by Pam Godwin
“From the moment you read my first email.” He cupped her face and rested his forehead against hers.
“I need you.”
She felt his brows pull together, his muscles tightening around her. Then his hand lowered, drifting down her body to slide between her legs.
“No.” She gripped his arm and flattened his hand against her chest. “I need all of you, Tommy. I need us. I don’t know what that looks like tomorrow or ten years from now, or how our worlds fit together, but knowing you, you already have all that worked out.”
“You’re mine.” His strange expression suggested he was trying out the words, tasting them. “Mine.”
“And you’re mine.”
He smiled, a brilliant, lustrous, heart-stopping smile, and caressed his palms along her shoulders. His fingers laced through her hair, and his mouth captured hers, kissing her senseless.
His happiness felt elemental against her lips, stirring a fluttery, whirling, delicious warmth in her chest. They made out without hurry or expectation, touching, kissing, grinning, living.
She was reborn in his arms, alive and unrestrained, her emotions unfurling in staggering abandon. So many feelings, sensations, the good and bad, the pain and pleasure, the past and present—all of it mounted and spilled out in a shocking flood. She gave a harsh cry, her body convulsing and belly clenching, untying knots as sobs tumbled from her throat, along with wave after wave of relief.
He held her through it, kissing away her tears. Then he lowered himself onto her, his mouth hungry against hers as he worshiped her, caressed her everywhere, and prepared her to take him.
When he finally pushed inside, it was with slow, rocking thrusts, fitting his hard length deeper, deeper. At last, he hilted himself, bottoming out, filling her with unholy pressure and pure satisfaction. She gasped, then groaned, matching the growls rumbling from his throat.
He paused, their breaths rushing, colliding, eyes locked in wonder.
God, he was so gorgeous—chiseled features, squared jaw, a shadow of sexy stubble, and tousled brown hair dangling over his stern brow.
“You should know,” she said, “I might act like all is well, but beneath the surface, I’m dreaming about running my own cartel and pistol-whipping every woman who looks in your direction.”
His eyes danced, his smile beaming. “I’ll provide all the pistols you need.”
By now, she should’ve been immune to the deep timbre of his voice. But the low, throaty vibrations were as intoxicating as the stretch of his cock.
He circled his hips, forcing her to feel every inch, driving shivers of pleasure through her limbs. Her head fell back. She dragged in air, and his mouth fell upon her throat, licking and kissing and showering her in sparks of love.
Desire stirred along her spine, spreading outward like a slow, burning flame. His strokes caught a timeless rhythm, sinking deep, masterfully controlled and wickedly orchestrated.
He fucked her slowly, loved her thoroughly, his stamina and youth carrying her through hours of unadulterated pleasure. He was a mean son of a bitch, a carnal beast, but without a fog of anger driving their hunger, they took their time and savored the explorations of each other’s bodies.
She didn’t know how long they played or how many orgasms she’d chased into the rafters. But she knew he was spent when a hoarse groan brought him to a languid, sweat-slick halt.
Rolling to his back, he took her with him. With their bodies still joined, she gently rocked, reluctant to relinquish the motions that brought them so much pleasure.
Eyes closed, with an arm thrown over his brow, he lay limply beneath her, chuckling softly.
“You’re insatiable,” he murmured and trailed a knuckle along her thigh.
“Get used to it. I hear women only get hungrier with age.”
“Can you have a baby?”
“I don’t know.” Startled, she slid off of him, staring at his closed eyes. “I’ve never tried. Can you?”
“Never tried.”
“Do you want a baby?”
“I want you.” He cracked open an eye, lazily watching her. “Children. No children. Whatever happens, happens. We’re going to have an amazing life together.”
She nodded, wanting that with a healthy amount of fear and excitement.
Tenderly, she ran her palm down the corrugated ridges of his abs, the skin taut and slick over steel. When she reached the trail of soft, wiry hair, he sighed, relaxed.
As relaxed as his cock. It lay along his thigh, wet with their mingled come, and long. Even flaccid, he was at least seven inches. But she could fit that much into her mouth.
Her fingers moved on their own, encircling him, her mind full of wonderment. She’d spent hours exploring every inch of his body, but this part of him still intimidated her. She hadn’t dared to take him into her throat.
She moved between his legs, roving her thumb over the velvety knob. The muscle jerked, but didn’t harden.
He lowered his arm, staring at her from beneath hooded lids. “Are you going to suck the life out of me?”
“I’m going to try.”
He started to swell in her hand, so she hurried, lowering her head and drawing him into her mouth. The tang of their arousal hit her taste buds, the sound of his grunts spurring her faster.
She lapped and sucked, rushing against the clock as he grew harder and longer against her tongue. This wasn’t an act she’d ever been particularly fond of. But the tremors in his thighs, the clench of his hands in the bedding, and his groans… Oh, Jesus, his groans were everything.
Eyes shut tight, he rode out the contractions that rippled along his flat abdomen. Extraordinary.
He was too gorgeous, too sexy, too fucking huge in her mouth. But too much of this man was the perfect amount. The perfect amount of gagging, choking, thrusting…
With a growl, he flipped her onto her back and fucked her until neither of them could move.
Then they slept. Hearts beating in sync, bodies entangled, blissfully content, they slept until nightfall.
She woke in the dimly lit room, dying of thirst. Tommy didn’t stir beside her.
Careful not to disturb him, she slipped from the bed, dressed in the bathroom, and crept into the hall in search of something to drink.
Voices drifted from the living room at the far end. Soft whispers. The team was awake.
She wasn’t keen on facing a gang of armed criminals alone. But if she wanted a life with Tommy, they would have to accept her. She would have to trust them.
Steeling her spine, she adjusted her t-shirt and jeans and strode down the hall.
Halfway there, a partially opened door gave her pause. Light glowed from within, the flooring different from the rest of the house. Polished hardwoods.
No furniture was visible through the crack. Was that…a mirrored wall?
She shifted, stealing another angle, and spotted Cole sitting on the floor near the back wall, surrounded by beer bottles.
Curiosity and concern pulled her closer. She opened the door.
A dance room. Holy shit, it was beautiful. Massive. Twelve-foot-tall seamless windows soared to the rafters. Mirrors covered the other walls, and ballet bars wrapped the entire room. There was a lounge area with a leather couch, a built-in stereo system, and a dancing pole in the back corner.
All built for the dancer who was tattooed on his arm.
Her heart sank to her stomach.
Cole glanced at his watch and dropped his head back against the wall, eyes shut. “Forty-five seconds.”
“What?”
“There’s a rumor going around that Tomas is packing a ten-inch dick.”
The random comments gave her whiplash. “It’s not a rumor.”
He nodded, finished off his beer, and grabbed two more. “Want one?”
“Sure?” Uncertain, she left the door cracked behind her and joined him on the floor.
They drank in silence.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched hi
m look around the room, his eyes flickering as if he were tracking an invisible dancer as she swayed through her routine, her feet scuffing and bouncing across the shiny flooring.
Shadows crept over his expression, and he blinked, looking away.
“Do you want to talk about her?”
“Nope.” He popped the P.
“How long has it been, Cole?”
How long have you been hurting?
“She married my best friend seven years ago.” He tipped his beer toward the door, his voice gruff. “Your forty-five seconds has arrived.”
She followed his gaze and found Tommy standing on the threshold.
Tomas couldn’t ignore the territorial feeling in his gut as he took in the unexpected room filled with ballet bars, mirrored walls, empty beer bottles, and his girl.
His gorgeous girl. Swigging beer. With the only single man in the house.
Yeah. He was feeling territorial. They’d just made a monumental step in a fragile, new relationship, and she’d sneaked out of their bed to chug beers with this guy.
Drawing in a deep breath, he slowed his roll and leaned a shoulder against the door frame.
Rylee sat on the floor with her legs crossed, her gaze ticking between him and Cole before settling on Cole. “Forty-five seconds…?”
“The time it took Tomas to throw on his clothes and chase after you.” Cole rested an arm on his bent knee, a beer bottle dangling from his hand. “I know the drill. I used to be just like him.”
“You used to be overbearing, unpleasantly arrogant, heavy-handed, and moody?” A twinkle lit her eyes.
“All of that and worse,” Cole said, expressionless.
“He still is.” Tomas slipped his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, fighting the urge to drag her back to bed.
They had a lot of work to do—phone tracking, computer hacking, and high-tech spying—that heavily relied on Cole’s expertise. The man shouldn’t be drinking, but Tomas wasn’t here to nag him. The guy was dependable.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked Cole.
“I don’t care what you do.” He leaned back against the wall, settling in with a long draw from his beer.
Turning toward Tomas, she shot him a look that said she wasn’t budging from this room. And she wasn’t asking him to stay.
The instinct to haul her out and spank her ass warred with all logic and reason. He needed to eat. His friends were already gathering in the living room, and he trusted her.
Proving it, he gave her a smile that caught on her face. She smiled back, and he shifted away, heading toward the kitchen.
As he stepped out of the hallway and around the corner, he paused, tensing.
Across the room, Lucia stood near the windows, crying in Tiago’s arms.
What the fuck?
He searched the living room and found Tate sitting off to the side, perched on the edge off a chair. Leaning over his lap, he braced his elbows on his knees, head down, and eyes up, watching the bizarre embrace like a hawk.
Tiago didn’t look up, didn’t say a word. His attention was engrossed in the weeping woman he held. Lucia wasn’t a crier, so to see her sniveling softly against the madman’s chest, to witness him gently shushing her, stroking a hand over her hair, and hugging her tight, it was fucking weird.
And heartening.
It was a good sign if Tate wasn’t interfering. He didn’t look pleased, but he wasn’t tearing off Tiago’s arms, either.
Everyone knew Tiago harbored a deep affection for Lucia. Nothing like what he felt with Kate. But he and Lucia shared a history. An ugly, brutal history of lies and deception. He’d poisoned her for years. She’d smashed his head in with a lead weight, and through it all, he’d kept her alive, protecting her from enemies and allies in his dark underworld.
Lucia leaned back and wiped her cheeks. Tiago released her, clasped his hands behind him, and stared down at her, speaking softly.
Their relationship was a twisty, complicated knot to unravel, but they appeared to be making progress.
Tomas veered toward the kitchen, grabbed a sandwich from the fridge, and spotted the others outside. Leaving Tate to supervise Tiago and Lucia, Tomas stepped out onto the terrace.
The evening autumn air chilled his skin. Not cold, but so very different than the desert.
Liv, Van, and Luke sat around a table, deep in conversation about the mission that Matias and Camila just finished in Mexico. Another sex trafficking ring annihilated.
The thought brought a smile to his face. Fuck, he loved his job.
Lowering into the chair beside Van, he wolfed down the turkey sandwich and admired the exterior view of the massive one-story manor. Veneered in stone, it wrapped around several outdoor living spaces with walkways that led into the woods.
From the largest terrace, a bridge arched over a ravine, providing access to the covered dock on the lake below. A vista of forest and high bluffs surrounded the calm inlet of water. It was majestic and comforting and felt almost as secure as Matias’ fortress in the Amazon rainforest.
“Where’s Rylee?” Luke asked.
“Talking to Cole. Did you know he has a full-blown dance room down the hall?”
“Not surprised.” Liv leaned back in the chair. “The tattoo is telling.”
“Are you surprised by his pushy bid to join our team?”
“He’s already with us.” Liv shrugged.
“He just wants us to recognize that.” Van tapped a toothpick on the table.
“Why? What does he get out of it?”
“Purpose. Belonging.” Luke stretched out an arm, indicating the sprawling mansion. “This was built as a safe house. He told me that he used to let people in his profession stay here to recharge and regroup. He gave up that job for a girl, lost the girl, and now all he has is the house. A nine-bedroom estate with gear and tech, designed for people like us. He supports our cause, trusts us enough to bring us here. We give him purpose. A place to belong.”
“Makes sense.” Tomas looked at Van. “You recruited him how long ago?”
“Six years.” Van met Liv’s eyes. “When I hunted down Traquero.”
Traquero, the slave buyer who brutally raped Liv in front of Josh.
When Van had learned about the assault, he lost his fucking mind and dismantled his sex slave operation. Then he hired Cole to find Traquero so Van could kill the monster, which he did. Gruesomely.
Cole didn’t show up again until a year ago, when Tate hired him to locate Lucia and retrieve her from Tiago’s clutches.
“What do you think we’re dealing with, Tommy?” Luke scraped a hand through his messy red hair, his gaze focused. “This can’t just be about a jealous ex-husband.”
“Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right one, and the simplest explanation is Mason Sutton.” The tension at the base of his skull disagreed. “I feel like we’re overlooking something. Can’t put my finger on it.”
“If Rylee hasn’t told anyone about the bridge except you,” Luke said, “how did the hitman know about it? What does it have to do with anything?”
“We won’t know those answers until we have a motivation. We need the hitman’s identity and that of who hired him.”
“That’s Cole’s expertise.” Van reclined back, propping a socked foot on his knee. “Depending on who’s behind this, it could take weeks to uncover.”
“I talked to Matias an hour ago.” Luke traced a finger along the edge of the table. “If this gets drawn out, he and Camila will fly in with the rest of the team.”
His friends were restless, itching for action and the thrill of a fight. And missing their other halves.
“We need to put our heads together.” Tomas scratched his jaw, gathering his thoughts. “Paul Kissinger started watching Rylee six months ago. Three months before that, she filed a protective order again Mason. Paul found me through a tracking device on her truck. A standard device that is widely available. Far different than the tech that was
planted in her house.”
“Do we know when that tech was planted?” Liv asked.
“Recently. The components are so new that Cole has never seen its kind before.”
Her eyes hardened. “Do you think we’re dealing with two unrelated threats?”
“The hitman made contact with Paul’s phone. We’re still waiting on the analysis from the call logs, but we know there’s a connection.”
“It could be a criminal Rylee testified against,” Luke said. “Or a family member of one of those criminals. Someone with a vendetta against her.”
“Or it could be any of the hundreds of traffickers we’ve taken out. We never leave loose ends, but mistakes happen.”
“Whoever this is, they’re not after your emails. Rylee’s house hasn’t been ransacked. No one seems to be searching for the copies she made.”
“Unless they already have them.” His insides tightened.
Her house was compromised. At some point, very soon, he needed to get those email copies and talk to her about selling the property and moving to Colombia.
He went back and forth with his friends for the next hour. The conversation circled, discarding theories and forming new ones. Eventually, Tate rapped on the window, announcing dinner, and they moved the discussion inside.
Tate and Lucia had prepared a spread of Mexican food—enchiladas, tacos, and other fixings Tomas could name.
Cole breezed around the large dining table, setting up numerous laptops, printers, phones, and other electronics.
Behind him, Rylee stood at a giant whiteboard that had been wheeled in on a stand. The marker in her hand flew across the surface, listing evidence and timelines, drawing diagrams, and collating links between people, places, and events.
While the seductive shape of her ass in those jeans tried to steal his attention, it was her mind that held him rapt, gripped in a state of awe. She’d managed to organize the tangle of conversations he’d just exchanged with his friends into an orderly, concise illustration.
As she worked, he made them both plates of food. Cole hadn’t stopped messing with his equipment to eat, so Tomas made a plate for him, too.
Setting the heaping dishes on the table, he approached her back and dragged his nose through her soft hair. “You’ve done this before.”