Zaccaro

fifth of Wild Turkey. The amber liquid splashes over the rocks. Recalling the undertones of sadness in her voice as she mentioned it had been a long day at work on our ride over, I give us both a generous amount. I didn’t ask her to elaborate, usually talking about the job when off just puts you back in the mindset anyway. With that in mind, and my own botched case, I add a bit moreWild Turkey to both drinks.
“If I squint just a tad,” Reese’s voice is a sexy slur, from the shots her friend gave her, “I can see the tiny speck… my apartment is way across town.”
“That so,” I respond crossing the room.
I hand her the glass.
Reese nods her thanks, and sips a good amount of it. And my own drink burns down my throat.
Her nose wriggles, ears perked as she takes the pain. Then Reese shakes her head. “Wow! You weren't kidding. This will clear the flu up for ages to come.”
A flurry of red creeps up her neck, and Reese’s plush lips purse just a tad as if she’s used to chatting and regretting her words. I smile at her first case of verbal diarrhea. Then Reese licks her lips, while gazing at the city lights once more. Peace takes over, and her mouth is just ajar, those perky breasts rising and falling softly.
What is she thinking? I have no problem sifting through a person’s thought process. After all, over ninety percent of communication is non-verbal. There’s something behind those eyes that tell me Reese is looking off into the distance, and the little tart has become a ball of doubt.
Then I realize that whatever reservations she has, has nothing to do with me. And she smells so fucking sweet. Something in me needs a small taste.
I stand behind Reese. Instead of relaxing into me, her entire body tenses. She downs the rest of the drink and is back to biting her lip again.
So unsure.
My rough fingertips leave a trail of goosebumps up her arm. I push her lustrous hair over her shoulder and bestow the nape of her neck with a kiss. That enthralling, saccharine scent of Reese once again takes me back thirty odd years to when I was a child, sneaking into my mother’s kitchen. And I'm not a man who delights in sweets. My nose nuzzles the back of Reese's ear as I breathe her in.
“Evan, this isn’t a good idea,” she murmurs. She's woozy and it's not because of the drink. My hand dominates her flat belly, pulling her back to me rather abrasively. Her mouth drops open, somewhere between a sigh of desire and shock.
Reese turns around. Wedged between myself and the glass wall, she has nowhere to run. Though every bit of her body is melting for me, there’s a bit of resolve in the way those lavish lips set just so. Her hands press against my chest at an attempt to deter what I want. What she wants.
There’ll be no second-guessing this attraction between us, as I immediately take one of her wrists. The pulse at her palm is beating wildly against my thumb. I massage the anxiety from her soul, all the while holding out her palm, and bring it to my lips.
Doubt crashes from her shoulders. This is my incentive to hike a succulent thigh over my waist. The magnetism of our mouths meeting is instant. My hand claims her jaw, deepening the kiss. Her leg clenches tightly around my waist.
The warmth between her legs is bewitching. My other hand stakes claim to her toned flesh, and my thumb kneads the soft skin at the inside of her thigh. Sin sparks through the innocence of those big, brown eyes, begging me to do very bad, bad things.
My lips scour the corners of her mouth yet again, taking her breath away. Kissing a trail from her lips to her jaw, I press her against the cool glass.
In an instant she tenses up again.
“Look, Evan, I don’t screw cops.”
My eyebrow hitches but Reese doesn’t strike me as a criminal. I want to devour every bit of her tonight. Although honestly, it’s unnecessary for me to be made aware, protocol trumps desire. I ask, “You some sort of outlaw?”

2
Reese
He has these Mediterranean eyes with the sort of eyelashes most females would die for. Evan’s smile is this extraordinary grouping of confident and cocky, which is the reason why I followed the cop out of the bar. And another thing, he was good. Genuinely good for a cop. And coming from where I’m from, I can peg dirty, lowdown motherfuckers. Shit, I was drawn to honey before I even knew he was a cop. That smile made his stone, chiseled face seem more approachable. Gone was my mantra of running in the opposite direction of men who wore tailored suits.
He needn’t say a word, just the command of his touch was enough to compel me to drop to my knees or do anything he craved. Evan was all over me, and then he plastered me against the wall. The cold glass snatched away my confidence, and I said the damndest thing.
A second ago, Evan asked if I was a criminal. My father wasn’t good at much, let my momma tell it that all men aren’t good. No matter their race: black, brown, white. When I was a kid, I was a mutt, with only the sordid roots my father offered. Milo Gianni Benincassa always said: ‘The truth’s all in the eyes. Never take your eyes off of your opponent for guilt, and that, doll, is how shit works in your favor…’
And shit, I want Evan badly. But I don’t screw Italians, my mom would slap the taste from my mouth. Evan Zaccaro is truly my opponent. My teeth comb over my lip, gander locked onto his. “No.”
Again my body is plastered against the wall, with him all over me. Now, it’s as if our heat has scorched the