“A police artist?” she asked, again looking at him with that expression of adorable, effective wonder.

“A police artist, yeah,” he answered, expending not a small amount of effort to ignore her look. “You might not think you’re good at describing someone but they’re trained to pull it out of you and they’re good at what they do.”

“A police artist,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Chace replied.

“And fingerprints.” She was still whispering.

“Yeah, Faye, got no clue who this kid is. Gotta do something to find him, find out what’s happening to him and put a stop to it. We don’t have a name. We don’t have an address. So we have to work with what we’ve got.”

She was still whispering when she repeated, “Put a stop to it.”

Now, Chace was confused. She seemed stunned. Not in a bad way, that wonder was still clear in her expression. But stunned all the same.

“Uh, yeah, Faye. That’s why you came here and reported this, isn’t it? To put a stop to bad shit happening to a kid. So, let’s set about doin’ that, yeah?”

He stopped speaking and she said nothing, just stared up at him, those blue eyes big and locked on him.

But Chace was done. Done with this conversation. Done with gathering info and giving detail on what they were going to do. And especially done with being in a private room with the town’s pretty librarian looking at him like he parted the Colorado River so she could get to the other side without the unnecessary hassle of getting wet. Something only her own personal miracle worker could offer her.

But Faye Goodknight was not done.

He’d know this when suddenly she was not two feet away but in his space. So far in his space, her soft body was pressed the length of his, her arms were around his shoulders, one hand curled around the back of his neck, fingers in his hair, putting pressure on to bend his head. And last, her mouth was pressed hard to his.

What the f**k?

He put his hands to her h*ps to push her away, his mind filled with how he could do that as gently as possible when her tongue came out and the tip touched his lips.

And at that, Chace’s body and mouth made another decision before his mind could catch up. This being his arms closing around her tight, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue spiking out, pushing hers back into her mouth and then he kissed her, very hard, very wet and very, very deep.

She didn’t taste like bubblegum.

She tasted like bubblemint. Sweet and fresh and f**king fantastic.

He kept one of his arms locked tight around her waist while he slid the other hand up her spine, her neck and into her hair.

Fucking hell, silk.

Better than he imagined.

Better than he could even dream.

He bent forward slightly, arching her over his arm, forcing her body deeper into his and she moaned a sweet, soft moan against his tongue.

It was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life.

In some faraway, vague recess of his mind that wasn’t intent on her body pressed against his, the feel of her hair in his hand, the taste of her on his tongue and what all that was doing to his body, he realized she had no clue what she was doing. She was along for his ride. A willing, eager participant, giving, opening herself to him and doing nothing more but letting him take what he wanted.

It was, by far, the best kiss he’d ever had.

And on that thought, his brain caught up to his mouth and body and he tore his mouth from hers as he curled his fingers into her waist and shoved her back roughly.

She retreated three steps, her body not in control with the force of his shove, before she righted herself.

But she wasn’t feeling his shove. She hadn’t even processed the fact she was no longer in his arms.

She was staring at him, rose in her cheeks, mouth soft and swollen, lips parted, eyes hooded, visibly affected by his kiss which meant she wore the fact that she was supremely turned on all over her face.

Just from one kiss.

It was a f**king good look.

It was the kind of look a man would get once and then fight and die to have aimed his way on a regular basis.

Fuck him.

Fuck him.

“What the f**k was that?” he clipped and she blinked but that look didn’t leave her face.

“What?” she whispered.

“What… the f**k… was that?” he ground out.

“I –” she started, blinking again, but he didn’t let her continue.

“Don’t do that shit again, Faye,” he growled, took a step toward her and pointed in her face. “Do not do that shit again.” He dropped his hand but put his face where his hand had been and kept growling. “I don’t know what bullshit game you’re playin’, following me around, suddenly everywhere I am. But straight up, I’m not playin’ it. You got some romantic idea I’m a wounded soul you can heal with…” he shook his head and flipped out a hand, “your limited charms, think again. I already told you, I do not want your concern. I do not want your company. And I do not want your inexperienced bullshit fumbling. Trust me, I had in my bed the master at that shit and she got nowhere. And you, just now, got as much as you’ll ever get. Get this in your head, Faye, all I want from you is for you to leave me the f**k alone.”

He didn’t allow the look on her face to register. He didn’t know what was happening with her. What he did know was, for her sake, he had to make his point clear. And if that meant being a dick, he had to be a dick.

So he was a dick.

He turned around and prowled to the door.

But at it, he braced, turned back and looked at her. He ignored the pain back in her features and the fact that it was magnified to such an extreme, if he wasn’t set on ignoring it, honest to Christ, it would have brought him to his knees.

“You get a book, you call Frank Dolinski. I’ll brief him, he’ll be your point of contact from now on,” he informed her, turned, yanked open and strode through the door, through the Station and straight outside where he walked to his truck.

And while he did this, he didn’t give one f**k that Jon’s eyes followed him the whole way nor did he care what that would mean tomorrow would bring.

Chapter Three

Drift Away

You’re giving up?!?!?

I stared at the message box on my computer and sighed.

Yes, I was giving up. A week ago, Chace had laid it out. I didn’t get it. I wasn’t experienced enough to know. It felt for a good while there, when his arms were around me tight, his lips locked to mine, his hand in my hair, that he was into kissing me…