The rules were, you were always supposed to let the car you pulled over drive off before you did, but she was still sitting in the car as we’d driven away.

Add to the list of rules we were definitely not following that day.

Samantha Caraway — all dark hair, blue eyes, sun-kissed skin and sinful curves was still sitting there in that white BMW convertible, hands on the wheel and a flush on her face.

Good.

My cock was still rock hard from putting my hands on her, my pulse roaring in my ears at the memory of the smoothness of her skin — the way her breath had caught as I’d slid my fingers over her hips.

That had not been smart.

“That was a stupid fucking move, by the way.”

I glanced at Blake, my partner, and best friend since before I could even remember, and frowned before looking away.

I didn’t need to be told that what’d just gone down back there was against the rules, not to mention dangerous. Believe me, I knew it.

“Jesus Christ, c’mon, man,” Blake swore, gripping the wheel of the squad car tighter, his jaw clenching when I glanced back at him. “Her? Of all the fucking women in the world you’ve gotta pull insane shit like that with, it’s her? You know—”

“I know, okay?” I snapped, clenching my hand into a fist around the door hand-hold and narrowing my eyes at the road ahead. I knew, and I knew that Blake was right — pulling the “step out of the car and spread ‘em” routine with some hot young college girl on vacation was one thing. Flashing that “bad cop” grin and maybe flexing a little bit of muscled to some blushing housewife who’d just blown a stop-sign? Yeah, maybe boundary-pushing in terms of the badge, but that’d never stopped either of us before.

Except Samantha Caraway was different.

And how did we know that?

Well, because this wasn’t the first time either of us were meeting her.

Okay, it was the first face-to-face, and the first time we’d spoken to her, but Blake and I had been watching Samantha for the better part of a month now, as part of our ongoing investigation. See, we aren’t just beat-cops and ticket writers. My buddy and I were also detectives — first class. Yeah, it was basically like working two jobs, but you couldn’t complain about the money, and besides, neither of us were tied down or anything, and truth be told, we fuckin’ loved being cops.

The ongoing investigation wasn’t about Samantha, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t gotten caught up in the surveillance net we’d set up in conjunction with the FBI on this case.

Technically, it was that deadbeat of a fiancé of hers that the investigation was concerned with — him and the little side piece he’d picked up. And by “side piece,” I mean “Maria Santiago, niece to Miguel Santiago.” The very same Miguel Santiago who was currently one of the biggest importers of cocaine into southern California.

Through some bad card games, and maybe the wrong kind of friends, Tim Plimpton, Samantha’s fiancé, had found himself hooked in with some bad fucking people. Thing is though, he might have been a shitbag, but he was apparently no slouch of a lawyer. He was so good, in fact, that he’d quickly found work with Miguel as a personal attorney — something that came in handy when you’re smuggling literal tons of an illegal substance across international borders.

The investigation was ongoing — we still needed solid evidence to be sure of a conviction, but Blake and I had been helping out for about a month now.

And our job?

Surveillance. Specifically, Tim’s house.

Even more specifically, since he was pretty much never home these days, our surveillance had basically been entirely of Samantha.

Fuck.

And in a month, there were two damn sure things Blake and I knew about her. One, she had nothing to do with Tim’s bullshit. And two, Samantha Caraway was a fucking goddess.

Dark hair, stunning blue eyes, tanned skin, and curves for days. Sweet, bee-stung lips, perfect, full tits, an ass I wanted to sink my teeth into, and a body I wanted to dominate while she begged for more.

Watching her had been both heaven and hell. On the one side, we’d basically spent twelve hours a day for the past month sitting in a van watching and listening to her on the FBI-sanctioned cameras and microphones installed all over their house. Twelve hours a day watching Samantha Caraway sleep, undress, shower, and work out.

Holy fuck. Neither of us had the slightest clue how a boring paper-pushing, slightly pudgy dude like Tim Plimpton had a girl like that — moreover, the fact that he was stepping out on her was actually mind-blowing.

We knew from watching that Tim hadn’t so much as touched his knockout of a fiancé in a month — body language and knowing how long things had been going on with Maria told us it’d been way longer than that.

And so had watching Samantha.

Because besides sleeping, and eating, and doing yoga on her back deck, and generally going about her day-to-day routine, there was one other thing about watching her that was by far and away the best part of our fuckin’ job.

It was the times when being ignored by her fiancé for so long caught up with her. It was the times when we’d watch Samantha Caraway lay back on her big empty bed and let her own fingers do what ours were dying to do.

It was watching Samantha spread those long, tan legs, pinch a perfect dusky nipple between her fingers, and slip her other hand over her slick, pink pussy until she arched her back and screamed into a pillow.

Yeah, that was the heaven part of the job we’d been doing.

The hell part had been slowly realizing both of us were fucking addicted to her and knowing she was the single most off-limits girl in the world.

Running into her today on our beat duty had been a complete fluke. We’d seen the car speed past us, we’d seen the numbers pop up on our radar, and we’d started the siren — all by the book.

And then we’d realized who the fuck we were about to pull over, and I know both of our cocks swelled a little at the thought.

After a month of watching Sam, we were about to get her face-to-face.

Apparently, I’d failed that test. Hard. Apparently, getting face-to-face with Samantha had sent my reason and sense flying out the fucking window. Maybe it was the goddamn bikini she’d been wearing. Maybe it was those sweet sinful curves on display like that. Maybe it was getting a whiff of jasmine — her shampoo or something — when I’d stepped up to that car.

Whatever it was, it’d snapped something in me, and I’d been powerless to stop it. I’d been powerless to stop myself from putting my hands on her, the blood roaring in my ears and my cock ready to tear a damn hole in my pants as she’d bent over the hood of that car in front of me. The way her breath had caught when my fingers touched her skin, the way she’d gasped so sweetly when I’d skimmed them up her thighs.

And then reason had taken over, and I’d snapped out it somehow.

Somehow, I’d walked away without tearing off that bikini, burying my tongue in that sweet pussy, and then filling her up with every fucking inch of my big cock.

“You asshole.”

I glanced at Blake, his brow furrowed as he glared at the road.

“Look, I’m sorry, man. Trust me, I know procedure, and I know that was endangering the damn operation—”

“I’m not talking about the fucking job, you dick.” Blake turned and grinned at me.

“I’m talking about you getting to put your hands on that sweet little body, prick.”

I grinned back. “I swear, it won’t happen again.”

“Yeah well if it does, I’m doing the bikini pat-down, got it?”

I laughed, my cock still rock hard. “Got it.”

I knew the job was just to watch her. I knew the job was to observe, report, and stay the fuck away from her.

But I also knew one more thing: I knew that after putting my hands on Samantha Caraway once, there wasn’t a chance in hell I wasn’t going to do everything I could to make it happen again.

I would get my hands on her again, and next time?

Next time I wasn’t just going to use my hands.