Hot Ink (Paranormal Erotic Romance): Book I (A Walsh Jackson Novel 1) Read Online Free
Author: L.E Joyce
protocol.
“One more thing,” Furlong added. “Don’t eat breakfast.”
Bridget knew all too well what that meant. After six years in violent crimes, she had seen her fair share of blood and gore, and lost a few lunches along the way. But she was a veteran now, a professional, and walking into a crime scene filled with death was as shocking to her as Miami winter rain.
“I’m on my way,” she said and abruptly ended the call.
Bridget looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, floor-fucked, and flew in all directions like it had a mind of its own. In the corner of the dressing room stood a small table with potpourri–strange–and a coffee canister of toiletries. She dug around and found a loose hair band and an unopened bottle of mouthwash. Score. Using the hair band, she fastened her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head and rinsed with mouthwash until she no longer tasted sex.
Her clothes were another matter. The suit was passable, but the blouse looked camped in. Chiffon only ever had one wear in it, she knew that, yet she tried to smooth and straightened it to no avail. She looked around and found a bin of lost and found items and pulled out a white and blue polka-a-dotted scarf. She slipped it over her neck and smoothed it out until she could tuck the edges into the top of her skirt. She then put on her jacket and buttoned it up, something she never did. Satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, she dumped her top in the trash and exited wearing nothing but her bra, a sheer tankini, and a scarf that belonged in her grandmother’s closet.
When she emerged from the changing room, Bridget found Walsh in the leather-couched waiting area holding a coffee pot. He had put on his jeans but poured steaming hot coffee into mugs bare-chested. Sweet and sexy, she thought to herself. She wanted to stay, wanted to linger awhile, sip coffee and see wherever that took them, but Furlong was waiting and that meant he was waiting for a chance to take the reins.
Walsh looked twice when he noticed her. Was the put together version of herself so different than the Bridget he met last night? He padded over to her and delivered what was probably the first of many coffees of that day.
“Thanks,” she said. She took it and breathed in its rich aroma. “Smells good.”
“You cook?” she asked, motioning to the Kiss the Cook painted on his mug.
Walsh chuckled. “No. My wife, ex-wife actually.”
And there it was, the reality of people with lives. Of course he had an ex-wife, he probably had a girlfriend, or two. Just look at him. What did she have? A 24/7 job as FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Violent Crimes section, an antisocial cat, and a bookcase full of half-read books.
The air between them grew thick then. He looked at her, and scratched his head as if searching for the right words in his scruffy red hair. She took another sip then placed the mug on the table in front of them. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Time to make the donuts.”
He laughed, and she saw how his eyes stayed on her.
“Can I see you again?” he asked. He slid a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and without a belt, she could almost see his pubic bone.
“Don’t you have to see me again?” she said. “You know, to finish my tat.”
“Right.” Relief washed over his face. “Maybe we should book that follow up now?”
In that moment, restlessness washed over her again. It was the same feeling she had when she left her downtown office last night, like a frightened bird trapped indoors. The urge to flee swelled inside her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him again, she most certainly did. She just didn’t know when, or how, or if there would ever be another right time to follow her abandon again.
“I’ve got your card.” She lied, but it didn’t matter. She knew how to find him.
“Sure. OK. Cool,” was all that Walsh said. He reached out and lightly hugged her, careful not to bother the
“One more thing,” Furlong added. “Don’t eat breakfast.”
Bridget knew all too well what that meant. After six years in violent crimes, she had seen her fair share of blood and gore, and lost a few lunches along the way. But she was a veteran now, a professional, and walking into a crime scene filled with death was as shocking to her as Miami winter rain.
“I’m on my way,” she said and abruptly ended the call.
Bridget looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, floor-fucked, and flew in all directions like it had a mind of its own. In the corner of the dressing room stood a small table with potpourri–strange–and a coffee canister of toiletries. She dug around and found a loose hair band and an unopened bottle of mouthwash. Score. Using the hair band, she fastened her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head and rinsed with mouthwash until she no longer tasted sex.
Her clothes were another matter. The suit was passable, but the blouse looked camped in. Chiffon only ever had one wear in it, she knew that, yet she tried to smooth and straightened it to no avail. She looked around and found a bin of lost and found items and pulled out a white and blue polka-a-dotted scarf. She slipped it over her neck and smoothed it out until she could tuck the edges into the top of her skirt. She then put on her jacket and buttoned it up, something she never did. Satisfied with her reflection in the mirror, she dumped her top in the trash and exited wearing nothing but her bra, a sheer tankini, and a scarf that belonged in her grandmother’s closet.
When she emerged from the changing room, Bridget found Walsh in the leather-couched waiting area holding a coffee pot. He had put on his jeans but poured steaming hot coffee into mugs bare-chested. Sweet and sexy, she thought to herself. She wanted to stay, wanted to linger awhile, sip coffee and see wherever that took them, but Furlong was waiting and that meant he was waiting for a chance to take the reins.
Walsh looked twice when he noticed her. Was the put together version of herself so different than the Bridget he met last night? He padded over to her and delivered what was probably the first of many coffees of that day.
“Thanks,” she said. She took it and breathed in its rich aroma. “Smells good.”
“You cook?” she asked, motioning to the Kiss the Cook painted on his mug.
Walsh chuckled. “No. My wife, ex-wife actually.”
And there it was, the reality of people with lives. Of course he had an ex-wife, he probably had a girlfriend, or two. Just look at him. What did she have? A 24/7 job as FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Violent Crimes section, an antisocial cat, and a bookcase full of half-read books.
The air between them grew thick then. He looked at her, and scratched his head as if searching for the right words in his scruffy red hair. She took another sip then placed the mug on the table in front of them. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Time to make the donuts.”
He laughed, and she saw how his eyes stayed on her.
“Can I see you again?” he asked. He slid a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and without a belt, she could almost see his pubic bone.
“Don’t you have to see me again?” she said. “You know, to finish my tat.”
“Right.” Relief washed over his face. “Maybe we should book that follow up now?”
In that moment, restlessness washed over her again. It was the same feeling she had when she left her downtown office last night, like a frightened bird trapped indoors. The urge to flee swelled inside her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him again, she most certainly did. She just didn’t know when, or how, or if there would ever be another right time to follow her abandon again.
“I’ve got your card.” She lied, but it didn’t matter. She knew how to find him.
“Sure. OK. Cool,” was all that Walsh said. He reached out and lightly hugged her, careful not to bother the
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