Low Sided by A.J. Downey (best detective novels of all time txt) 📕

“You bet your ass, I do. I like my women willing and to enjoy it. I’m not down for anything else. We do anything? We do it at your pace, your way.”

It was a completely foreign concept.

“I’m not used to men acting that way,” I murmured.

“For all that they call us the barbarians…” he muttered, but he didn’t need to finish. I caught his meaning perfectly, and he was right.

“I’m afraid I’ve never been good at initiating things,” I whispered.

“That’s okay, I can do that, but you have to promise me if you aren’t ready, that you’ll tell me,” he said.

I nodded.

“You say ‘stop’ and everything stops,” he said.

I nodded again, and he smiled, looking over my face.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Just like looking at ‘cha.”

I blushed and bit my bottom lip to keep from giggling and his smile bloomed into a grin.

“I don’t think that’s ever going to get old,” he said and caressed my calf through my leggings.

We talked more, and eventually with my every other sentence being punctuated by a yawn, he got up and took my cup. I looked up at him and with a soft smile he said, “Be right back,” and took the two cups into the kitchen. I heard him deposit them carefully with a slight clack into the bottom of the sink and then he came back around.

He reached down and took my hands and said, “Come on, up you go!” He hoisted me into the circle of his arms and cocked his head, looking at me for several long heartbeats before asking softly, “Ready for bed?”

I nodded mutely, and he nodded with me before pressing his lips to my forehead. My eyes fluttered shut, and I melted beneath that kiss, the safety and security I felt with this man enveloping me tightly even as he kept his touch light.

He let me go and turned, leading me to my bed by the hand and stopping beside the low mattress, gripping the hem of my oversized, tan, post-apocalyptic sweater.

“Arms up,” he murmured, and I obediently raised them. He swept the soft garment over my head and dropped it to the floor beside us.

“Again,” he whispered, and I hesitated for only a moment, raising my arms so he could sweep off the dusky olive-green cami that clung to me underneath the sweater. He peeled it up and off from over my head and I crossed my arms over my chest. He didn’t go for the black sports bra. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of me and pulled his tee and the waffle pattern thermal shirt he had on beneath it up over the back of his head, turning the sleeves inside out as he stripped it from his body.

He looked up at me, the question of permission in his eyes as he brushed the waistband of my leggings with gentle fingertips. I nodded carefully and he hooked fingers into the waistband and peeled the fawn-colored, thick second skin off my pale legs. God, I was grateful I’d shaved them earlier in the day on a whim.

He left my black cotton bikini panties in place, helped me to step out of the leggings then reared up on his denim-clad knees, tracing light fingertips up the backs of my legs from my Achilles over my calves, eliciting a light giggle out of me when he tickled the backs of my knees, and a gasp when he touched the backs of my thighs.

I closed my eyes, relishing that light touch, and ever the gentleman, he skipped touching my ass altogether, and instead put hands to my hips, drawing me forward a hitching half step to press his lips above the line of my panties but below my belly button, turning his head to put his ear to my stomach and to gently cuddle into me. He nuzzled me softly, his arms twining around my waist and simply holding on.

My arms lowered along with my defenses and I ran my hands through his short hair. God, it was softer than it looked. He looked up at me, and the depths to that look, like staring into still waters, the surface placid and impassive, he really meant it. He would be satisfied with simply going to sleep, nothing else… and for whatever reason, that turned me on, so, so, much.

“Come up here,” I whispered, and he got to his feet. I stepped into him and raised my lips. He smiled and lowered his mouth to mine.

I pressed against him and he gathered me up, his hands on my lower back, hands daring to slip lower on my hips, but still restrained. I opened my mouth beneath his and he moaned into it, his tongue flicking against mine lightly, mine meeting his, a careful dance, feeling each other out, groping in the shadowy dark for lines and boundaries that were quickly dissolving and becoming as insubstantial as a soap bubble with the fires lit by this passion, and these needs I felt. A need to be close to someone, a need to feel something other than this ugly and deep shame.

Mace made me feel things other than bad. He made me feel beautiful, made me feel wanted and not just as a prime piece of meat. He made me feel like it was my very soul he wanted. Like claiming my body wasn’t enough, that my heart and mind were what mattered, and I was so… so grateful for that.

I clung to him, pressing my body into his warm and inviting one and he tore his mouth from mine, looked into my eyes, and asked, “Yeah?”

I nodded, breathless, and answered him, “Yeah.”

“Protection?” he asked.

“Please.”

“Mm.” He returned his mouth to mine and slid his hands to my front, letting me go to work at his belt, unbuttoning, unzipping, sliding his hands inside the waistband of his jeans and shucking them off his hips, letting the weight of his