Cold Case, Hot Bodies(9)

By: Jule McBride


Where the hell was Sheila? He could sure use some body heat. After taking another swig of whiskey, he set the bottle on the nightstand, along with his wallet and badge. Checking to make sure his gun was under the bed, he switched on the video recorder.

Sheila was going to love his surprise. Pat would get a kick out of the story, too. Suddenly frowning, he thought about Pat’s engagement, then pushed aside the thought. Everybody he knew might be settling down, but Dario wasn’t going to let it get in the way of his own lifestyle.

Rummaging in his jeans pockets, he put some open condom packages and a twenty-dollar bill on the nightstand. Since Sheila was intent on playing Gem O’Shea, he’d pay her. As soon as she got here, he’d turn on the light, then they could make the homemade movie while polishing off the rest of the whiskey.

He smiled. He was glad he’d met Sheila. All she cared about was sex. She was like a female version of him. His other half. Taking off his briefs, he tossed them to the floor. Might as well be ready when she gets here, he thought.

A second later, he was out like the light.





“WAKE UP, SAILOR.”

Husky murmurings sounded beside Dario’s ear. Hot breath tickled his earlobe. His head was pounding, and he groaned when he realized he must have had way too much to drink last night. The warm whiskey had tasted great going down, burning a path from his mouth to his belly, just as surely as a kiss, but now…Fingernails raked upward on his bare chest, then stopped to trace circles around his nipples. He groaned again, arousal catching him unaware. Music was playing, sounding faraway. Probably coming from one of the other apartments, he thought, but who was up so late? Zu and Ling said they went to bed early. Brice and Carmella had to work. And Rosie had a kid. Maybe he’d just drifted, and it was still only a little after midnight.

Weight was bearing down on him. Sheila, he guessed. He’d tossed and turned, so the sheet had tangled around his legs, and now, even if she hadn’t been on top of him, he couldn’t have moved. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw only vague shadows, enough to know he wasn’t dreaming. A woman was definitely straddling him.

“Finally,” he whispered. Shutting his eyes again, he lifted his hands, curving them over hips. Nice, plump womanly hips. Not too skinny—he hated women who starved themselves—but not too padded, either. Just right. It was one of the many things he liked about Sheila. After uttering a lusty sigh, he smiled. Her muscles flexed beneath his fingertips as she rocked against him, her inner thighs squeezing.

She was so responsive. That was another thing he liked. Now, if she’d only move upward a tiny inch. She was a hair’s breadth from where he was aching for her. So close.

Please. He thought the word as soft hands curled around his shoulders, then dug deep—now exploring dips and crevices around his collarbone. After a moment, flattened palms pressed down hard on his pectorals, feeling like heaven.

“What time is it?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over all the racket. It was hard to believe somebody thought whatever was playing was music. He slitted his eyes open, but again, saw only inky darkness. The music sounded like show tunes, maybe something from Broadway.

“Three,” she whispered.

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

No wonder he felt like hell. “Better late than never.”

“Do we still have time?”

He didn’t have to be at work until nine. “We can get a lot done in six hours.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it earlier, the way I promised.”

“Me, too.”

“You feel sorry,” she whispered, the brush of her belly making clear what she meant. He was as hard as a rock. Her voice sounded deeper than usual. So husky that she didn’t even sound like Sheila. She must have felt as sex-crazed as he, waiting all day for this. That’s why she was talking like a sex siren from an old movie. She sounded like Bette Davis, Lana Turner and Marilyn Monroe all rolled into one. All shivery and whispery, as if she’d had way too much to drink and had just smoked cartons of cigarettes, and was offering him something forbidden. He imagined her in a black-and-white picture, wearing a slinky gown, and holding a highball glass and a long black cigarette holder.

Then he remembered she was pretending to be Gem O’Shea. That’s why she’d worn a wig, too. Long strands of hair were brushing his face, teasing his cheeks and shoulders.

He rubbed her thighs, stroking them with the backs of his hands and shifted his weight, straining unsuccessfully to feel the crushing pressure of her pelvic bone against his erection. When she just missed the magic spot, he uttered a frustrated sigh. She was still in outerwear, a jacket and tight leggings, no shoes. “That’s the great thing about clothes…”