Danika

Why did I agree to this? I hate dating. This chaotic stretch of island is packed full of people with complex wants and needs. We’re all here to pursue something. A dream, an escape, an unknown. Problem is, people don’t always know what they’re pursuing. They just want something, and they want it fast. Are we all expecting some bell to ding in our heads when we run into the right person? It’s such an unrealistic hope for people who don’t understand what they want. Or worse, what if what we want is the wrong thing?

For me, dates usually go one of two ways.

One, the man tells me what I want to hear, in the hopes that I’ll put out. The irony being, there is literally nothing that could turn me off faster, except a wedding ring. Two, my pending status as a police officer intimidates the man, and he spends the night overcompensating. Look at the size of this steak! Damn right I’ll eat the whole thing! Beer me!

Levi is a safe choice. He already knows I’m going to be a cop, and he can handle my good-natured ball breaking. Not to mention, if he tries to get me into bed on the first date, he knows I’ll probably break his nose.

My cell phone is sitting on the sink, and I check the time. Half an hour until I’m due to leave. The closer my departure looms, the more my stomach starts to tie in knots. Am I nervous about pizza with Levi? Uh, no. I’m nervous because going on a date with one guy feels wrong when I can’t stop thinking about another.

Dark blue eyes materialize in my mind, looking me over, head to toe. Observing my knee-high rain boots—in deference to the weather—my black skinny jeans and loose, off the shoulder T-shirt. A red bra strap peeks out, covered only by the ends of my hair. Would Greer think I look sexy? He’s never seen me in makeup. I haven’t even seen myself in makeup since training began at the academy. Would I be excited if I was meeting him for a date, instead?

I squeeze my thighs together at the mere idea. Of having his possessive hand on my back, those fingers brushing my neck during dinner. We wouldn’t even pretend to make small talk. Maybe we would be like we were today, in his office. Talking about real things that forced me to see him in a different light. If he organized a book club for officers who’d undergone a trauma, is he really the hard-ass I’ve built up in my head?

One last swipe of my hairbrush and I turn off all the apartment lights, throw my purse over my shoulder. Jack, Charlie, Ever and Katie spent the day at Governor’s Island at a concert, but the rain has probably already sent them back to Manhattan. I’d rather be gone when they get home, so I don’t have to answer any pre-date questions or overanalyze everyone’s reactions to my outfit.

Resolving to walk slowly toward the pizza place, I open the door—

“Oh my God,” I gasp, my walloping heart sending me back a step. “What . . .”

Greer is standing in the hallway, watching me with shadows in his eyes.

Rain drips off the folded edges of his NYPD beanie and fingertips. He’s so still I almost think my imagination is putting him there, but then he speaks in a clipped tone.

“Cancel it.”

My . . . date? Oh yeah. He’s talking about my date, and there’s no denying the indignation that fires to life inside of me. I don’t care if I’m attracted to this man. He doesn’t just get to show up and order me around. On a Saturday night, no less. We’re not in the academy gym right now—we’re on the threshold of my house.

Then why am I so excited? There’s a whole gallon of relief pouring down over my head, almost like I’d been subconsciously hoping he’d show up and make this exact demand. Make demands . . . period. The sound of my back hitting the mat, Greer breathing heavy above me, frees itself from my memories. Those incredible seconds I spent having my will tested by someone I trust won’t leave me alone. Now he’s here to do it again and . . . I have to fight the desire to let him, because his demand is irrational and high-handed. Isn’t it? Yes. “No way,” I breathe. “I’m not canceling.”

A muscle leaps in his cheek. His boots thunk twice on the ground, before creaking onto my side of the doorframe. If he thinks I’m going to back up, he has another think coming. My chin lifts so we can maintain eye contact. Dammit, I hate being short. But my lack of height is the last thing on my mind when Greer leans down and almost—almost—grazes my lips with his damp ones. “Do you need a little convincing?”

The way he says convincing curls fingers of heat below my belly button. It’s a scrape of two knives together, and there’s no way to misinterpret what kind of methods he’d use to convince me to cancel my date. “H-how?” I ask anyway. “How would you try to do that?”

“Yes or no. Do you want to be convinced?” Finally, just a hint of his lips brush mine, and the answering, down-low clench is so intense, I almost hit the deck. “Understand this. I’m going to do it my way, Danika. And I’m only figuring out what this way is now—with you—because I think you love it. Need it.” A single blunt finger lifts and traces my right hip, moving up my rib cage and detouring toward my breasts, raking over each hard nipple slowly. “Think you’d love some rough goddamn convincing, wouldn’t you, baby? Yes or no?”

This new need he stirred to life isn’t my secret. He’s known. “Yes.”

Without warning, he throws me over his shoulder. “Which bedroom is yours?”

It happens so fast, my thoughts are upside down, along with the room. “I—I . . . what?”

“Never mind, it’s the one closest to the bathroom.” He strides in the correct direction, steps purposeful. “You would have fought the boys for the best location.”

My room is dark when he walks inside, and my heart starts to hammer in heavy, furious beats. I’m in my bedroom with Lieutenant Greer Burns, and he’s made the demand for me to cancel my date. I’m going to do it my way. What does that entail? Does this mean that he cares? My thoughts are sent in a tumble again when I’m lifted off his shoulder and settled on the edge of my bed. I stare up at his imposing figure in the darkness, my breath traveling in and out in labored puffs.

God. God. He’s massive, his shoulders blocking out the streetlamp framed by my window. He looks even larger somehow when he carefully removes his wet jacket, laying it neatly across the top of my Ikea desk. His beanie follows, along with his gun belt. Methodical, confident. Sexy. Shouldn’t I be questioning his timely arrival instead of noticing how the material of his button-down shirt stretches across his pecs?

I’ve just about gathered enough presence of mind to form sentences when his coarse fingers lift my chin, turning my head side to side, like he’s examining me.

And then he’s gone, striding from the room. What the hell?

In my periphery, I register the bathroom light being turned on, the water running. Without him in the room, my common sense tries to roar back. A man has shown up at my apartment and demanded I change my plans. I’m an independent, badass future policewoman, and this shouldn’t be working for me in any way, shape or form. I should use this opportunity to grab my purse and make a break for it. But I don’t. I sit there like a moron, anticipation rising like a tide inside me. Still, when he strides back into the room and kicks the door shut behind him, I notice he’s carrying a washcloth, so I shoot to my feet. There has to be a line he can’t cross, right? Why do I want him to toe that line so hard? “What are you doing?”

“Most times, I would think this stuff on your face looks pretty.” He backs me up until I have no choice but to fall back down onto the bed’s edge. “Tonight is not one of those times.”

The warm washcloth swipes gently across my mouth, left to right. Back again. It glides up to my cheeks and over one eye. My common sense is screaming at me to fight, to call him an overbearing jackass—and I’m just about to, when he presses a kiss to my hair. His thumb traces the curve of my jaw, my lower lip. Reverently enough that I forget what he’s doing. At least until he throws the wet washcloth across the room, which carries twenty minutes of work in the bathroom mirror along with it. “Cancel it.”

His abrupt change in demeanor makes me sputter. “You don’t think I’m stubborn enough to walk out of here looking like a drowned raccoon?”

“Oh, I know you are.” Outside, the rain picks up intensity, moisture attacking the ancient window. “Time for you to find out how deep my stubborn runs, though, Danika. Isn’t that why you planned this little . . . date?”

My nipples turn to points when he bites out that last word. I feel every ounce of my femininity with him looming over me so determined. So frustrated. I’d never admit to being fragile, but if this man has a will to press on me? Yes. I’m fragile. He outmatches not just me, but most of the population, in every physical way. But more so because there’s a not-so-secret part of me that needs him to press that will. I want to know exactly how big and bad he is. Is he right? Did I agree to this date to goad him? “I’m not canceling it, Lieutenant, so get to stepping.”

“You will.” He slides a finger beneath my red bra strap, and I don’t dare breathe as he slides that digit back and forth. “So help me God, you better not have the matching panties on.”

My stomach muscles draw in tight, just hearing a delicate word like panties on lips made of carved granite. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His finger stops moving. “Last chance to cancel it.”

I can’t lose this opportunity to find out why he came. Is this just physical or something more? “You haven’t even told me why. Why should I cancel it, Greer?”

The dark bedroom zings with the fact that I said his first name. Blue eyes track sideways from my shoulder to settle on my mouth. And I want to take back the question, because the answer scares me more than a little. This is not a man to be managed. Or played with. He might not even be knowable. There are so many mysteries locked up behind that carefully honed, cold exterior, who knows what might be lurking?

“I don’t have the words for an explanation,” he rasps, going down on his knees. I’m so glued to what he’s saying, I don’t even resist as he yanks off my rain boots, letting them thud on the ground. One. Two. “I only know if you go on that date, any date, I’m not going to get rid of the cold that comes with it. You’re not supposed to go on dates.”

If he didn’t sound so lost, I could’ve kept my final, tenuous shred of indignation alive. He does, though. Now I’m lost, too. I’m going to be lost until I find him, I think. Oh, Jesus, that’s scary. Since orientation day at the academy, gravity has pulled me toward this man, and now I’m caught. What happens next? “What should I be doing instead?” I whisper. “Of dates.”

Warm hands close around my feet, climbing the backs of my calves, before sliding around to my knees. Thighs. Higher and higher, until his gaze lifts to mine. Hunger, a man’s hunger, bleeds from those eyes with so much force, I go soft and wet between my legs. Simple and damning biology, woman preparing to please and be pleased. “I want like hell to say you should be with me, but I don’t know if that’s true.” He growls a curse, those huge hands kneading my thighs. “Danika.”

That’s it. All he says is my name, three syllables packed with warning and need, before he prowls onto the bed, knocking me onto my back. A sob wracks my body, my senses already overwhelmed with his innate dominance, when he’s barely even touched me. His bulk hovers an inch above mine, the capable strength of his arms keeping him elevated.

Finally, he drops his mouth to the air above mine, loitering there so long, I almost scream. “Cancel it,” he rasps. “Now.”

Or what, is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t find it in me to challenge him. Not when he’s looking at me like a . . . gift. One he’s afraid to play with, but can’t help it. “If I cancel it, will you kiss me already?”

He nods, his eyelids weighed down with anticipation. “By the time I’m done fucking that smart-ass mouth with my tongue, you’re going to know what real stubborn tastes like.”

I don’t even command my legs to part, they just do it. As if that filthy promise was the magic words my hormones had been waiting for. Unfortunately, Greer is still holding himself above me, probably refusing to press down until I cancel with . . . who is the date with again? Oh, right. Levi. “M-my phone is in my—”

Greer cuts me off with a grunt, tipping his head toward the purse, which I hadn’t noticed in my periphery, nor can I remember how it got onto my bed. It only takes me a few seconds to dig out the device and pull up Levi’s number, hitting call.

“Making this call with you listening is so wrong,” I mutter. “On every level.”

The lieutenant drops his hips, just enough to ride his thick erection up the valley of my parted legs, pressing down on my clit. Staying there. “There’s your motivation.”