DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
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Lindsay had long legs.
This lone thought was making its way distractingly through Cindy's mind as the brunette crossed the room at high speeds with a look in her dark eyes equivalent to that of a panther getting ready to pounce on an antelope. Long legs meant long strides and faster walking. What little logic was left in the redhead's mind told her that if she didn't move, their bodies were going to collide, with possibly catastrophic results.
The small oomph that came out of Cindy's mouth when Lindsay crashed into her was almost drowned out by the printing presses, chugging along as if nothing was happening just feet away from them. Nothing stopped good news. Any other sounds she might have made were swallowed up by Lindsay's mouth as it latched onto hers forcefully. The kiss was like fire, sharp, stinging, forceful. It made Cindy's spine tingle. And caught between a horny detective and a desk, the only choice she had was to hold on tight.
Apparently unsatisfied with their current position, Lindsay took a swipe at the various clutter on the desk behind them, ignoring the clatter of pencils and the sweep of papers as they scattered across the floor. With a deep growl that Cindy had only ever heard hungry animals make on the Discovery Channel, she lifted the redhead up under her thighs, gripping so tightly that Cindy gasped a bit. All was resolved as Lindsay set her back down on the desk so that she was sitting on the edge and resumed her ravenous kissing. Cindy spread her legs open and tugged the detective forward so that she was settled in between them.
Now that she was hot and bothered, Cindy decided that things needed to progress a bit more quickly. She broke away from Lindsay's mouth and pushed her back a little. Lust-glazed eyes followed ink-smudged fingers as they traveled up the lapel of Lindsay's leather jacket, stopping at the shoulders. Cindy could see the pure anticipation in Lindsay's expression. With a light push, the jacket slipped down Lindsay's arms and onto the floor. Lindsay was wearing a white tank top underneath, and the redhead took the opportunity to trail her fingers over the toned shoulders, across the exposed collarbone, down the rapidly moving chest.
"Cindy," Lindsay croaked, her voice low and dangerous, her accent so thick that her name didn't even sound like her name anymore. With the softest gesture that she'd ever witnessed from her, Lindsay gently removed the square-rimmed glasses from the reporter's face and set them on a nearby desk. Cindy knew that was the last of slow and gentle for the evening. When Lindsay's mouth returned to hers, it was ten times as fierce as their original kiss. Before she could even register what was happening, Cindy was laying down on the desk, only a few loose papers underneath her, and Lindsay was tugging her pants off so hard she thought they might have ripped. But when long, slender, distinctly cold fingers touched the heat between her thighs, Cindy whimpered and gave herself over for good. She had other pants at home anyway.
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