by Bromberg, K.
And then his eyes leave mine and take in the rest of me. His quick intake of breath fills the room and even though he doesn’t speak, that singular sound is all I need to hear to know he feels the same way.
I watch his eyes scrape up the high heels, fishnet stockings, and leather cupless bustier before meeting my eyes. A slow, cocky grin pulls up one corner of his mouth the same time he drops bags with a thud to the floor.
“Hi.” A bob of his Adam’s apple. A twitch of his fingers as if he’s itching to touch. A quirk of his eyebrow. All a slow seduction themselves when I don’t need anything but him and me. Right here. Right now.
“Welcome home. Merry Christmas. Get undressed.” All three of my demands are equally important. Only one is urgent.
That tug of a smirk turns into a full-blown grin as Hawke casually makes his way toward me, drawing out his reaction in painstakingly slow fashion. “Welcome home. Merry Christmas. Get undressed,” he repeats with a raise of one eyebrow. “It’s time to unwrap my present.” The comment takes me back to that first time I drove him home three years ago.
You’re like unwrapping a present. So many surprises to discover.
He stops in front of me, our bodies a whisper apart, our breaths feathering over each others, and desire ricocheting in the space between us. His cologne, his energy, everything I’ve missed over the past few months assaults my senses and makes me want to take and ravage but I know he likes his foreplay. And his sugar.
Let’s see how long it takes him to find it.
With eyes intense, his hands come up to frame my face. Every part of me that wasn’t already standing to attention, sparks instantly to life. Unspoken words pass between us as his mouth slowly descends to meet mine. A soft brush of a kiss. A gentle touching of tongues. My hands sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to touch the corded muscle beneath. His fingers tensing on my jaw as he draws out this first meeting of lips in a tantalizing temptation of everything I want to devour but love that he’s savoring.
God, I missed him. Missed this. Can’t wait to drown myself in more than just the taste of his lips over the next three weeks he’s home and off tour. And completely mine.
“Now that’s a welcome home if I’ve ever seen one,” he murmurs as the kiss ends but our lips remain brushing against each others.
“There’s a lot more where that comes from.” Suggestion laces my tone but desire tinges the edges.
“I can see that,” he says as he runs his hands down my bare arms to link his hands with mine. He steps back and holds our arms out so that he can look at me once again. And the minute he sees it, I can tell. The dart of his tongue to wet his lips. The stutter in movement. The flash of gray up to meet my eyes. “My two biggest vices—you and sugar—all wrapped into one stellar package.”
I love the grate in his voice. The audible sound of his desire. It turns me on. Causes that sweet ache he always creates to intensify.
“Unwrap me, rocker boy.”
A strained chuckle falls from his lips. With eyes still on mine, he pushes me to sit back on the bed behind me as he drops to his knees on the floor before me. The spread of my legs apart is an instant reaction, my own reflection of need for him as he moves between them. His eyes flick down to my nipples and an appreciative groan rumbles deep in his throat before his gaze lifts back to mine.
He lifts a brow in question. “For me, sweetness?”
It takes everything I have to not throw my head back and laugh. Who else does he think I’d wet my nipples and dip them in pixie stick sugar for?
“You use instruments. I use sugar.” My last word falls off into a gasp when his lips close over the sugared peak of my breast. My head falls back, my legs fall open, and my body eases into the bliss of his tongue sweeping circles over the sensitive skin.
One of his hands finds its way between my thighs as his tongue continues its welcome assault on my senses. His other hand grabs my ass and scoots it closer to the edge of the bed and farther into the adept skill of his fingers waiting and wanting there.
“Hawke.” His name is on my lips while my taste is on his tongue as he switches from side to the other with a satisfied sigh. And when his lips close around my nipple this time, his guitar hardened fingers part the lips of my pussy and dip into my wetness.
“Fucking perfection,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice, warmth of his mouth, and skill of his fingertips give me everything I’ve been missing, craving, and desperate for. With his thumb on my clit, he begins to slide his fingers in and out of me, scraping over right where I need it to me.
And while my vibrator may have taken care of business while he’s been gone, there is nothing—absolutely nothing—that equals the feeling of his hands on me. In me. Pleasuring me into that riotous orgasmic frenzy that only he can.
His teeth scrape over my nipple. My hands thread through his hair. His fingertips curve against my hub of nerves. My body tenses. He quickens the pace of his fingers, driving me harder and faster. Our breaths pant. Our hearts race. His absence has made my orgasm so much easier to summon.
A moan falls from my lips as I tighten around his fingers, my tell tale sign I’m so very close. He lifts his face to watch me: eyes locked, teeth biting into his bottom lip, sex personified.
“I’m coming,” I moan just as my body goes tight, the orgasm slamming into me with reckless abandon. My fingernails dig into his arms as he draws out the sensations: softer strokes, incendiary words, intense eyes.
“Goddamn. I’ve missed watching you come. Making you come,” he murmurs as he leans in and kisses me long and thoroughly, sugar and need a potent combination on his tongue. He withdraws his fingers, the sounds and smell of my desire fill the room, an aphrodisiac that only makes me want more of him.
When Hawke rises from the floor, his knees still between mine, he pulls his shirt over his head and balls it with one hand before tossing it aside. I take the moment to appreciate every single inch of him but stop to watch his hands, still glistening from my arousal, undo the buttons on his jeans.
Damn.
“My turn, sweetness.”
My eyes flash up to his, sass on my lips and reignited desire in my eyes. “Play me, Hawkin.”
HARD BEAT—CHAPTER ONE
Beaux
TANNER THOMAS IS A HOUSEHOLD name on the foreign beat. I’ve heard he’s a strict professional who is returning to the field after a tough blow with the loss of his partner. The unfortunate turn of events is admittedly horrible but it makes him a perfect match for me. Someone who probably doesn’t want to team up with anyone new and by the laws of human nature won’t want to get close to anyone right now.
Laughter erupts on the other side of the room causing me to glance over to where I last caught a glimpse of Tanner’s back. As always on a mission, disinterest is my best friend. It allows me to slip below the radar, slide seamlessly into the flow of things, and always remain in the periphery.
But as I observe the various reporters, producers, and photojournalists working their way toward him, it strikes me there is something different in the atmosphere tonight. The general mood in the room is lighter, energetic, and in some inexplicable way feels hopeful in a sense.
I don’t want to attribute it to the presence of Tanner Thomas. It’s ludicrous to believe that a single person can breathe life into a community like has happened tonight.
But there’s no denying it either.
And it’s not just the alcohol flowing more freely than normal. There’s a current in the room that’s indescribable. It’s like they know he’s here so things are going to start happening again instead of the day after day monotony that has the norm since I arrived over two weeks ago.
“C’mon T-squared!” Someone yells with a slap of his hand on the bar, and I start craning my head back and forth to see between the crowd of bodies from my spot on the other side of the bar.
“I’m game if you’re game!” A voice booms before I can catch a glimpse of what’s going on. I don’t ne
ed to see whose lips are moving to know it was Tanner speaking because chill raced over my skin at the sound of the familiar baritone I know from watching his broadcasts. It’s likely just the knowledge that I’m so close to pulling my boots up and wading straight into the thick of my cover that causes the goose bumps to come. That undeniable thrill of anticipation.
That has to be the cause of the sudden fluttery feeling in my stomach.
Another reporter I’ve spoken to on a few occasions, Gus, I believe is his name, hands me a shot with a whoop of a laugh and before I can even ask why, a hush falls over the room.
“Shh. Shh. Shh.” Pauly, a fellow reporter, climbs atop a chair, a shot glass filled with amber liquid in one hand and his other motioning for the lot of us to quiet down. He looks down to his right and for the first time I catch a fleeting glimpse of Tanner’s face before the crowd shifts and I lose sight of him again. “Tanner Thomas . . . we are so glad to see your ugly ass back in this shithole. I’m sure once you hand our asses to us time and again by getting the story first, we’ll want you to leave, but for now we’re glad you’re here. Slainte!”
“Slainte!” I say back in unison with the rest of the crowd, then the sound of swearing fills my ears as the burn of the alcohol hits everyone’s throats.
Needing to appear to be a part of the group, I take a sip but I know well enough that a drunk woman in a city like this is just asking for trouble. And I get in enough trouble on my own, thank you.
When I glance back through the crowd again, I’m startled when I lock eyes with Tanner. It’s only a split second of time, just long enough for me to tip my shot glass to him before someone moves and blocks our connection, but it’s enough to have me holding my breath and that fluttering to return in my belly.
I sit there in complete indecision for a second, since that momentary connection unarmed me for some reason when I’m hard to rattle. Jesus, Beaux, it’s not like you’ve never met a mark before. Exhaling slowly, I tell myself that I need to keep my wits. It was stupid for me to search him out since I don’t plan on meeting him face to face until our assigned meeting at ten tomorrow morning. Besides, my new boss, Rafe, might not have even told him about me yet. He warned me Tanner was going to resist the idea of a new partner, that he might be tough on me. Little did Rafe know that in my line of work, tough is an everyday norm.
So if I don’t plan on meeting Tanner until tomorrow, why do I keep looking back to where he’s sitting? What am I going to gain with one more glimpse of him?
Absolutely nothing.
And yet I look again. This time there is a complete break in the crowd and I catch Pauly’s eyes. By the way he smirks at me, then looks over to Tanner and throws his head back with a laugh I know they are talking about me. Call it woman’s intuition or just plain curiosity but I know. And now I definitely can’t look away.
The problem, though, is that not looking away means that my gaze moves from Pauly to Tanner and this time I’m afforded more than just a glimpse of him. I’m granted the whole entire package.
Dark hair frames his tanned face and there’s something intriguing about his eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on across the distance. I don’t have a chance to consider it for very long because when he shifts his gaze and his eyes lock on mine, I freeze in place: lips shocked open, heart skipping a beat, and a flash of something I want to deny as being attraction flickers through me.
But this time I recover quickly and turn my lips up into a slow, knowing smile as we hold each other’s gaze. In contrast to the flash of hunger I catch in his eyes, he nods his head nonchalantly with an arrogant curl to his mouth before looking away.
But I keep staring.
And there’s something about the whole exchange that infuriates me.
I need to remember he’s just my cover, the man I need to partner up with to protect my ass. So there’s no reason to be irritated that he just reeled me in with those eyes and then disregarded me without so much as a second look. Ironically it’s the exact same thing I had planned on doing to him - use my looks right off the bat if I sensed any attraction in order to catch him off guard enough to use my brain and intuition to do my job.
I may be an agent, but first and foremost I’m a woman, and no woman likes to be made to feel like they are inconsequential. For the first time in forever I am pissed about someone not noticing me.
Agitated and irritated, I’m suddenly tossing back the shot I had no intention of drinking,. The burn comes fast and I hope my sense follows suit because no man has ever thrown me off my game when it comes to work, romantically or otherwise--and yet with a single glance, Tanner Thomas has done just that.
I turn the glass around in circles on the scarred table top as I try to figure out what exactly it was about the exchange that instantly had him getting beneath my skin. It was ten seconds tops and yet those ten seconds packed a punch I never expected.
It had to be the look he gave me. While I’ve seen him a hundred times filing live reports—and I’ve both appreciated his looks and admired his skills--yet nothing prepared me for the absolute intensity in his eyes. Not to mention the flash fire of heat that surged in my lower belly when our gazes met.
And with that last thought, I’m immediately shoving my chair back. All my best laid plans have gone out the window: the play it cool, we’ll meet face to face for the first time tomorrow, fly under the radar. I’ve made a living on being able to read people and in that brief meeting of our eyes, he was able to get a visceral reaction out of me. That in itself is rare. Even more unheard of is for me to take the bait and say fuck it to my rules, which is exactly what I’m doing by walking across the bar to face this head on.
There’s something about the contradiction between the look in his eyes and his rigid posture that tells me he doesn’t like to be handled. Wants all of the control. And God yes in a lover that’s sexy as hell, but in a man I have to work with under difficult circumstances, it’s not so appealing. I need to get the upper hand here so I can control the situation before it even starts.
Fate has to be on my side because the barstool next to Tanner is vacant when I approach. So I slide into the seat, face him and wait for him to look my way. I know he senses my presence, can see the stiffening of his posture, the fleeting tension in his fingers, but he doesn’t lift his eyes from where he’s tracing lines over the grooves on the scarred wood bar top.
He’s attractive in an odd combination of rugged mixed with preppy pretty boy. Camera worthy looks but with a hint of edge to the lines giving character to his face.
The seconds pass as I wait him out, questioning my decision to come over here but I won’t back down now. I’m not wishy washy. Hate women that are. I didn’t get where I am professionally by being a damn doormat. But standing here waiting for him to glance my way suddenly unnerves me.
“Whatever you’re looking for, I’m not him,” he says without looking up.
The part of me that felt uncertainty sags in relief and welcomes his hostility. I can definitely work with his lack of warmth, hold onto it, and use it to my advantage to find my footing. He has no clue that we’re about to enter into a partnership.
“I don’t believe I’m looking for anything.” I feign nonchalance, don’t want to give him any more than he is giving me and yet at the same time hope it brings a reaction out of him. Something. Anything.
“Good.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly what I was looking for but at least he hasn’t gotten up and left. I glance up to the bartender and then back toward Tanner. “Whiskey sour,” I order from the bartender, and notice a slight startle of Tanner’s head in my periphery. I smirk, his reaction giving me the perfect in to get his full attention. “And put it on his tab.”
Bingo. Tanner snaps his head up and immediately meets my gaze. If I thought the intensity in his eyes was powerful before, it’s tenfold now. The problem is that it’s not just the intensity that pins me immobile, but also the unique amethyst color of his eyes mixed with
his undeniable good looks. Proximity to him might not have been a good idea because I find myself captivated by him.
A completely foreign and unwelcome feeling hits me so fast that I shove away from the bartop. I maintain my smirking expression and the challenging look I’m giving him even as my insides somersault into nothingness and that quick ache of lust hits me head on. The flash of intrigue comingled with amusement in his eyes tells me that he’d love nothing more for me to be the typical female I’m sure he’s used to dealing with: compliant, star-struck, fumbling over her words.
He’s got another thing coming if that’s what he’s expecting.
“I don’t believe I offered to buy you one.” He leans back and angles his head, eyes assessing and daring me all at once.
“Well, I don’t believe I asked you to be an asshole either, so the drink’s on you.” The comment is off my tongue before I can think it through. We stare at each other like two caged animals circling, trying to figure the other one out, and knowing regardless of our indifference, there is definitely a game of some sort being played between us. Good thing I know what that game is.
“Then I guess you should steer clear of me and neither of us will have to worry about me being an asshole.” He grunts the words out, and I don’t know whether I should be glad or upset about his response.
On one hand his lack of interest could make this whole mission easier. He’ll leave me alone, let me do my thing, so long as I get my work done when he needs it. On the other hand, he’s damn attractive and it could be extremely beneficial to use sex appeal to my advantage. Reel him in, keep him under my wing, and get my job done quicker by playing the innocent female card.
The problem with using sex appeal though is that I’ve watched other female agents play theirs up, draw lines, erase them, redraw them, and in the end get hurt by becoming too emotionally invested.
All my training has warned me that there will be one person that will make me cross that line. No way. Not me. The job, the mission, the objective, all three mean way too much to cross any lines, regardless of the sexual chemistry I feel licking at my heels as I stand here and hold his stare.