We are getting another mouthwatering new standalone from Sierra Simone—part of the Misadventures collection of spicy stories, each written or co-written by some of the best names in romance—and I have the cover for you, as well as a delicious little sneak peek.
“Sutton,” Russo calls out. “Someone here to talk to you.”
One of the uniforms breaks away from the knot of gossiping cops and turns toward us. He’s young—very young—no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, but he’s without the swagger most cops have at that age. And it’s obvious he doesn’t need it.
Serious gray eyes stare out from under equally serious brows. A slightly Grecian nose leads to a sculpted mouth currently pressed into a solemn, no-nonsense line—which only serves to highlight the tempting peaks of his upper lip and the subtle fullness of the lower even more.
His high-and-tight haircut is just relaxed enough that I could run my fingers through the dark thickness at the top but still close enough to show off his uplifted cheekbones and strong jaw. And his body—his body is pure sex. Young, vigorous, twenty-something sex. Broad shoulders testing the seams of his uniform shirt arrow down into trim hips neatly circled by a duty belt. His uniform pants cling to hard, athletic thighs, and right below his belt, there’s the bulge of a mouthwatering cock at rest, oh God, oh God—
I blush, my eyes snapping back up to his face. There’s no way he didn’t see me giving him such an obvious once-over. Except he doesn’t look proud or amused—the two reactions I’d expect from a hotshot-looking rookie.
He looks thoughtful. And maybe a little curious.
“Sutton, this is Cat Day. She’s the lead detective on these robberies.”
“I remember,” he says. His voice is deep and rough—just like sex with him would be—and at hearing it, something behind my sternum pulls free with enough force to make my lips part on a silent gasp, and heat spills from my chest to my belly to somewhere lower down.
That itch from earlier is resolving itself into thudding hot aches everywhere. Everywhere I thought my body had gone quiet over the years. The tips of my breasts, the neglected bundle of nerves between my legs. My lips and my fingertips and even the skin of my belly, all craving heat and friction. All craving him. His combination of strength and power and youth—that thrill of seeing a man so young and virile vibrate with such restrained intensity.
Now is when I should speak, when I should take control of the situation again, but I can’t trust my voice not to betray the sudden, purring desire currently humming across the surface of my skin. Instead, I extend a hand for a quick, professional shake.
His hand is larger than mine, warm and dry and calloused, and the moment our skin touches, I know it was a mistake. Electricity sizzles through me, and with his eyes locked on mine as we touch, it’s impossible not to imagine that gray gaze on me as he pumps between my legs. Staring down at me as I take his heavy cock into my mouth. Touching him, no matter how professionally, only drives me to further distraction.
“Nice to meet you.” That voice. Even listening to him, no matter how bland the words, feels like a prurient act—like I shouldn’t be doing it in public. Surely everyone around us can see how my skin is catching fire? How my nipples are beading through my lace bra and silk blouse?
“Nice to meet you,” I manage back, praying I sound composed. “I appreciate you making sure I was brought in tonight.”
“I read your email,” he explains, and then says nothing else. A man of few words, I suppose, although there’s no mistaking the intensity at which he operates. It’s in his extreme focus, the predatory stillness of his form. In the tension around his mouth and the alert tilts of his head.
It’s hard to mind either the silence or the intensity when his eyes are shimmering mercury in the hazy radiance of the parking-lot lights. They’re the kind of eyes that seem to say everything his mouth won’t, and it’s next to impossible to tear myself away when Russo breaks in and asks me a question.
“Hey, do you need Sutton much longer? He’s an evenings boy, and his shift finished an hour ago.”
Focus, Cat. Work the case.
“Only a few minutes more, Nicki,” I tell her and then turn to Sutton. “Do you mind going over what you found with me?”
The shake of his head is deliberate, precise. No motion wasted, no emotion betrayed. “Whatever you need.”
God. I could listen to that voice say whatever you need every night for the rest of my life.