Games of the Heart by Kristen Ashley Read Free Book Online Page B

spending the night.”
    He studied me.
    Then, softly, he asked, “Sure?”
    I drew in breath.
    Then I nodded and whispered, “I’m sure.”
    When I did, he returned bizarrely, “How do you feel about cold pizza?”
    I tipped my head to the side in confusion and asked, “Sorry?”
    Before I knew what he was about, he picked up the pizza box, dropped it on the floor, leaned into me, put his hands in my pits, plucked me right out of bed and into his arms. Then he twisted and dropped, landing on his back with me on top of him. I was recovering from this, not, mind you, successfully when he rolled me to my back with him on top of me.
    His face all I could see, his hands moving on me, he whispered, “Cold pizza. You got a problem with that?”
    “No,” I whispered back.
    “Right,” he murmured.
    Then he kissed me before he did a bunch of other stuff to me while the pizza sat on the floor and got cold.
    * * * * *
    “Pottery?”
    “Yep, vases and bowls and shit like that. I mean it’s mine. It’s gorgeous. I love it. I put a lot into it. I totally get off on it in a way that when I say that I mean, when I’m working, I lose time. I can start at noon and the next thing I know, it’s midnight. But still, I think it’s totally whacked that someone pays two hundred dollars for a medium-sized vase,” I shrugged, “but there it is.”
    Mike had on nothing but his jeans. His back was to the headboard. His eyes were on me.
    I again had on nothing but my tee and panties. My body was cocked at the hips, my calves lying across his thighs, the rest of me lying across the bed. I was on my side, up on a forearm with a pillow scrunched under me.
    I had a beer resting in the crook of my hips. We had the pizza box between us. And we now knew each other pretty thoroughly biblically so we were getting to the other good stuff.
    “Damn, honey, your shit must be good,” he said softly as I took a bite of pizza.
    I chewed, swallowed and grinned. Then I stated, “I think so.” Then I took another bite.
    “I’m impressed,” he replied.
    I chewed, swallowed and grinned again before I warned, “Don’t be until you see it.”
    He grinned back then remarked, “So you do something you love.”
    “Totally,” I confirmed.
    “Good for you, Dusty,” he muttered and took a bite of his own pizza.
    “You like your gig?” I asked.
    He chewed, swallowed and asked back, “Bein’ a cop?”
    I nodded.
    “Days I hate it, days I love it,” he answered. “But I feel it’s important work. Some days, I knock myself out and don’t see anything for it. Some days, I make a difference. The days I make a difference make the rest worth it. So yeah,” he grinned again, “overall, I like my gig.”
    “Awesome,” I whispered then told him, “I thought you’d be president one day.”
    He burst out laughing and I watched. That was something else I always loved about Mike. His laugh. He had a great sense of humor and he laughed a lot. It was always close, easy to get. Still, back in the day, I worked for it. But it was also deep and attractive. And, over the years, it had only gotten better.
    A whole lot better.
    When he sobered he asked, “President?” before he put the last bite of his slice of pizza in his mouth.
    “Yep,” I replied, reaching for my new slice. “I crushed on you hard mostly because you were gorgeous, partly because you were you. I thought you could do anything.”
    When I had my slice and looked back at him I noticed his face had gone soft and, seriously, he naturally had a lot of good looks but that was a clear winner.
    Then, quietly, he said, “Sorry to disappoint you, honey.”
    “I’m not disappointed, Mike,” I assured him. “I’m not certain, being older and understanding the ways of the world, that being president is such a sweet gig. Not thinking, the way you describe it, being a cop is any sweeter but, you do something you like. You make a difference. You feel that. It’s worth it to you then it works for