Mio, Run Baby Run

Chapter 11 Declan

I turn to face her.

"Hey..." I reach out, fingers grazing the soft bare skin on the back of her hand. The need to touch her is a magnetic pull I can't quite comprehend. Fatigue is playing havoc with my emotions—48 hours with no sleep, running on pure adrenaline. That's the only explanation. My mouth opens to say her name, but I realize we haven't even introduced ourselves. I'm losing my shit. The sooner I get home, the sooner I'll feel like myself again.

She rests her head on the seat and car door, her body slouched to the side. Unclipping my seat belt, I lean over, placing my fingers on her shoulder to coax her back to an upright position. She grumbles, annoyed. Her hands rise in protest, eyelids twitching. Her bun has loosened over the journey, and as she shifts, a tie in her hair comes loose. Mousey brown locks cascade down, some falling around her face like rivers of milky chocolate. Her head droops, hair sheltering her face. I push back loose strands, hooking them behind her ear. She's an understated beauty, like a hidden treasure revealed. Taking in every detail before she wakes, I study her face. There's a story behind the façade and it has me intrigued. Her eyes shoot open with horror. She must have felt my stare. Defensively, I explain, "We're here, your place. You have been asleep."

She blinks, regaining her senses. Stirring in her seat, she winces from the effects of the accident. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks, her tongue darting out to lick her upper lip, instantly conjuring a vivid image in my head. The pointy pink tip of her tongue, circling the head of my cock.

"I'll walk you up," I offer, unclipping her seat belt and leaning over her to place it aside. She looks startled, her face unsure of my intentions.

"The belts don't retract in this car. It's from the 1970s," I say with amusement, trying to show I'm harmless. In truth, I could easily do her harm. I could turn her world upside down. Withdrawing myself from her personal space, I breathe her in then settle back into my seat. Her scent searing into my memory. It's distinctive, fresh like rugged plains with spicy, leathery, musky notes—almost masculine but still feminine.

"It's fine," she objects, rejecting my offer. Her fingers curl around the door handle, pushing against the heavy door. The car is old, built to last, and she struggles to open it fully. Seizing the opportunity, I spring from the driver's seat to help her. I'm acting like a lovesick teenager. I'm a senior detective, not some pimple-faced kid, trying to get laid for the first time. This is fucken stupid. So why her? The voice in my head is jovial: must be a full moon. But there's no logical reason. I'm gushing over her like my cocks become a homing pigeon. She's nothing like the women I usually date—if you can call it dating. I fuck, I don't have time for relationships. The women I have allowed into my life have agreed to a specific arrangement. We have a mutual understanding that allows us all to get what we need, when we need it.

Rounding the car, I pull at the handle before she can escape. The door strains, creaking at the hinges. She gathers the fabric of her dress, revealing jet-black high-heeled boots. Slender spikes of glossy obsidian, rising sharply from the ground like elegant exclamation marks. Sophisticated, and expensive. Well, that's unexpected. Raising the hem, she clambers out of the low-slung Mustang. Watching her struggle arouses me further. She's at eye level, and she could easily see the outline of my semi-hard cock straining against my jeans. Thrusting out my hand, I help her. She stands unsteadily on four-inch heels. Now it's obvious how she's gotten herself into this mess.

"You need to see a doctor," I remind her, more forcefully this time.

"I'm fine," she insists curtly. She's about to argue but wavers, stumbling. Her body involuntarily falters, jolting to one side. Her arms flail immediately, stretching out to counterbalance her descent. Instinctively I swoop in, steadying her. Her hand rises to her temples, massaging the worry lines creasing her forehead.