My Only Vice. Elizabeth Bevarly

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СКАЧАТЬ couldn’t quite help the smile that curled her lips. “Well, it can be,” she said. “In the right hands.”

      The other women in the class chuckled knowingly, something that clearly only confused Sam more. Alice, however, saved Rosie from having to explain by snatching the vibrator out of Sam’s hand and turning it on. It immediately relaxed from its erect cylindrical shape and began to twist itself into a series of elaborate, contorted motions that Rosie knew could be set at a variety of speeds, intensities and temperatures. It was erotic poetry in motion.

      “It’s the Xtacy 3000,” Alice said for Sam’s enlightenment. “A personal fulfillment device.”

      “Personal fulfillment device,” Sam said without any enlightenment whatsoever.

      Then again, he was obviously the kind of man who could personally fulfill a woman to the point where she wouldn’t need a device for that, so Rosie supposed it shouldn’t be surprising that he’d have no knowledge of such things.

      Alice rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated sigh. “A vibrator,” she clarified.

      Sam’s dark brows shot up at that, and a faint stain of pink bloomed on his cheeks. Oh, for God’s sake, Rosie thought. He was blushing. Honestly blushing. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a manly man do something so adorable. That Sam was doing it only made him so much sexier. And so much more irresistible.

      “I had it on my Christmas list last year,” Alice continued as she watched the vibrator do its thing. “But the demand has been so high since it hit the market that it’s been impossible to find. Especially in this color.” Her voice softening, she looked at her husband and added, “Oh, Donnie. You do still love me. Wherever did you find it?”

      And with that, she tucked herself under Don’s now-freed arm and snuggled against him with such obvious, unmitigated love that Rosie couldn’t help but smile. Wow. Someday, she hoped she’d find a guy like Don. Only without the comb-over and the green Clover Mart jacket. One who would understand her needs and desires and do his best to fulfill them while loving her to distraction.

      Inevitably, her gaze wandered to Sam, and she saw that he was watching the Xtacy 3000 intently. But he didn’t look in any way turned-on, the way the women in the group did, Rosie couldn’t help thinking. Instead, he was looking at it as if he were wondering what kind of addition it would be to his Craftsman tool collection.

      Men. They just couldn’t see the erotic side of machinery. She wondered what he’d say if she told him how many women had discovered dual uses for everything from hand mixers to washing machines. Or was it just Rosie who had discovered dual uses for stuff like that…?

      Sam watched warily for a moment as Alice and Don continued to snuggle, then his expression softened. Well, okay, maybe softened was a little too extreme a word to use, since what his expression actually did was…um…become less hard. Then he lifted a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it in that way men did when they were a little uncomfortable about something.

      He asked, “So, Alice, does this mean you won’t need me to include your house and studio on my daily rounds anymore?”

      For a minute, Rosie didn’t think Alice had heard the question, but then she turned a distracted gaze to Sam, as if she only now remembered where she was and what was going on. She seemed to remember then, too, how she’d been mad at Don for weeks, because she pushed herself away from him and fisted her hands on her hips again, making a halfhearted attempt to look angry.

      But the resentment in her voice was clearly forced when she said, “Well, Don and I have a lot to talk about. Just because he brought me a gift doesn’t mean all is forgiven.”

      Hah, Rosie thought with a smile. That wasn’t just any gift.

      “But no, Chief,” Alice told him, “you don’t have to stop by anymore. For now,” she added with a chilly look at Don…which inevitably turned into a warm smile.

      Sam dropped his hand back to his side and nodded, then turned to go. He first strode past the line of women, including Rosie, without looking at any of them. But as he gripped the handle of the studio door, he pivoted back around and met her gaze levelly with his own. “I’m sorry about sacking you the way I did,” he told her.

      Well, that made one of them, Rosie thought.

      “I was aiming for Don,” he added. “Then you stepped in front of him, and…” His voice trailed off, since it really wasn’t necessary to say anything more.

      She started to tell him it was okay, that his sacking her had in fact been the closest thing she’d had to a sexual encounter with a living, breathing man in a long time, and could they possibly get together for another sacking sometime soon? But she checked herself after a simple, “That’s okay.”

      He started to turn around again, but halted, clearly wanting to say something he wasn’t sure how to say. Finally, though, his gaze ricocheting now from Rosie’s face to the wall behind her, he asked, “How do you know it can be a stick of dynamite in the right hands?”

      In lieu of a response, Rosie waited until he was looking at her again, then she lifted both hands and wiggled her fingers at him.

      He arched his brows again, and she watched to see if he would blush as he had before. He didn’t. But his dark eyes grew darker, and his lips parted fractionally, as if he suddenly needed more air. He didn’t say anything else after that, only spun around again and made his way out of the studio. Rosie’s gaze fell to his rump as he went, then climbed to those broad shoulders straining at the seams of his white cop shirt. She remembered how happy he’d been to see her when he was lying on top of her.

      And, just like that, all thoughts of the Xtacy 3000 were gone.

      2

      ONE THING ABOUT small-town Northaven that hadn’t surprised Sam was its police station. Nestled at the center of Main Street in what was called the town’s historic quarter, it was housed in a restored brick-front building that hosted several small businesses—one of which just happened to be Rosie Bliss’s flower shop, Kabloom, three doors down. The walkway outside was cobbled, of course; the windows were paned, naturally; and the interior could only be described as quaint, a word Sam normally, manfully, avoided.

      But there was no other term to capture the mood of the hardwood floors and plaster walls painted what Vicky, their dispatcher, called Wedgwood blue. Whatever the hell that was. The desks—all three of them—were antique monstrosities that could comfortably serve dinner for twelve, and the chairs were spindled wooden numbers that creaked comfortably whenever anyone sat down. In fact, the creaking of chairs and floors made up the bulk of the sounds in the place, interrupted only by the soft strains of music from the radio, which Vicky kept tuned to a light jazz station.

      It was nothing like the soulless cinder block and dented metal and cracked plastic of Sam’s Boston precinct. And the stench of too many unwashed perps and overworked cops had been replaced by freshly baked bread from Barb’s Bohemian Bakery next door. Also absent was the constant ringing of phones, the whining and jeering of the hookers and pushers in the cages, and the free-flowing profanity of his colleagues. Sam, like his two full-time deputies and the half-dozen volunteer deputies who visited the precinct from time to time, had learned to watch his language, because Vicky fined anyone who swore within her hearing a dollar for every inappropriate word used. Then she donated the money to the Northaven Free Public Library.

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