My Only Vice

Oh, God…

Rosie did her best to calm herself, her thoughts and her privates. “Can I, um, can I help you, Chief?” she tried again, somehow stopping herself before uttering the entire question she’d really wanted to ask, which was Can I help you, Chief, out of those clothes?

“Yeah, actually, you can,” he said.

Rosie knew a moment’s euphoria, until she realized he wasn’t talking about the clothes thing, but was simply answering the standard question of retailers everywhere. Note to self, she thought, doubling up on damiana makes for excellent fantasizing but it’s not so good on the coherent thinking. Or maybe it was just the way Sam Maguire was put together that made for incoherent thinking. Not to mention the excellent fantasizing.

Um, what was the question again?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to remember, because Sam replied, “I need to order some flowers.”

Well, hell. If he was ordering flowers, it was doubtless for a woman, and that could seriously jeopardize any asking him out on a date she might do. Worse, it could jeopardize his response to her invitation. Worst of all, it could jeopardize any potential for smokin’ sex. Unless they were flowers for a funeral, she thought further, brightening. If he was going to order flowers for a dead woman, well, that was a whole ’nother ball game. Not to mention A-okay with Rosie.

“For a funeral?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as optimistic as she felt, since that would be in really bad taste.

Sam’s expression turned confused this time. “Uh, no. For my mother.”

Even better, Rosie thought. Not only did it offer a new positive dimension into his character—one of caring son—but it would save her a bundle in the therapist bills she’d be paying to help her cope with her joy at hearing the news of someone else’s death. Talk about a win-win situation. The only thing that might improve it would be if Sam, oh…Rosie didn’t know…stepped forward and filled her mouth with his tongue, shoved one hand up her shirt to massage her breast, and thrust the other into her pants to fondle her until she was insensate with ecstasy. Other than that, the conversation was moving along swimmingly.

Sam looked at Rosie and told himself for the tenth time that she couldn’t possibly be feeling the way she seemed to be feeling. Surely it was just wishful thinking on his part making her look as if she were incredibly, well…turned-on. Because she really did seem to be incredibly, well…turned-on. In fact, she’d been looking as if she was incredibly, well…turned-on, ever since he walked into the shop. But there was nothing about the scenario that should have, well…turned her on so incredibly.

She was fully clothed—except for the way her shirt had fallen off one shoulder. One naked, ivory, luscious shoulder. Which, in case he hadn’t mentioned it, was naked, something that pretty much indicated she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Which meant that, under her shirt, she was naked. And also naked. Had he mentioned she was naked under her shirt? Which was also untucked? Something that would make it really easy for him to scoop his hand under the garment to experience her nakedness for himself?

A sudden, nearly overwhelming urge came over him then to lean forward and lick her ivory, luscious—and naked, in case that part wasn’t obvious—shoulder. Which, in turn, made him feel incredibly, well…turned-on. God, he hoped he didn’t look incredibly, well…turned-on. Not the way Rosie did.

He told himself again that he was only imagining the way she looked. How could anyone feel turned-on in her place of employment, first thing in the morning, when, if the broom behind her was any indication, she’d just been sweeping up? No way was sweeping a turn-on. Unless, you know, it was Rosie Bliss and her naked shoulder doing it.

Ah, hell.

His mouth and throat were starting to feel a little dry when he noticed the mug Rosie was holding in her hand. There were more like it on the shelf behind her, next to a teapot from which she had obviously just poured herself something to drink. Sam wasn’t much of a tea drinker—okay, he never touched the stuff—but something wet sounded really good right then. Other than Rosie, he meant.

Damn. Then again, she did look incredibly, well…turned-on.

“Do you mind?” he said as he strode forward and reached past her for a mug.

It was a rhetorical question, naturally, since he also reached for the teapot and, without even asking for her okay, poured himself a mugful of tea. After all, there was a sign behind it that said Help Yourself, so why shouldn’t he? Unless, of course, the sign referred to something other than the tea. But what were the chances Rosie had put up a sign in her shop inviting her customers to help themselves to her? Not that that probably wouldn’t have been great for business.

He wasn’t here for business, Sam reminded himself as he splashed tea into the mug, regardless of what he’d just said about ordering flowers for his mother. He was here to pump Rosie. Uh, for information, he meant. Only he needed to do it in a way that she wouldn’t realize he was pumping her. Uh, for information, he meant. Because if he was here to actually, you know, pump her, she’d sure as hell know it.

He’d spent the bulk of his afternoon yesterday trying to find out more about Rosie Bliss, only to discover there was almost no information available anywhere on Rosie Bliss. Sam wasn’t quite ready to throw in with Ed Dinwiddie and start suspecting her of illicit activity, but his curiosity about her had definitely been piqued. Even more so than before. He’d figured a little reconnaissance under the guise of patronizing her shop—especially at a time when it wasn’t open and Rosie might be a little more relaxed—ought to lend itself to some conversation that would reveal a little more about her. Or, at the very least, give him a bit more information to go on in his search to uncover more about her. Besides, it had been a while since he’d sent his mother some flowers.

Still watching Rosie, who suddenly looked as if she were worried about something—in addition to still looking incredibly, well…turned-on—Sam started to lift the mug of tea to his lips.

But before he had a chance to taste it, she cried out, “Stop!”

Automatically, he lowered his hand. But he continued to hold her gaze steady as he asked, “Why? I thought it was for your customers.”

“It is,” she replied quickly.

A little too quickly to Sam’s way of thinking. She seemed pretty agitated about something all of a sudden. Though she still looked very turned-on. Her pupils had expanded to the point where her green irises were mere rims around them. Her cheeks were stained with a crimson blush, and her lips looked redder than usual and were parted slightly, as if she needed more air. The skin above the low-lying neckline of her shirt was flushed, too, and something told Sam it would be hot to the touch.

The fingers of his free hand began to curl involuntarily at his side, as if they very much wanted to test that theory right now, and it was with no small effort that he managed to curb the impulse. But it rose right up again when he noticed how her chest was rising and falling rapidly, pushing her breasts against the thin fabric of her shirt. Her nipples, he couldn’t possibly help noticing every time she inhaled, were hard and distended, another indication that she was indeed turned-on.

And dammit, now Sam was, too.

“Let me brew you a fresh pot,” she said as she began to reach for the mug, pulling his attention—and his gaze, finally—back to the tea he’d just poured for himself. “That’s been sitting there awhile.”

“It’s barely eight in the morning,” he pointed out. “It can’t have been sitting there that long. Hell, it’s still hot,” he added when he felt the temperature of the tea through the mug. “Besides, you obviously just had some yourself. It’ll be fine.”

“But you’d probably prefer coffee,” she said, reaching for the mug again, moving her hand even closer.

Without asking himself why, Sam pulled the cup out of range before she could touch it. He told himself it was because he didn’t like it when people made decisions for him. It wasn’t because he was hoping on some level that, by removing the cup from her reach, she’d be forced to take a step forward to get it, something that would bring her body closer to his.

“It’ll be fine,” he repeated. “I just need a little something to quench my thirst.”

“But—”

He only took a small sip first, in case the tea was hot, then, when he discovered the temperature was perfect, enjoyed a few hearty swallows. He grimaced a little when he realized it wasn’t regular tea, but some herbal stuff that was a little heavy on the cinnamon. Still, it tasted fine, and it went a long way toward alleviating the dryness in his mouth.

He continued to watch Rosie as he enjoyed a few more sips, and couldn’t help thinking she looked more and more panicked with every passing second. Something wasn’t right with her. She just had some kind of vibe coming off her at the moment that wasn’t in keeping with her usual easygoing self. And he couldn’t help thinking it was his presence in her shop that was causing it.

Maybe Ed Dinwiddie was on to something, he thought before he could stop himself. Maybe everything about Rosie wasn’t on the up-and-up, after all. Because somehow Sam was starting to get the impression that she’d been doing something just now, before he came into the shop, that she shouldn’t have been doing. He honestly couldn’t say what, but right now she seemed edgy and anxious, as if she feared she was about to be caught.

Unable to help himself—hey, you could take the cop out of vice, but you couldn’t take the suspicion out of the vice cop—he drove his gaze around the shop as surreptitiously as he could, trying to discern if anything was amiss or out of place. But the place was tidy to a fault, and even more quaint than the police station. The dark hardwood floor was buffed to a rich sheen, the walls were painted forest green, striped with wooden shelves that were overflowing with plants and flowers and pots. An antique cash register sat on the countertop to his left, behind which were more shelves, more plants, more flowers, more pots. There was a door leading to a back room that was open, and Sam could see more of the same beyond, along with tables and stools and flower arrangements in varying stages of completion.

For the first time, he noticed the smell of the place, a mixture of sweet blossoms, cinnamon tea and loamy earth. The only window was the one to the right of where they stood, the faint golden sunlight filtering through it the only light present at the moment. From Malcolm’s Music Mart next door, he could hear the faint strains of something classical and heavy on the horns, music from another time tumbling into a room that might as well have sprung from the same century. All combined, the impressions gave the shop an otherworldly ambiance, where Sam could almost believe time had stopped and he and Rosie were the only people left on the planet.

It was such a whimsical thought for such a practical man. What the hell had come over him to make him think like that? Shaking the odd sensations out of his head almost literally, he downed what was left of his tea and set the mug on a different shelf from the clean ones. Then he looked at Rosie again.

Big mistake, he immediately realized. Because where before she had looked incredibly, well…turned-on, now, suddenly, she looked thoroughly and profoundly aroused. Not only that, but she hadn’t dropped the hand with which she’d been reaching for his mug, and it still hovered near Sam’s shoulder, as if she were having trouble deciding what she wanted to do with it.

And suddenly, completely unbidden, Sam had a very good idea of what she should do with it. Not only that, but he had a good idea for his own hand, too. In fact, the idea was so strong, and so demanding, he couldn’t push it out of his brain. Because there, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself and Rosie, standing right where they were in the middle of the flower shop, her fingers wrapped possessively around his cock as she jerked him to completion, him with his long middle finger buried in her damp slit as he drilled her for all he was worth.

And good God, where had that thought come from? he wondered as he did his best to squash it. More to the point, why wasn’t it going anywhere, no matter how hard he tried to push it away?

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