Jayne spent Sunday morning thinking about the argument with Rupe. He was right: she was hiding behind Kyle’s betrayal, which, in turn, was stopping her from moving on.

Every time she thought about the tightly contained passion she’d sensed in Rupe when he’d put his mouth on hers the day before, her stomach made that weird flip, like the feeling of that first dip on a rollercoaster. She’d bet Rupert Fox-Whittingham knew where all the important points were on a woman’s body. No need to draw that man a map.

She closed her eyes as a shiver drifted over her skin, and then she shook her head. If only she weren’t in the middle of a messy divorce. If only she weren’t so damaged from Kyle’s treachery. If only Rupe weren’t her client.

Deciding that moping around would do her absolutely no good, she dressed in casual gear and went into work. No need for formal attire on the weekend.

After several hours with her head buried in case files, Jayne trudged home. Work had done its job, and she was so exhausted that her feelings for Rupe and the impossible situation they found themselves in were the last things on her mind.

But as she entered her apartment, regret, loneliness, and sorrow assailed her. Suddenly, her work, which she’d always put above everything else—even more so since Kyle’s betrayal—seemed like a poor substitute for a real life.

Without invitation, her mind turned to Mike. Ten years ago, he’d been in the same position she now found herself in. He’d been trying to climb the ladder, working all hours, leaving no time for himself. Yet he’d somehow managed to have it all: a position as a top-ranking police officer, a lovely wife, and a gorgeous new baby.

She rubbed her face as an uncomfortable feeling stirred in her stomach. After analysing it, she recognised the sensation as envy. She was envious of Mike and his perfect life, and yet she could have had all that with Kyle, but she hadn’t wanted to. So why was Rupe so different? She barely knew the man. Less than two weeks had passed since Darren had given her the case. Two weeks. Jesus.

What is wrong with me?

When her stomach rumbled, Jayne realised that she hadn’t eaten all day. She opened the fridge and took out a sad little meal for one. She pricked the cellophane wrapper and put the black plastic tray in the microwave.

After toying with the food for a few minutes, barely touching it, she threw the leftovers in the waste bin and headed off to bed.

* * *

She tossed and turned for what seemed like an age, but just as she was tumbling into unconsciousness, the mattress dipped beside her.

“Jayne,” a warm voice murmured in her ear as a large hand settled on her hip and pulled her close to an impossibly hard torso.

Jayne’s eyes sprang open as Rupe snuggled closer. His left hand travelled over her waist, her stomach, before cupping her breast through her nightgown. Jayne repressed a groan. She should stop this before it went too far, but it had been so long since she’d felt a man’s touch.

“How did you get in?” she murmured, but Rupe simply shushed her as he tugged down her nightgown and squeezed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Jayne arched into his hand, urging him to go harder and faster as a wave of desire crashed through her body.

Rupe eased her onto her back and slanted his mouth across hers, his tongue taking, possessing. God, this man owned her. He was proving that with his kisses alone.

As his mouth began to travel down her body, nipping, sucking, licking, Jayne clutched the bedclothes, scrunching them tightly in her hands. Her stomach clenched, and a rush of wetness pooled between her thighs. She’d been right: Rupe knew exactly where all of her pressure points were—which parts to stroke softly, which to treat roughly, which needed more attention than others. He was playing her like a finely tuned Stradivarius, and dear God, her body was singing.

Rupe settled between her legs, his day-old stubble rubbing the tender flesh between her thighs, which served to shoot her desire to the next level. He sucked hard on her clit and then used that wickedly exceptional tongue of his to plunge inside her over and over again.

“Oh, hell.” Jayne cried out as her hips automatically rose off the bed. Rupe took the opportunity to cup a hand under her backside, holding her in place as his mouth worked its magic and his fingers played about with her clit.

This is so wrong, but God help me, it feels so right.

Jayne felt herself building towards an inevitable climax. She rode the wave as expertly as any experienced surfer. As she reached the crest, Rupe pressed down hard on her clit, and she crashed onto the shore.

Jayne woke covered in sweat, midorgasm. Her body twitched and pulsed as she dragged herself into full consciousness.

Oh. My. God. She’d had a dirty dream—a wet dream about Rupe, which had resulted in an orgasm.

Jayne began to laugh. In thirty-two years of life, she’d never climaxed in her sleep. If her dream turned out to be even mildly accurate…

Well, that experience had taught her one thing: she had to get Rupert Fox-Whittingham off this trumped-up murder charge. And then she needed to fuck him out of her system.