“I think you’ll find it’s illegal.”
Rosie turned at the low, deep voice. A voice made for sin.
She let her gaze drift over the voice’s owner. A fallen angel, his blonde curls a perfect match for his angular features. His blue eyes were old in a young man’s face, and said he’d seen many a thing he wished he could forget.
“What’s illegal?” she asked, intrigued now.
The bar was a classy one, and Rosie knew it. She’d dressed for glamour, her knee length cocktail dress demure in the front, high necked, and dipping down almost to her panty line at the back.
Inside, jazz music played on low. Other patrons gathered in groups around the romantically lit space. Rosie stood by the big floor to ceiling windows, gazing out at the heavy rain streaking down the glass.
“That dress,” the stranger murmured, still keeping his voice low. His ocean blue eyes gave her a slow once over, and Rosie felt the little mouse of desire skitter down her spine.
“Magnus Martinsson,” he said. “Detective.”
Rosie arched a brow as she held his gaze. “Detective. And are you here to arrest me?”
He took a step closer. She picked up his scent, the bitter tang of coffee and just a fresh hint of citrus. Her body sat up and started to pay attention now. “Well. I’m off the clock. Perhaps I’ll let you off with a warning if you have a drink with me.”
Magnus held out his hand and Rosie took it. He led her to the bar and she stood, waiting for the bartender’s attention.
Her pulse picked up as Magnus tucked a loose curl of hair behind her ear. His warm hand slid down her neck and cupped her shoulder.
“Taking liberties already, Detective?” she asked, her breath catching. He was tall, broad and warm behind her, his front cradling her back and the comparison of their positions to sex was not lost on her.
He smiled against her hair. “Thinking about writing me up for police brutality, are you?”
Rosie’s heart thumped a quick, excited one-two. “Only if you make it worth my while. Detective. ”
The bartender reached them, putting the pause button on their banter. Rosie ordered a mojito for herself and the bartender gave Magnus another pint of the local ale on tap.
They retired to a quiet corner with their drinks, and Rosie crossed her legs, getting comfortable. She took her time admiring the tall man sitting opposite her as he folded himself into the chair. His legs seemed to last forever, leading to a broad torso, pleasingly clad in a snug gunmetal grey, button down shirt.
Magnus lifted his glass, sending her a grin just on the cusp of cheeky. “Cheers. To new friends.”
“To new friends.” Rosie clinked her cocktail glass against his thicker pint glass, the clacking of the two vessels loud between them. “So.” She sipped her mojito. The bartender had used a free hand with the rum, and she felt it burn pleasantly on her tongue and in the pit of her stomach. “What shall we talk about?”
Fuck, he was hot.
Rosie tunnelled her hands through Magnus’ gorgeous pile of honey-gold hair as he kissed on her doorstep. He backed her into the door, his mouth hot on her neck, biting gently, but hard enough to leave a mark tomorrow. She arched into him, wanting the brand, relishing the tiny hurt.
“Keys,” he bit out, and Rosie fumbled in the pocket of her jacket for a moment, finally coming up with the goods. She turned his Magnus’s arms and he renewed his attentions, this time on the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered. The rain had stopped an hour or so ago, leaving the late evening world fogged and dewy. Even the crowded streets of London had seemed magical as they had run from the tube station, hand in hand, laughing, high on infatuation and alcohol.
The door gave way eventually, and Rosie half fell in, laughing. She groped for the light switch but Magnus stayed her hand.
“I’d prefer not to have any observers,” he whispered against her pulse point, and she nodded, drunk. Drunk on the scent and taste and feel of his rangy, big body.
They hurried down the dark hallway towards the door of Rosie’s flat. Another key fumble, and they were in, alone together. They stood in the open doorway, Magnus’ hands on Rosie’s waist and her hands under his shirt, breathing each other in.
Rosie had left a lamp on in the living area, and the soft light cast a halo-esque glow around Magnus’ blond curls. A fallen angel, she thought again, before closing the door and renewing her attentions at his shirt.
She tugged it totally free of his jeans, ripping a button off in the process.
He let out a low chuckle. The sound zipped through her body and settled between her legs.
“Feisty. And here I thought I was going to be the one accused of brutality.”
“Shut up.” Impatient now, she pushed him backwards. He landed on the sofa and she wasted no time in joining him, straddling his lean body on the firm grey cushions. The soft fabric of her dress spread over them both, an intimate cocoon.
His cerulean gaze ate her up as she pushed free the remaining buttons on his shirt and spread her greedy hands over the width of his chest. His skin was smooth, hot to the touch. He lay back, content to caress her only with his eyes as she bent down, touching her tongue to first the pulse point in his neck and then the hollow of his throat. When she tongued one nipple, the strangled sound he made spurred her on and she continued her lazy exploration.
“Oh, now you want to go slow,” he bit off.
“Behave or I’ll have your badge,” she teased, kissing a slow path down his toned abdomen towards his belt buckle.
Magnus arched his hips and Rosie smiled against his skin. She sat up on him, her hands toying with the metal of his belt, fingers brushing the ridge of the erection tenting his jeans.
“Fuck,” he gritted out.
He narrowed those gorgeous eyes at her. “I’m having a hard time believing that you don’t make a habit of this.”
Laughing, Rosie slipped his belt through the eyelets, parting the sides of the leather. She traced her finger around the button on his worn, darkwash jeans and then stroked the seam of the denim, where he waited, hard and heavy for her.
He bucked those lean hips. “Christ.”
The words he bit off in that voice made for sex stoked her arousal. Ready to give him what he wanted, Rosie’s busy fingers made their way to the metal button of his fly.
Magnus had other ideas. He sat up, his arms banding around her, and in a blink, he’d flipped their positions. Rosie wiggled underneath him, spreading her legs so her hips cradled his. Magnus thrust against her and they both moaned. She arched her back and Magnus slipped lower on her body, licking and then sucking her peaked nipples through the fabric of her little black dress.
“Take it off,” she whispered.
“No.” His breath against her sensitive flesh made her inner muscles clench. “I thought about fucking you in it.”
She threaded a hand through his tattered-silk curls. “Do it.”
He pushed her dress up her thighs, pooling the heavy, expensive fabric around her waist. Underneath she wore plain black panties, but he didn’t comment as he eased them down her legs, sitting back so she could lift one leg and then the other in turn.
“The shoes stay.”
Rosie chuckled as she pressed her heels into the small of his back.
“I need them for evidence,” he murmured, his voice low, his tone intimate.
She started to laugh, but the sound turned into a gasp as Magnus focused his attention between her legs, his clever fingers dancing over her wet, swollen flesh until she saw stars behind her eyelids.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper.
She knew a moment a cold as Magnus shucked off his clothes, and then he returned, covering her body with his. Eager, she looped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist as he positioned himself at her entrance. Their gazes locked, and she whispered his name as he slid inside to the hilt.
As he bottomed out, Rosie gasped, tilting her hips until he was seated as deep as possible. She clenched her inner muscles experimentally around the length of him, drawing a string of expletives from Magnus’ lips. She stroked a hand down his back and he began to move, setting a punishing pace that rocked the sofa they lay on.
Rosie curled her legs tighter around him as they moved together in the timeless dance of sex. Magnus slid a hand under her hips, lifting her closer, hitting a sweet spot that started the spiral of an orgasm low in her body. Within moments she was gasping against the straining column of his neck, and he joined her, his body coiling tight against hers as he emptied himself inside her.
They clung to each other for a long moment. The flat creaked gently around them, the old bones of the Victorian terrace settling for the night.
“What the fuck was that?” Rosie asked.
Magnus lifted his head to look into her face, knowing he looked goofy, happy and sated. “Which part?”
“All the police brutality stuff.”
He nipped at her bottom lip playfully. “I am sorry, Mrs Martinsson, if my first attempt at roleplaying wasn’t to your liking.”
Rosie slid a hand down his back, slicked lightly with sweat. She toed her shoes off and they landed almost soundlessly on the rug. “Oh no. It was.”
“And what about you? I’ll have your badge?” He laughed, tucking her against him. They barely both fit on the aged grey sofa. “Is that how you think people in porn speak?”
“Is it?” she asked curiously.
He smiled against her hair, stroking her arm languidly, already planning their next pretend rendezvous. “A Detective never discloses his sources.”