany of excuses, only to find himself in a bar or the gym or a coffee shop working his magic all over again.
    The bounce in his step had little to do with the promise of a nooner, and everything to do with a light flutter in his chest. He didn’t tire of this new woman in his life, didn’t look for ways out of their next encounter. As unlikely a match as he might have ever imagined, he nonetheless felt an attachment, a profound desire, a need, to spend increasing amounts of time with her. The hotel rendezvous was getting old; he wanted to share a bed, a sunrise, a shower, a cup of coffee. He wanted to test himself, to see how real or unreal these feelings actually were. He believed he wanted a relationship with her—an unthinkable thought given his history. He felt terrified to mention this change in himself, partly because she remained always at an arm’s length. He hoped like hell that wasn’t part of his attraction.
    He rode the elevator to the seventh floor wondering if he was in control or on a leash, light headed and slightly afraid. The idea of sleeping with the teacher had always appealed to him—he had done so more than once—but his current arrangement threatened his career, not just an A in math.
    He knocked sharply, already aroused by expectation. The door cracked open, and by the time he stepped inside, she was nothing more than a terry cloth robe walking away toward the bed. Then the robe fell away as LaMoia helped the door shut and threw the security bar in place. He turned to face a black teddy overflowing out the top with soft flesh, and tight and bulging where her legs met.
    He hurried out of his crisply pressed jeans. Every square inch of her was darkly tanned, no bikini line whatsoever as she unsnapped the teddy in three short pops.
    â€œLeave it,” he said. She enjoyed instruction.
    â€œCome and get it,” she offered, “though not necessarily in that order.” She grinned behind eyes flashing with excitement.
    In the bedroom, Sheila Hill put rank aside and willingly took orders.

    The resulting forty minutes of athletics left the thick scent of woman in the air and a sheen on their skin, the bedding off the mattress and Sheila Hill still on all fours, her hands holding loosely to the headboard, her glistening back heaving from her panting.
    â€œOh, God,” she said deliciously, “you’re going to kill me if we keep this up.”
    â€œIt would be more fun if we didn’t have to leave,” he risked saying. “If we could wake up at three in the morning and go again.”
    â€œNot this lifetime,” she quipped. “I like my job. Besides,” she added, “my bed never would have made it through that.” She let go the headboard and slouched down so that her head found the pillow but her buttocks remained hoisted high in the air.
    With her he found himself in a nearly constant state of arousal. He felt seventeen again.
    She lowered herself and stretched out, and he wished she would have stayed like that a little longer.
    â€œThey can’t dictate what we do in our off hours,” he reminded.
    â€œOne of us would be off the task force in a heartbeat. Flemming would see to that. Count on it. It would look wrong, and it would damage both of us. We’ve been over this. God …,” she moaned. “Get me a cigarette, would you?”
    He obeyed, though he wondered why. No woman had ever ordered him about.
    â€œAnd the lighter,” she reminded.
    He didn’t like the smoking, but he never said anything. He climbed off the bed and found her purse and delivered the cigarettes and lighter. She rolled over, her upper-chest rash red and shiny with sweat, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Okay, fun is fun, and that was fun! But we’ve got work to do.” She