“Attaboy, Snickerdoodle,” a man yelled.
Fuck me. He was about to lose his life to a dog named after a cinnamon cookie. On the bright side, Snickerdoodle’s owner sounded winded. Rocky’s escape looked promising if only he could get away from the dog.
Rocky pumped his not-so-puny arms and legs harder and nearly shouted with relief when the fabric gave way with a loud rip, tearing a long strip of denim all the way down his leg. The air against his bare skin was an incentive for Rocky to run as he’d never run before. Snickerdoodle gave an indignant growl when Rocky pulled free from his grasp. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that the dog had stopped his pursuit to shake his head victoriously, flinging the strip of denim from side to side like a dead animal.
“Get him, Snickerdoodle,” his owner shouted. “He’s getting away.”
Rocky didn’t look back to see if the dog had obeyed the command. He assumed he had and used it as motivation to churn his legs faster. Rocky cut sharply to the right and sprinted between two houses toward the street running parallel to the one he was on. He’d headed in the opposite direction of his car, but he could circle back later. If he survived, that is. Rocky hurdled over an abandoned tricycle and dodged and weaved through a group of kids riding their bikes down the sidewalk.
“Watch it, mister,” a little girl retorted.
“Stranger danger,” another cried. “Blow your whistles.”
Oh God. That was the last fucking thing he needed. Before he could react, a little boy hollered, “Look! A doggie!”
A chorus of awws rang out, and the kids forgot all about Rocky as they threw their bikes down and ran toward Snickerdoodle. Rocky risked another glance over his shoulder and saw the dog had dropped his strip of denim and rolled onto his back for belly rubs. How fucking cute was he? Just as Rocky decided he could let up, Snickerdoodle’s daddy caught up to his dog.
The man pointed at Rocky and said, “Get him, boy.”
Rocky faced forward and prayed he still had gas left in his tank. Unfortunately, his distraction meant he’d miscalculated the distance to the street and darted out in front of a big, black SUV. Screeching brakes and burnt rubber assaulted his senses, but luckily the vehicle managed to stop before plowing into him.
Rocky leaned on the hood to catch his breath and stared through the windshield at the car’s inhabitants. It took a second for his oxygen-deprived brain to register the identity of the man with the pirate’s smile sitting in the passenger seat.
“Oh fuck” seemed hardly adequate, but it was all he could come up with under the circumstances. Asher unbuckled his seat belt, pushed open his door, and stepped down from the hulking SUV.
“Fancy meeting you here, Ford.”
Was it, though? Sure as hell didn’t seem like it. And to think, Rocky had once thought Lady Luck smiled upon him. Ha! She had long since tired of his bullshit and handed Rocky over to her ugly cousin, Misfortune.
Before Rocky could respond, Snickerdoodle’s daddy yelled out, “Get him! He’s a Peeping Tom!”
When the man started in their direction, Rocky had to act fast. He lowered his head so the brim of his hat shielded most of his face. “Get out your handcuffs.”
“Oh, that’s new,” Asher said, his voice deep and rumbly and so fucking delicious. Rocky’s toes curled inside his sneakers tight enough to snap. “Don’t think we tried that—”
“I’m on a case,” Rocky said urgently. “I don’t want to blow my cover. Please help me.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Asher turn to face the fast-approaching man. “I’ll take it from here, sir.”
The man didn’t even slow down. “But you haven’t let me tell you what he did. I want to file an official report.”
Asher held up his hand, and the man jerked to an abrupt stop. “My partner will take care of that,” he said. Then he ducked his head inside the SUV to speak to the deputy Felix had dubbed Gingersnap after their run-in with the marshals on the Spencers’ property.
After a brief exchange, Asher’s partner got out of the vehicle and walked over to the man. They shook hands, and Gingersnap gestured for them to step even farther away, freeing Asher to approach him. Rocky wanted to insist on dealing with Deputy Gingersnap instead, but his bargaining position was fragile at the moment.
Asher’s stride was powerful, confident, and assertive, epitomizing three of the characteristics Rocky had been drawn to from the onset of their relationship. The closer Asher came, the harder Rocky’s pulse pounded.
“Place your hands on the hood, spread your legs to shoulder width, and don’t move,” Asher commanded.
A surge of longing gripped Rocky by the balls and squeezed hard, rendering him immobile. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for his lips. “Whose shoulder width? Mine or—”
Rocky’s words died when Asher grabbed his wrists and placed Rocky’s hands on the SUV’s hood. The warmth of the engine seeped into his palms, but it couldn’t compete with the heat rolling off the man behind him. Christ. Did Asher always stand so close when he arrested people? Rocky wisely kept his mouth shut this time and kept his eyes trained on the ground. Asher’s black combat boot came into view when he slipped it between Rocky’s feet. He tapped his boot against Rocky’s right instep, encouraging him to move it. Rocky inched it over a bit, and Asher tapped him again. They repeated this until Asher was satisfied with the width of his spread.
Asher hummed his approval. “Yeah, that looks good.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about the space between my feet?”
Asher chuckled, then leaned in so close that his lips nearly touched Rocky’s ear. “Stop talking.”
Longing tightened the vise on his nuts a little more. But before he could acknowledge Asher’s demands, his husband stepped back. Rocky’s relief was short-lived because Asher squatted down behind him and started feeling around his ankles.
“W-what are you d-doing?” he stammered.
“Checking you for weapons.”
Rocky sighed and shook his head. “I asked you to pretend to arrest me.”
“You did, and I am. Everyone knows a suspect gets patted down before they get placed in the vehicle.” Asher slid both hands up the inside of Rocky’s legs. He had to tense his body to keep from reacting when Asher’s fingers brushed over his bare flesh. God, how he’d missed those incredible hands. Rocky fought the urge to spread his legs wider or to push his ass out. “New undies?”
Rocky racked his brain to remember the pair he’d chosen that morning. All he could think about was how close the tips of Asher’s fingers were to his balls.
“I’ve never seen this shade of orange before,” Asher said when he dropped his hands and stood up.
Rocky breathed a sigh of relief, but it got caught in his throat when Asher began patting down his chest.
“What would you call it? Burnt orange?” Asher asked, coasting his hands over Rocky’s pecs and abs. His nipples hardened, and he bit his bottom lip to hold back the moan until the urge passed.
“Sienna sunrise,” he rasped. Why did his voice sound like he’d been smoking three packs a day since birth?