Scarlet felt like someone had rubbed her entire eye area with sandpaper. Her lids were sealed with some kind of gritty shit that tore at her eyelashes when she wrenched her eyes open. By the fall of the sun across the room, it was mid-afternoon, when she normally woke up after a night shift, but still, something was off. She was confused for a moment, until she realized her view was of her living room sideways and not her bedroom walls, until how she’d spent her early morning came flooding back. Her head alternated between a pounding between her eyes and an ache at the back, where it pushed against the rather unyielding floor. Apparently, she’d spent the entire morning asleep on the rug. The rug where she’d completely freaked out after Connor had given her the most mild-blowing orgasm she’d ever had. From the look of the throw draped over her legs, she’d had the presence of mind to pull that down over her, but that was it. She was completely naked beneath it, a slight stickiness of sweat—and probably other things—covering her skin as a reminder of the colossal mistake she’d made.

Her hand flopped over her eyes, shielding them from the sun’s assault, and she groaned low in her throat as the memories flooded her mind. Connor. God, why did he have to be so fucking sexy? All muscle, rippling with every move, and ropy forearms, a vein standing out in sharp relief has he’d held his weight over her on one arm. The man oozed sex and probably didn’t have a single clue what he was doing to the entire female population every time he walked down Main Street. Let alone if any of them saw him naked . . .

She groaned again, flopping the arm back to her side. God, she was such an idiot. She’d been too busy tearing his clothes off that morning for any conversation. It would have only gotten in the way of the frantic seeking of an orgasm. Connor had delivered there, too. More than once. Her core clenched, choosing that moment to remind her of just how good the sex had been. Holy hell. That man knew how to fuck.

She sighed, hauling herself up and running a hand through what was undoubtedly the worse bed-head she’d ever had. It would have to be, Connor’s thrusts were so deep, she’d been sliding back and forth under him as he pounded into her. Was it possible to deeply regret she’d ever touched him and at the same time desperately want to rip his clothes off again the next time she saw him, all at once? The way her stomach was flip-flopping at the thought of seeing him naked again, she doubted even being right in the middle of Main Street would stop her.

She frowned. Perhaps that was just the Bloody Marys she’d consumed. Despite the food she’d had with them, alcohol had won the day. It had been intentional, she supposed. Usually, she drank just enough that she’d forget she was alone, forget she was walking back into an empty house at the end of her shift, with no one to talk to about her crappy day. No one to hold her as she cried when she hadn’t been able to save someone. She didn’t get raging drunk, and it wasn’t every day, but there were some days when going home to a dark, empty house was just too much to bear.

Except she hadn’t that morning. Instead, the alcohol had removed her inhibitions just enough to invite a man back with her. A man who had turned her inside out and her life upside down with the best sex she’d ever had.

Heat spread across her face, and she fought the urge to cover it with her hands again. No one was present to see her gigantic fuckup, complete with mental breakdown afterward. How the hell had she gone from feeling sorry for herself, missing her dead husband, to writhing underneath a firefighter on the goddamned floor while he ignited things inside her that she’d never felt before? Guilt pounded through her, flaring along with every beat of the headache against her temples.

Life with Derek had been good. He’d traveled a lot for work when he’d been picked up to join in by the Feds, and she’d worked long shifts, but when they’d actually managed to be in the same state and both home at the same time, life had been good. There’d been love there, passion, even. Sex with Derek had been good, pleasurable.

But that morning? She struggled up, propping herself against the couch. Sex with Connor was another thing altogether. She’d heard about women experiencing multiple orgasms, but the closest she’d ever come was to silently congratulate the lucky bitches in her head. Sure, Derek had always made sure she got hers, but Connor . . . Connor had played her body like a virtuoso, every touch designed to make her tremble, every kiss, every stroke of his tongue—against her lips and then other places—had made her shake with pleasure.

Scarlett dropped her face forward into her hands, giving in to the temptation. Fuck. Why was she feeling guilty? Derek was gone, and he wouldn’t want her feeling guilty. If they’d had any time to anticipate his death, for her to even talk to him that one last time, she was sure he would have wished her well, to live her life to the fullest.

A small smile flitted across his face. If he’d seen her in recent months, he’d probably be extremely pissed off with her. He would have taken a month of grieving, maybe two, before telling her to pull herself together and move on. He’d been a practical man. He wouldn’t have allowed her to wallow, or to waste a moment of her life on wishing for what might have been. He would have told her to grab life with both hands and shake it, take what she wanted.

So why the fuck was she resisting McClellan? She flinched at the thought of his last name. It felt wrong, impersonal. But maybe that was exactly what she should do. Maybe holding him at arm’s length was going to be the only way she would get the hell over that morning and move on.

She stood, bracing one arm on the couch as her legs wobbled beneath her. She hadn’t been that drunk, and so it must be spending hours tangled up in a crappy throw on the hard floor that was making her muscles lax. Either that, or the spectacular fuck she’d had six hours ago. Every muscle in her body had been coiled tight, wrapped around Connor as he possessed her, driving her pleasure to heights she didn’t know existed. They’d been frantic, desperately chasing after the lust that had enveloped them both from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. She’d felt it even then, a beautifully messy firefighter, sooty and damp, perched on the bumper of the fire engine as the wreck of the home smoldered behind them. Water had dotted the sidewalk in multiple puddles, what light there was casting the entire yard in shadows, the emergency lights reflecting off every surface like a beacon.

She should have been all business. What any of the firefighters she spoke to looked like was of no concern. Something she shouldn’t even have noticed. But when she’d locked eyes with Connor McClellan, the pen she’d been holding had shaken in her hand. She’d forced out a greeting, unable to help but smile as he’d stared at her, taking her in. She’d felt the attraction between them even then.

Scarlett had allowed her gaze to do its own exploring as they’d talked. She plopped down on the couch, frowning as she remembered what he’d discovered in the house. What the hell was she doing? It was time to stop moping over a sexy firefighter she was never going to be with again and get back to the case. The case made sense. There was evidence to uncover, leads to follow, and forensics to process—everything that would tell her what had been going on in the basement of a house in the middle of suburban Monroe. She sighed. If only people knew what went on behind closed doors but still right under their noses, every day of the week.

Like she and Connor had on the damn floor that she couldn’t stop staring at.

She blew out a breath, pushing her hair out of her face, and then stood, stalking to the bathroom. Even if she wanted to, she was never seeing him again. The brush-off she’d given him less than five minutes after he’d made her see heaven ensured that. He’d never want to talk to her again, and she definitely couldn’t blame him. Instead, she’d throw herself back into work—Derek be damned. He was dead. He’d left her, and so his ghost could just put up with whatever the fuck she needed to survive. Connor had been a momentary misstep, a pleasure that she could imbibe again. Her husband’s death had nearly killed her. Even if she wasn’t racked with guilt from being with another man, there was no way on earth or in hell that she’d ever fall for another first responder. Instead, she’d throw herself back into her work. It was simple—never let anyone in again, and then no one could ever hurt her.

She turned on the shower, letting the water run down her face, washing away any last traces of Connor’s scent and the evidence of their lovemaking forever. She’d clean up, then head down to the station and pull any evidence the techs had managed to gather while she’d been slowly losing her mind on her living room floor. Maybe there’d even been some security footage gathered, either by neighbors with cell phones and no integrity, or an official camera. Who knows, maybe even a house nearby had a security system installed. She could get lucky enough to find the whole thing on tape.

She closed her eyes as shampoo washed down her face. Had it been simply some idiot taking advantage of an empty house to cook up a batch of drugs, or was there something more sinister going on? There was only one way she’d find out. She pushed any memory of that morning—and Connor McClellan—out of her mind.

She had work to do.