Page 2 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)

CHAPTER TWO

ISLA

The minute I step away from the holding room, I hear Hot’s voice bounce off the acoustics of the concrete hallway. “I swear to God, Beckett, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll kick your ass.”

I shake my head and keep walking. I can’t believe the crazy emotions zinging through me right now. The moment I laid eyes on Dawson Hot, I felt the ground shift under my feet. I’ve never ever felt anything like this. And I don’t freaking like it at all.

It’s already hot as hell in the station with the air conditioner permanently stuck at “barely tolerable.” My uniform clings to my back as I cut through dispatch, ignoring the ancient clerk’s eye roll and the janitor’s bucket obstacle course.

When I hit the breakroom, I make a beeline for the old Coke machine, needing something cold to cool my ass off.

Back at my desk, I flip open the logbook and start the arrest paperwork.

“Subject was observed traveling at approximately ninety-three mph in a posted fifty-five mph zone. Subject was cooperative.” I skip the part where he flirted with me the entire ride.

And I especially skip over the part where I enjoyed it.

I type in his license number and the system coughs up his entire driving history. Two minor speeding tickets in the past. That’s it. I’m not shocked. The Hot Brothers all have squeaky-clean reputations.

Every five seconds, my brain replays the first moment I laid eyes on him. The man was dangerous with a capital D.

I finish the incident report, print the copy for records, and staple it with a satisfying thwack.

Three hours left on shift. I still have to swing by the school and check on the weird loitering complaint, then do a drive-through at Main and Elm for the construction detour. If I’m lucky, I’ll clock out before the Friday night drunks start rolling in.

The rest of my shift thankfully flies by.

At seven-fifteen, I unlock my door and step into my small apartment.

Sunset pours through the windows I scrubbed yesterday, catching on every polished surface of my twelve-hundred-square-feet domain—not an item out of place, not a speck of dust allowed to settle.

I kick off my boots onto the designated mat and drop my keys into the ceramic dish on the tiny credenza by the door, where they land with a satisfying clink against the polished wood.

I find Oreo, my black-and-white tabby, sprawled across the radiator beneath the window, her tail draped over the edge, glaring at me from her perch like I've personally ruined her day.

“Miss me?” I ask, and she yawn-hisses in response. Typical.

Alfred, my fourteen-year-old Shih Tzu, greets me with the arthritic enthusiasm of a geriatric sloth. He wobbles on three good legs and bonks his head into my shin, snuffling until I reach down and scratch his ears. I love this decrepit lump of fur more than most people.

I strip out of my uniform in record time, drop it in my laundry bin, and yank my hair out of its tight ponytail.

I fill the tub with steaming hot water, dump in an entire handful of Epsom salts, and cue up my “Do Not Disturb” playlist.

When I sink into the bath, it’s too hot at first, which is exactly how I like it. The heat scalds the fatigue from my bones and loosens the knots in my shoulders. I close my eyes and try to think about nothing, which lasts about six seconds.

Instead, my brain defaults to the only thing it’s been interested in all day: the look on Dawson Hot’s face when I snapped on those cuffs. No panic, no fake bravado. Just pure, undiluted interest. Like he was hoping I’d drag him somewhere darker and tell him he’d been very, very bad.

I groan. “Sweet Baby Jesus, I need a goddamn hobby.” And to forget about the speed demon I arrested today.

But the image sticks: Dawson, all six and a half feet of him, helpless in my grip, blue eyes locked on me like I’m the sun and he’s just a moth dumb enough to try his luck.

I try to distract myself with my new dark romance book, but it takes exactly three paragraphs before my mind swaps out the hero for Dawson, and the stubborn, mouthy female lead for myself. The more I resist, the harder it is to ignore.

Then my fantasy takes a turn. I let my hand drift under the water, tracing lazy circles around my navel.

My skin feels hypersensitive, like the day has rubbed me raw in all the right ways.

I let my hand drift lower and my breaths become shallow, my heart hammering like it’s trying to break free from my chest. The water’s warm, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pooling between my thighs.

My body throbs with a hunger so deep it feels like someone's yanked a chain hooked straight to my core. My clit’s swollen, begging for attention, and I finally give in, brushing against it with the lightest touch.

Jesus.

I gasp loud enough to wake the neighbors, and my hand freezes like I’ve been caught doing something filthy.

I drag my fingers back up, circling my clit, slowly and deliberately, teasing myself as the pressure builds, and I moan, my hips lifting out of the water, chasing the sensation.

My fingers are slick, and I’m throbbing like crazy, every nerve in my body lit up like a freaking Christmas tree.

I imagine him kneeling at the edge of the tub, his cock rock-hard and dripping pre-cum, his chest heaving like he’s been running a marathon.

His hair’s a mess, sweat dripping down his forehead, and his eyes are locked on me, watching every little movement like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

His jaw’s clenched, his hands gripping the edge of the tub like he’s trying to stop himself from climbing in and fucking me senseless.

“Let me watch,” he’d growl, his voice rough and low. I circle my clit harder, faster, my breathing ragged as I tease him with every moan, every whimper.

Arching my back, I let the water slosh around me while he groans, his cock twitching like it’s begging for release.

“You like that?” I whisper, my voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “You like watching me fall apart?”

He doesn’t answer. He just watches, mesmerized, his chest rising and falling.

My fantasy merges with reality as my fingers work my pussy like I’m trying to milk every last drop of pleasure out of it.

I reach up with my other hand and pinch my nipples.

My tits bounce as I writhe in the water while he groans again, his cock leaking like a broken faucet.

“Fuck,” he growls, his hands slipping as he leans closer, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re goddamn perfect.”

My fingers press deeper, and he finally loses it and climbs into the tub, crushing his mouth to mine. His hands trace the wet lines of my body, and I moan into his mouth, my pussy clenching around nothing as I imagine his huge cock filling me up.

I’m close now, my fingers working overtime, and I can’t stop picturing him. His cock sliding into me, stretching me wide, his hips slamming against mine as he fucks me into oblivion. I bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming his name.

In my fantasy, my nails dig into his back as he growls in my ear, telling me how fucking perfect I feel, how he’s never gonna let me go, how I’m his and he’s mine and?—

God. I come so freaking hard. My body shakes as my pussy pulses. While my breaths come in ragged gasps, my head falls back against the tub, and I ride out the spectacular orgasm.

Damn. I’m in so much trouble here.