Talking With The Dead
© Shiloh Walker
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"I know. Daisy, you don’t seem
to understand—I’ve been doing this a long time.” Too long…
“You’ve been doing this
too
long.”
His eyes flew up to meet hers
and an unwitting smile curled his lips. He watched as she
moved forward and knelt down in front of him. “This hurts
you,” she whispered, staring up at him. “I’m sorry. I wish I
didn’t need you to help me.”
Michael reached out and traced
his fingers along the curve of her cheek. “This is what I
do, ma’am,” he drawled. “Nothing to apologize about.”
Dropping his gaze to her mouth, he finally gave into the
urge that had been driving him nuts ever since he’d seen
her. Threading his hand through her hair, he drew her a
little closer, slowly, giving her the chance to pull away.
Her mouth felt soft and she
tasted like warm honey. He traced the seam of her lips with
his tongue and her lips opened under his. With a groan, he
eased off the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around
her, pressing his hands against her back. Her breasts
flattened against his chest as he eased her up against him.
Michael skimmed his fingers up her back so he could fist a
hand in her hair. Pulling back, he scraped his teeth over
the curve of her neck. “You taste good,” he muttered
huskily.
He could feel her heart
slamming against his. She felt so damned alive—need fogged
his brain and he couldn’t think beyond anything but feeling
that life, tasting it, bathing himself in it.
Reaching up, he grabbed the
neckline of her shirt and jerked. Buttons popped and went
flying. Shoving the edges of the shirt open, he stared down
at the pale flesh of her breasts rising over the red silk
cups of her bra.
He tumbled her down onto her
back and buried his face against her breasts. The soft
scents of vanilla and lavender lingered there and the warm,
sweet scent filled his head.
“Michael…” Her voice was a
soft hungry little whimper that made his blood burn even
hotter.
The leather of her gun harness
got in the way. With quick, impatient jerks of his hands, he
unbuckled it and shoved it away before reaching below her to
unfasten her bra. He tossed that aside and sat back on his
heels to stare down at her. Her nipples were rosy pink—hard
as ice.
His mouth watered and he
hunkered down over her. Michael slid his hands under her and
lifted her torso up to meet his mouth so that he could catch
one plump nipple in his mouth. The other one, he caught with
his thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth,
pinching it lightly. She cried out sharply, her hands coming
up to cup his shoulders. Her nails dug into his shoulders
and she arched against him.
The heat of her was driving
him mad. Everything about her felt warm, alive… Pulling
back, he sucked air into starving lungs while he stared into
her eyes. The soft golden-green eyes looked as hungry as he
felt. “I want you,” he muttered hoarsely. “So much I hurt
with it. If you can’t do this, tell me now, while I can
still stop.”
His eyes looked so damned
tortured, Daisy thought. How in the hell had this happened?
She’d come here because of a lost child—one she knew was
dead. All she had was his word. She barely knew the man, but
his eyes didn’t lie. She’d come here because she had a job
to do. How had she ended up half naked on the floor?
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