Layin' the Law by Roxy Wood Page A

and squared my shoulders. "I am certain I do not know
to whom you are referring."
    She
rolled her eyes. "Right. Just... well... y'know... be careful."
    I
watched her walk away, curious about her warning and appreciative of her
backside. Jen knew me well. She knew  I had a weak spot for strapping white
boys, especially those in uniform. Young or old. It didn't matter. It was the
protect-and-serve bit that just melted me. The chivalry. The selflessness.
Those who put their lives on the line for others usually knew how to give ,
if you get my drift. And they also knew how to take orders... and, for
officers, how to give them. An absolutely titillating skill set.
    Plus,
digging my claws into some granite biceps while he drove his hips into mine
didn't suck, either. Oh, and that soft hair. I could already feel it sliding
through my fingers.
    Until
tonight, however, my infatuation had been with the military, especially the
Marines. I was a bit too much of a wild child to mess with law enforcement...
or so I believed.
    My
daddy had been in the Marines. Tall and proud. He was killed when I was just a
toddler, but my mother kept him alive in my memory. I grew up fantasizing about
him. About how he'd extend that white-gloved hand and ask me to dance. About
how he'd gallantly waltz around the room with his little girl standing on his feet.
My officer. My gentleman.
    When
puberty arrived, those fantasies developed right along with my ripe body. My
hand became his hand, his tongue, his cock. He'd lavish me with attention,
teach me how to please him, study how to please me. Without even being there,
he took me to places no other lover could even approach.
    "Excuse
me," a deep, gravelly voice came from behind. He stood so close; I could
feel the heat emanating from his body.
    Already
on edge, I shuddered. Get a grip on yourself, girl! I took a deep
breath, brightened my smile a notch, and turned slowly. My eyes met his chest,
and I looked up through my lashes before raising my chin. His presence was even
more impressive up close. Poised, self-assured, and commanding respect.
    "What
can I do for you, sir?" I added a little pause before the sir , for
emphasis.
    The
intended effect was not lost on him. He appeared as shaken as I felt, a very
good sign.
    Smiling,
he plucked the last remaining glass from my tray, tipped his head in thanks,
and took a drink. "Ah, thank you. I was parched."
    "My
apologies. I've been trying to make it to this side of the room for over an
hour, but the guests have been like piranha—"
    "Biting
you?" he quipped, raising an eyebrow.
    "Champagne
piranha," I clarified as I tucked the tray under one arm.
    "Pity.
I was rather enjoying the image of nibbling on your thighs."
    Oh,
I enjoyed it as well, but before I allowed myself to indulge further, I had to
know if he was committed to anyone. "Mister—" I made a show of
examining his name tag. "—Malone, I—"
    "Joey."
    "Joey,"
I corrected. "Are you with anyone?"
    He
smiled, lifted his left hand, and waggled his fingers. "Single. No
commitments. Why?"
    I
glanced at the clock. My shift ended in fifteen minutes. "Before I seduce
someone, I always check."
    His
smile widened. "And here I thought I was the one doing the seducing. Shall
we skip the dance altogether and proceed directly to the nibbling?"
    "Normally,"
I confided in all seriousness, "the dance is a big part of the turn on.
The scent of prey. The thrill of the hunt. However, after being on my feet in
these shoes for the past four hours, I very much like the idea of cutting the
chase."
    Flirtation
is intoxicating. Playing hard-to-get while someone pursues your horny ass is
good for the ego. Grinding on the dance floor is wonderful foreplay. But,
without exception, spending that time with nothing between the two of you but a
layer of sweat beats all of those options by long mile.
    He
blinked, as if surprised by my no-nonsense approach. "Very well then—"
    "Serenity."
    "—Serenity.
I'll meet you by the door in