Extreme Sensitivity… as a hazard to fellow drivers. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 16

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as a hazard to fellow drivers. (16/?)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.

(Cindy’s POV)

There were a multitude of hazards in their path. Hazards, of course, being a relative term to the condition that Cindy was currently in, barely one for even being out and about in public, let alone being at the helm of several hundred pounds of rapidly advancing metal. After all, parked cars, stop signs, pedestrians, and other moving vehicles were a regular, everyday kind of occurrence. They could be, but rarely were, perilous in their own right.

But if one were in some sort of state, such as a state of acute arousal, continually tempered by the stroking of long, softly explorative fingers along every stretch of exposed skin within easy reach, the very mundane pieces of landscape could easily warp into grave dangers.

Headlights, for instance, were just headlights when they passed by without incident, but when the unnaturally delicious feel of Lindsay’s warm, tenderly stroking hand was moving in a slow, steady course along Cindy’s jaw line and sliding, fingers spread, down the side of her extremely sensitive throat like raindrops on a window, Cindy’s brain took far too long in registering that the nearest approaching headlights were, in fact, coming right for them.

Jerking the wheel to put them back on their side of the white line what could have conceivably been described as ‘just in time,’ Cindy grimaced at the blaring horn that emitted from the car as it passed them and glanced guiltily in the rearview mirror at angry-looking taillights moving rapidly away.

“Linds, you have got to stop touching me,” she uttered with a forced conviction, but made no bold attempt at removing herself from Lindsay’s lingering caress.

For her part, Lindsay seemed completely unaffected by their latest close call, or was perhaps simply too preoccupied to notice.

“Really? Are you sure?” she lazily drawled, fingers slowly pulling away, in more of a tease than an actual withdrawal .

Out of the corner of her eye, Cindy could see Lindsay’s hand hovering in the air between them as if just waiting to react to the reply, “No, I changed my mind. Please, lay your hands on me. Let’s see if we can’t cause a fifty car pile-up.”

“If you want to get home safely, you need to,” she cautioned.

“What if I just touch you a little bit?”

Cindy could tell it in her voice. If she looked over, Lindsay would be wearing that damn siren-like smile she kept tucked away in her seduction arsenal and it would cause her to plow headlong into a parking meter or an awning or a little old man with a walker who was just out for his nightly stroll around the grounds of his assisted living facility.

“Then I might get you home a little bit safely,” she warned her unconvinced passenger.

Lindsay didn’t choose to respond vocally, but, almost tauntingly, the hand still lingered.

“You’re decision,” Cindy breathed, struggling not to lean into the undeniably tempting touch. “We can spend the night in the ER if you really want to.”

“My last trip there didn’t turn out so bad.”

Cindy couldn’t deny herself a proud smirk.

“No?”

“No,” Lindsay murmured, fingertips just brushing skin.

Cindy’s vice-like grip held the car steady, even as her brain started to give itself over to Lindsay’s attentions. Thinking as fast as her muddled brain would allow, she made a concerted effort to redirect them from the dangerous track they were heading down yet again.

“I can almost guarantee you they’ll assign us separate beds,” she threatened, panicking when Lindsay seemed undeterred. “Or, worse, one of us could be severely broken or concussed and unable to perform with utmost skill and precision, and then it will be a half-assed, imperfect, flailing attempt at something that would really be better at a time of maximum capability. Is that really what you want?”

Apparently not. That was apparently an unacceptable risk, because seconds after Cindy posed the completely hypothetical, and rather unlikely, possibility, Lindsay’s hand froze, retreated, and disappeared from Cindy’s peripheral vision. Steeling herself, in anticipation of a continued visual assault when she turned her head, Cindy found a relatively docile Lindsay staring back at her, arms crossed over her chest. She may have even been sporting a slight pout.

And it was too distractingly sexy to look at for long.

Cindy turned her eyes back to the road in front of her, vowing to keep them there for the duration of the trip. Even without Lindsay’s hand fondling her into oblivion and even without watching the long, relaxed body ease into a casual position against the door to stare at her, without apology, across the few feet between them, Cindy was absurdly tuned into Lindsay’s powerful presence. She got the distinct impression that Lindsay was trying to remain the primary focus of attention. As if it was possible for Cindy to ever be unaware of her.

“Can I tell you something?”

Whether or not that painfully erotic rasp was intentional, it was certainly effective. The tone played Cindy’s spine like a xylophone, and she exerted some serious effort in suppressing the resultant shudder.

“You can tell me anything,” Cindy whispered.

“I was really glad you came back,” Lindsay said softly.

“Back?”

Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road.

“After we solved Theresa Woo’s murder, I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

“That would have been a dream come true for you, wouldn’t it?” Cindy grinned, despite the sudden twinge the notion produced.

“I thought so at the time.”

“So what happened?” Cindy swallowed against the quixotic tone threatening to lure her attention to the passenger seat.

“Elaine Lewis turned up in that bathtub and I was… more than lost,” Lindsay barely whispered. “Then I looked out the window and I saw you, and you glanced up at me and smiled just a little and I should have been annoyed that you were there. But I wasn’t.”

“You sure acted plenty annoyed the next time we saw each other,” Cindy couldn’t help but remind the suddenly implausibly romantic inspector.

“I was really glad you came back,” Lindsay repeated softly. Gently. “Every time. It didn’t mean I had to make it easy for you.”

That, she simply couldn’t leave suspended in uncertainty. She had to know for sure, without any doubt, so Cindy chanced a brief glimpse over at her date, lounging serenely in the passenger seat. A candid smile, loaded with wordless… something, served as her answer.

Eyes turning back to the road ahead, and a feeling she refused to give a name to, not yet, blooming fast and hard in her chest, Cindy knew that Lindsay was telling the truth. It was a truth that meant more to her than she even realized until it was spoken aloud, and she had some of her own truth to offer in return.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Cindy responded. “You know, the crime desk actually does cover a wide array of crime. Not just homicides. Notice how I was never hanging around any other department.”

“I did notice.”

The reply was tender and earnest and Cindy allowed her hand to impulsively abandon the wheel to reach out in Lindsay’s direction, unable to stifle the deep, full-bodied sigh as long fingers instantly wrapped themselves around it.