The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Only him.

  He needed to see her. Touch her. Taste her. Needed to run his hands over every supple curve, trace every soft dip and valley. But he couldn't move, could barely fucking breathe when he heard the scrape of a shoe against the floor, felt the silky softness of her hair brush against the flesh of his stomach, his hips, his thighs.

  And then, fuck, her mouth closed over his cock. Sweet. Wet. Hot. So fucking hot as she sucked him, as her trembling fingers teased the sensitive flesh of his balls, as her tongue swirled around the head of his cock. Over and over. So fucking hot, the little sucking noises and soft moans coming from the back of her throat vibrating around his engorged flesh.

  He couldn't hold back his groan, couldn't hold himself still any longer. He reached down, fisted his hands in that long, silky hair, rocked his hips. Pumping. Fucking her mouth.

  It was too much. Not enough. He wanted more. Needed more. Needed her. Her tight pussy sheathing his cock, her muscles squeezing as he drove into her. Over and over. Harder. Faster. Needed to feel her cum coat his cock as he filled her, stretched her.

  Lost himself in her.

  He wrapped his hands around her arms, dragged her up and caught her mouth with his. The kiss was hard, punishing and claiming. Redeeming.

  His hands trailed over her body, squeezed her breasts, pinched her nipples. He tried to reign himself in, to control himself. But there was no control. There had never been control, not when it came to TR.

  He reached between them, undid the snap and zipper of her jeans. Dropped to his knees and yanked them down. Hands closed over his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh as he dipped his head and ran his tongue over her wet clit.

  And fuck, she was so fucking wet. So fucking sweet. As long as he could taste her, feast off her, he'd never starve.

  She whispered his name on a long cry, her breath hitching on a soft moan when he slid a finger inside her. Her hips rocked toward him, riding his finger, his tongue. Over and over, faster. He slid his finger out, ran the wet tip along her stomach, up higher across the tight peak of one hardened nipple. Down, tracing the curve of her waist and hip before dipping between her legs. Back inside, two fingers now, stretching her as he licked her clit, pulled the nubbin of flesh between his teeth and sucked.

  She called his name again, louder this time, her hips rocking faster as nails dug into his shoulders, scoring flesh. Riding him, demanding release. Now. Now...

  TR's cries echoed in the darkness surrounding them. Muscles squeezed, tight. Tighter. Tighter still before shuddering around his finger. Squeezing, squeezing harder as silky warmth coated his flesh.

  He pressed one last kiss against her swollen, tender flesh. Braced her with one strong arm as he pulled at her shoes, freed her legs from the denim. Then he caught her in his arms, pulled her up, lifting her. Higher, until her legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth closed over hers with a demanding hunger that left him shaking. Reeling. Dazed.

  It would be so easy to guide her hips over his. So easy to drive his cock into her. He wanted...wanted so much. But he couldn't. Not yet.

  He ripped his mouth from hers, rested his forehead against hers with a shaky breath. "I need you, TR. I need to fuck you like my life depends on it. Need to feel that hot pussy wrapped around my cock."

  He heard her shaky gasp, felt his face—his entire body—heat in embarrassment at his crude language. He started to apologize, stopped when she pressed a hungry kiss against his mouth.

  "Then do it."

  He choked back a laugh, the sound almost desperate. "The fucking condoms are upstairs. In the fucking kitchen. On the goddamn table."

  She laughed, the sound a little hoarse, almost as choked as his own had been. "Not the fucking table?"

  "What?"

  She pressed another kiss against the corner of his mouth. Rocked her hips against his. A shudder shook her body, made the breath hitch in her chest. She pulled in a deep breath, released it slowly and tightened her hands against his shoulders. "Why is it a goddamn table and not a fucking table, when it was the fucking condoms and the fucking kitchen?"

  And shit. Fuck. He had screwed up, shouldn't have used the crude language. But he hadn't been thinking, couldn't think, not logically, not when his body was screaming with the need for release only she could give him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"

  Fingers pressed against his mouth, quieting him. "Don't. I like it. As for the condoms..." She hesitated and he knew without being able to see that she was dipping her head, chewing on that full lower lip that was swollen from his kisses. "I'm on birth control. Pregnancy isn't an issue. And...and neither is anything else."

  Mac's heart slammed into his chest, robbing him of breath. Of reason. Of coherent thought. Years of training were the only thing stopping him from driving into her. He couldn't. Not yet.

  He sucked in a deep breath, let it out in a rush. "Pregnancy isn't an issue for me, either."

  A surprised laugh, soft and feminine, brushed against his cheek. "I'm glad to hear that."

  "And neither is anything else."

  A soft gasp, this one filled with need, echoed around him. Her hands tightened on his shoulders. Her hips rocked toward him. Reaching. Seeking. Warm breath tickled his ear as her voice, velvety smooth and whisper soft, wrapped around him.

  "Then fuck me, Mac. Now."

  His body was already reacting to her command even as his mind tried to fit the words to TR. It didn't matter, not when his body shrugged off the last restraints of his self-control. He palmed the firm curves of her ass and braced her with one arm, closed his hand around his throbbing cock and guided the tip to her wet pussy.

  And drove into her. Hard. Deep. And fuck, he was in heaven. Her wet flesh closed over him, pulling him in, squeezing as he rocked into her. In, out. Lifting her, biting back a groan as her hot pussy slid along the length of his cock before lowering her onto him. Again, nice and slow. Once more, faster and harder.

  He gripped her ass with both hands, stepped back and braced himself against the wall. Tilted his head back and clenched his jaw as she rode him, hard and fast, her hips matching the demanding rhythm of his own body.

  Deep. Deeper still. Muscles clenching him, silky heat wrapping around his cock, coating engorged flesh. Burning, searing. And fuck, he'd gladly burn alive if this is what it felt like.

  He tightened his grip on her waist, guiding her now. Driving into her. Over and over. Harder. Deeper. Faster. Faster still until nails dug into his shoulders and scored flesh. Until sharp breaths turned to even sharper cries. Cries of need. Of release.

  Until she called his name and fell apart in his arms, her body shuddering, shaking. He tightened his hold even more, caught her mouth with his and swallowed her cries.

  Fed her his own cries, low and guttural, as his body shattered with his own release. As he pumped his cock into her, filling her as her body milked him, each little quiver of her pussy ringing another soft moan from him.

  He gentled his hold on her, gentled the kiss and slowly lifted his head, pulling in giant gulps of air. TR's own ragged breathing matched his, breath for breath as they slowly floated back to earth. He closed his eyes—or maybe he opened them, he couldn't tell, the darkness was the same—and tilted his head back, let it rest against the wall behind him. TR dropped her head to his shoulder with a sigh, tightened her arms around him and pressed a small kiss against the base of his neck. Her breath was a warm caress against his skin when she spoke, her voice low and sleepy.

  "I don't think dark, closed places will be a problem anymore."

  "No?"

  "No."

  He smiled, pressed a kiss against the top of her head. "Good. I'm glad I could help with that."

  "Hmm." She snuggled even closer. "Maybe we should do this a few more times. Just in case."

  "I can help with that, too. If you think you need it, that is."

  "I do. Definitely." Her voice was even lower, softer. She snuggled closer, her body relaxing against his as sleep slowly
claimed her. Mac didn't move except to tighten his hold around her legs, to secure her. To protect her. He'd stand here all fucking night holding her if he had to, anything to keep from disturbing her.

  He thought she had finally drifted off when she stirred against him, her voice nothing more than a sleepy murmur. "Mac?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I love you."

  He opened his mouth but the words stuck in his throat, frozen there by the old fear that he wasn't good enough for TR. The old fear that she deserved better than him.

  The same fear that had caused him to push her away a year ago. The fear that had caused them to lose a year together.

  No. Fuck that. He wasn't giving into the fear, not anymore. He forced it to the darkest corner of his mind, then banished it with the fact that the woman in his arms loved him.

  And TR wouldn't love someone who wasn't worthy of it.

  He pressed a kiss against her temple, struggled to draw in a deep breath and whispered the words he so desperately needed to say.

  "I love you too, babe. Always."

  But it was too late—TR was already asleep, her body clinging to him with a trust that humbled him.

  And made him swear once more that nothing would happen to her, not as long as he could draw breath.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rage ripped through the man. How dare his patron insult him in such a way? Was it not bad enough that he'd been called away from his work? Forced to come to this meeting in New York, only to change the location to this secluded section of Central Park?

  As if he was no longer good enough to walk the halls of the exclusive office building. As if his presence would be frowned upon. As if he was unworthy.

  Something was wrong. He didn't feel emotion, had been trained long ago to give nothing away, trained so well that he had been able to shun those useless emotions. To discard them. Throw them to the side like the trash they were.

  Had a crack developed in his finely-honed armor? No. Impossible. His training had been too intense, too complete, to allow such a thing. There must be another reason for the unexpected rage and impatience that had been seething through his cold veins the last week. Something he couldn't quite see yet.

  Did it matter? The man frowned, thinking, uncertain of the answer.

  Did it matter?

  Possibly. Emotion was useless. A hindrance that clouded judgment and impeded performance. Emotion disturbed. Distracted.

  No matter. The man was stronger than that. He would use the rage to his advantage. Let it burn inside him, use the fire to forge the strength and power that grew inside him each day.

  Only the weak let emotion get in the way. And the man was anything but weak.

  The man said none of that. Allowed none of his thoughts and feelings to show on his face as he stepped out of the shadows.

  "You're late." His patron's voice was cold. Distant. Filled with impatience and a smug superiority. Why had the man never noticed before? Why had he never seen the weakness so clearly exposed before him? There was no power in his patron, not like he had first assumed.

  The man studied his patron with cold eyes, raking him with carefully concealed impatience. The expensive suit tailored to fit the trim body, adding size and bulk where none existed. The flash of gold circling his wrist. The jeweled cufflinks and heavy ring on the patron's small finger. Signs of material wealth designed to impress. To influence. To intimidate.

  The man was none of those things. And he now saw the patron for what he really was: weak, inefficient. Someone who called others to do his bidding yet looked down on them for the doing the work he was unable to do himself.

  The man studied his patron's hands. Soft, with neatly manicured nails, as if physical labor was beneath him. Smooth, the nailbeds clean, as if they had never been stained in the blood the patron so often demanded of others.

  His patron was nothing more than a businessman who dealt in death, who treated the lost lives as nothing more than currency filling his personal coffers. At one time, the man had respected that. He understood the value of death, appreciated the carefully-choreographed game of trading lives for money.

  The man had made his own fortune in the same game.

  But now...now he felt only contempt for his patron. For the first time, he saw him for the lazy, manipulative man he truly was. A man who dealt in death but refused to get his own hands dirty. A man who reaped the rewards without ever feeling the warm rush of blood coat his own flesh. A man who gleefully issued orders to his expendable force without true appreciation for how the game was played.

  Impatience rolled of the patron's body. He frowned, lines creasing a smooth face made ageless with the help of well-paid surgeons. "I assume you have good reason for being late?"

  "My apologies. Sir." The man offered no excuse, gave no reason. He hadn't been late—he'd been early. Keeping to the shadows. Watching. Waiting. The first taste of bitter contempt souring his mouth when he realized the patron was alone. As if the man was of no consequence. As if he posed no danger.

  Such an insult would not be tolerated.

  The patron frowned again. Was it possible he felt the first hint of danger? No. He was too certain of his own superiority, too inept to smell his own impending death. He started pacing, the expensive leather shoes carving a path in front of him. The man said nothing. Did nothing.

  Simply stood. Watching. Waiting.

  "It's time for the good Senator to depart us. His usefulness is over, has been over for quite some time. He's become a liability we can no longer afford."

  The man nodded. On this, at least, he agreed. "Yes. Sir."

  "Make it look like an accident. We don't need to make unnecessary headlines."

  The man kept the disappointment, the seething anger, from his voice. "An accident?"

  "Yes, an accident. We don't need any unnecessary attention. We don't want anyone to look too closely or stumble onto any connection, no matter how remote." His patron nodded then carefully folded his hands behind his back, as if pleased with his orders. "I already have a replacement in mind. Someone a little younger than our dear Senator."

  The man kept his face carefully blank, showing no signs of the anger raging below the surface. The anger felt...right. Strong. Powerful. He grasped it, held onto it and pulled it closer, reveling in the sudden clarity it provided. Had he been wrong all this time to shun emotion? Was this what he needed to perfect his game?

  Yes. Yes, it made sense. He could feel it, sharp and potent. The man fed it, allowed it to grow. To consume him. He welcomed the searing heat running through his veins and licking his flesh beneath the cheap suit he wore, an imitation of the expensive wool one clothing his patron.

  The man inhaled the cold air, pulled it into his lungs and marveled at the power growing inside him with the raw anger. He knew what had to be done now. Knew what should have been done long ago.

  The man kept that knowledge hidden, refused to allow it show on his face. Refused to let it tinge his voice when he spoke. He must keep the game alive, at least for a few more minutes. "And the woman? What would you like me to do with her?"

  The patron tilted his head to the side, taking a moment to think. The fool. Did he really think the man didn't already know the answer? Did he really believe he was still in charge?

  "I'm afraid Ms. Meyers's luck has run out and she will be the victim of yet another tragic accident. Such a shame, don't you think?"

  "Yes sir. Of course." The last of the anger exploded inside the man. Consuming him. Revitalizing him. He allowed it to happen, welcomed it with a quiet joy he had never before experience.

  Powerful. Potent. Pure.

  And he knew what he had to do. What he'd been meant to do all along. This game had been designed to test his limits, to push him to seek perfection. The anger was nothing more than preparation for his final test. For the meeting with his only worthy opponent.

  Of course. How had he not seen it before? How had he not known?

  No matter. H
e knew now.

  The Senator.

  The woman.

  And then...MacGregor.

  But first, he must dispose of his patron. His usefulness had come to an end. The man pulled the gun from his waistband and fired. "Such a shame."

  Nobody heard the shot.

  And it would be a long time before anyone found the body.

  Chapter Twenty

  How had she ever thought Mac could be a distraction?

  Not that he wasn't, because he was. A huge distraction—and definitely in more ways than one. But not the kind of distraction she had been thinking about when she invited him to that New Year's Eve gala at the Senator's. It had made sense when she first came up with the harebrained idea of snooping around the Senator's house. Bring Mac along, use him to rub elbows with anyone who might be watching—because, despite what he thought, he had a commanding presence. People listened to him when he spoke, heard the intelligence and dry wit beneath the gravelly voice. Then, when everyone was enthralled by whatever came out of his mouth, she would sneak off and look around. And if that didn't work, she could just let him use his size to intimidate the hell out of anyone who went looking for her.

  It had made perfect sense that night. At least, before they arrived at the party and he'd found out about her scheme.

  Before he had let her know in no uncertain terms that she'd never make it out of the main room without being followed.

  As far as ideas went, it hadn't been her brightest. Not just because she hadn't thought it through all the way, hadn't realized that anyone might actually follow her if she tried looking around.

  But because Mac was a distraction—in all the wrong ways. He was a distraction to her—had been since the very first time she'd met him. A distraction to her peace of mind, her concentration...her heart.