Forbidden Fruit by Ann Aguirre

Jesse tries to shield me from the worst of it, but he can’t keep the rest of the force from trying to figure out what happened. Fortunately, the shop is busted up enough that they can’t be sure what kind of goods were sold. Some of the powders and potions would probably draw strange looks if the officers were reading the labels instead of questioning me.
    The ambulance takes the old woman away, and I’m left repeating my story, hoping it doesn’t sound rehearsed. I don’t have to pretend I’m shaken or that I can’t remember much because, oh my God, it all happened so fast . I’ve seen enough cop shows to be confident these guys hear that all the time from agitated witnesses.
    Finally, Jesse says, “I’d like to get the cuts on her hands checked out. I’ll make sure she comes in for a follow-up interview.”
    “I think we’re good, actually.” The other cop puts away his notepad. “It was probably a tweaker, looking for some fast cash. Don’t imagine he found any in a place like this. They usually knock over convenience stores.”
    “Maybe he was just in the neighborhood,” Jesse says with a straight face.
    The uniformed officer laughs. “Crime of opportunity? Maybe. It doesn’t sound like much planning went into this.”
    Soon after, Jesse escorts me to his SUV, makes sure I buckle up, and then he drives exactly two blocks. For the first time, I notice how tightly he’s locked himself down, like if he didn’t have his hands balled into fists, he’d be screaming and punching things. Is it odd that I find this self-control insanely hot, even while I’m contemplating all the delicious ways I can make him lose it?
    He jams his finger into my seat belt button and drags me up into his arms, across the console and onto his lap. I settle, deciding this isn’t the time to fight him. Jesse runs his hands up and down my back, burying his face in the curve between my neck and shoulder. Tentative, I touch his jaw, bristly with scruff, and then walk my fingers up his cheek to his temple, stroking back toward his hair.
    “I’m fine,” I whisper. “I handled it. I just needed an assist with the logistics afterward.”
    “I can’t take this, Shan. Do you have any idea how much I worry? I think about someone hurting you and I can’t fucking breathe. I want to invent a hundred new kinds of pain and teach it to anyone who looks at you the wrong way.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know,” he snarls.
    “That’s a copout. Or a lie.”
    “Because you’re in me like a fever. I wake up thinking about you. I go to sleep that way. I find you in my dreams.”
    “What’m I doing?”
    “Me,” he bites out.
    And then he kisses me like he needs me more than air. His mouth is fierce and hot, ravenous as he nuzzles into me, tongue surging in lavish strokes. I can feel his desire, both from the hard length under my ass, and because he’s totally lost the reins on his gift. Powerful empaths don’t just read emotions; they can also broadcast, but I’ve never known Jesse to do that. He’s off the chain now, though, wild as a Texas storm and twice as dangerous. He pulls me to him until I’m sure he’s leaving bruises on my hips. His emotions feed mine, which ratchets his need higher in turn, until we’re both damn near mad with lust.
    I scramble, not fighting him, but helping, until I’m astride his lap. With a growled curse, he shoves the seat all the way back, making room. He bites down on my neck, hard enough to hurt, not quite enough to bruise, but I wouldn’t mind if he broke the skin. I’d be glad to walk around with Jesse’s teeth marks on my body. In fact the thought of it makes me hotter, and I move on him. He’s ablaze beneath me, panting against my lips.
    We’re gonna do it. He can’t stop. I don’t want to.
    Then someone taps on the window. Motherfucking bastard-ass shitballs —I melt down silently in frustrated rage. The glass is fogged up, so whoever it is can’t see us. My knees are weak when