The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      “…and it’s another sub-zero-degree day in this part of Montana, blizzard conditions on the roads and another storm rolling in this afternoon.” The radio announcer sounded way too chipper considering the news he was delivering. “Coming up after this, we’ve got an extensive road report and school-closure list, so stay with us at KKAR at ninety-seven point six on your FM dial.”

      He segued into the first notes of “Winter Wonderland.”

      Regan Pescoli buried her face into her pillow and groaned at the thought of rousing. Bing Crosby crooning about the joys of snow wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear, not this morning. Her head was thundering, her mouth tasted like garbage and the last thing she needed was to roll out of a nice warm bed and head to the sheriff’s department office where all hell was surely breaking loose with this last storm.

      Besides, it was still only November. There was still a lotta time before Christmas.

      She slapped at the damned radio without opening her eyes, missed and realized belatedly that she wasn’t in her own bed. Holy crap! Lifting an eyelid, she focused on her surroundings only to recognize the scarred, shabby furniture of room seven at the North Shore, a small, local motel where she stayed overnight with her sometime lover. Never mind that the low-slung concrete-block motel was situated at the south end of town, near the county line, and there was no shore, no river, no lake and certainly no ocean for miles.

      She blinked at the mocking, red digital display of the clock radio: 7:08. If she didn’t get cracking, she’d be late for work.

      Again.

      “Oh hell,” she muttered, untangling her legs from the faded striped quilt of the queen-sized bed.

      He was just lying there, snoring softly, his incredible, muscular back to her, his hair black and gleaming against the pillowcase.

      “Sweet dreams, hotshot,” she muttered ungraciously as she searched in the dark for her clothes. Black lacy undies, matching bra, slacks and a sweater.

      “Back atcha, sunshine,” he whispered without so much as lifting his head.

      “Some of us have to work.”

      “Really?” He rolled over then, instantly awake, and grabbed her hard, pulling her back down onto the bed.

      “Hey! I don’t have time for this—”

      “Sure you do.”

      “Really, I—”

      But he’d already stripped her of the bra she’d just put on and had yanked off her panties in one quick, sure motion. He rolled her atop him and she felt his erection, thick, hard and ready.

      “You miserable son of a bitch,” she said as he thrust up inside her.

      “That’s me.”

      God, he was good. Her juices began to flow within seconds and his hands, kneading her breasts before he rose up to suckle her nipples, made her cry out in pleasure.

      His movements were quick. Sure. Long.

      She was panting, her breath fast and shallow, her blood coursing hot through her veins, her mind spinning in images of lovemaking and desire.

      Her fingernails bit into the muscles of his shoulders as she felt herself begin to spasm. One rocking contraction after another as she leaned back her head, her eyes shut. An orgasm started deep inside and shook her to her soul. “Oh God…Oh God…”

      He held her tight, strong hands gripping her waist, keeping their bodies pressed together as he jerked upward, thrusting in and out, faster and faster, causing her breath to get lost somewhere in her lungs and her mind to spin out of control again. “Oooooh,” she whispered as at last he lunged upward, thigh muscles straining and taut. With a growl and one last, hard, mind-numbing thrust, he let go, releasing himself into her.

      She felt him stiffen, his back muscles convulse, and when she opened her eyes she found him staring at her, as he always did whenever they made love.

      “Damn you,” she said, sweat running down her back and curling the hairs around her nape. “Damn you straight to hell.”

      “Too late,” he said and laughed, pulling her down into the rumpled bedclothes. “I’m already there.”

      “I know.” She let out a long sigh, telling herself she really, really had to get up. “Me, too.”

      “You’re late, you know.”

      “You love it, don’t you?”

      “Love what?”

      “Being a prick.”

      His grin was a wicked slash of white in the semi-dark. “No, darlin’, you love it.”

      She snorted and rolled off the bed, swiped up her clothes and, before he could grab her again, dashed into the bathroom, where the air was so cold her СКАЧАТЬ