by Rie Warren
The Legion traded high-powered rifles in return for smuggled cocaine from Los Reyes de Guerra cartel in Mexico City. And if a few unpapered Mexican girls happened to be delivered with the coke? They became the club’s whores for hire.
New Orleans was where I’d grown up, or near enough. Just outside la cité along the majestic Bayou Lafourche. I was Cajun through and through, but I’d cut bait a long time ago.
Cranking my neck, I hit the kill button on my cell.
Then I glanced at Blaize again.
Big fucking mistake.
My nerves started jangling, my palms sweating, and, when she turned toward me, the full impact of her gorgeous face momentarily stunned me dumb.
I was almost always tongue-tied around Blaize, which was really interesting and really irritating. I’d certainly never had a problem with the ladies before. All it took was a hooded glance, a half-formed smile, a touch of what Walker liked to call my Cajunese drawl.
Blaize undid me with her mere presence so much I could barely form words, let alone think of a coherent phrase to engage her in conversation.
“How was the wedding?” She clicked off her phone, took off her glasses, and rested her hand near mine on the shared armrest between us.
“What?”
“Walker and Jade? London?” A small frown puckered her forehead.
I swept my gaze over her face. Fuck me. Blaize this close up was even more of a knockout. I tried to make my mouth work. Too bad I was on the verge of drooling.
Her lips were even juicier looking. Plump. Blowjob-swollen.
“Huh?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.
“The. Wedding.”
Clearing my throat, I aimed my eyes away from her face, her body, her big baby blues. “Oh yeah. Bien, bien. They got hitched without a hitch. Not even a gun or knife in sight. No tangos or bogies.”
“I wasn’t asking for a SITREP, Storm. I just wanted to make sure they’re happy.” She touched my wrist, and the muscles in my forearm flexed hard.
My voice dropped to a hoarse tone as hot sensation fired in my groin. “Well, they left the reception before anyone else”—for the obvious reason: they’d been ready to jump each other’s bones again—“but Walker sent some photos from the honeymoon.”
I licked my lips, looking at Blaize’s fine-boned fingers on my skin that burned to her touch.
She’d never touched me before.
Berated me?
Check.
Scolded me like a schoolboy?
Rog that.
Told me off until I wanted to drag her skirt up over her ass, pull down her panties, and sink to my balls inside her.
Copy.
Blaize pulled her hand away. “Where’d they go?”
I chuckled. “Hawaii. Like he said they would. No more Middle East minefields.”
Blaize’s laugh came out full and throaty. And the sultry sound did nothing to diminish my hard-on. Hell, I gave myself kudos for making my cock stand-down from fully-fucking-ready for most of our flight. With a few words from her, a touch, her laugh, I’d lost all control of the bastard thing.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it.” She started unpinning her hair.
Why the hell was she doing that?
I watched helplessly—choking on my tongue—as coils of russet red tresses feathered to her shoulders and down her back, and I had all I could do not to plunge my nose into the fragrant curtain.
“I had a weekend meeting with Lawless,” she said, fluffing out that incredible red-sun-filled mane of hair.
I faced her head on, scowling. “Ambassador Lawless?”
“The one and only.”
“What’s with you and old Lawless anyway?”
“Old? Are you jealous, Storm?” She locked eyes with me.
I slouched in my seat. Would’ve, anyway, if there’d been enough room. All I ended up doing was getting uncomfortably torqued into a corkscrew position of my big arms and long legs.
“I don’t get jealous.” I steamed under the collar.
Hell yes, I’m jealous. I’d seen her and the old coot at Justice’s wedding . . .
She arched an eyebrow, silently calling me out on my bullshit.
Then she patted my leg.
Patted. My. Leg.
The contact felt good, but the clear implication was I was just a nice guy who happened to work for her. Besides, what I really wanted her to pat, touch, stroke, and suck was little farther up.
I stared down at her fingers, tensing my muscle.
She removed her hand, exhaling a breath. “You want to know what’s between James and me?” Blaize studied me, her hands in her lap.
“Nope.”
Bullshit.
“You know I’m very adept at reading people, right, Storm?” A slow smile spread across her lips.
I grunted in reply.
She took a sip from her glass of ice water. “Since I’m asking for your complete trust on this mission, I’ll give you mine.”
I pretended to study the fluffy cloudscape outside the tiny oval window of the airplane, like I wasn’t gagging for every morsel she might throw at me.
“James was a top-level negotiator for Delta Force with the counterterrorist unit. He taught me everything I know about talking down a perp. Facing the enemy. Staying strong.” She glanced away, but not before I caught the haunted look in her eyes.
She quickly cleared the shadows of a past she’d kept well hidden with a firm smile. “We’ve been close friends ever since. I knew his wife quite well before she passed, and of course Tilly.”
I straightened up in my seat. “You were Delta Force?”
“Didn’t say that.” Crossing her legs, she leaned back against the headrest. “Let’s just say I was SOF and leave it at that.”
Riiight. Special Operations Forces, and I wasn’t supposed to be impressed? Women in the military had a rough road. Not that I was Joe Machismo, but that shit was fact. Women in the elite military forces? A goddamn rocky road not many had followed—not yet, because apparently gender equality was still up for debate with some dumbshit politicos.
Obviously not when it came to Blaize.
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I’d taken a simpler route to T-Zone. They weren’t the first agency I’d worked for.
Watching Blaize from the corner of my eyes, I cursed the mysterious woman even while I gave her well-deserved props for being ballsy as fuck.
She closed her eyes, humming softly beneath her breath.
I ruminated on her intel for a bit, wondering if I could somehow feed Justice the info so he could do another cyber-ops job on Blaize’s background. All we knew was she’d been a highly successful field operative—but not which agency or military branch she’d worked for, although I was one step closer to solving the equation.
We had it on good authority, and from our own experience, the woman was detail-oriented, she knew how to motivate, she was well ahead of the curve when it came to national and international terrorism.
And of course, she was smokin’ hot.
The smokin’ hot aspect was gonna be a big issue for me.
“Look, Miss Carmichael—”
“I think you better start calling me Blaize, don’t you?”
Shifting around in my seat, my shoulders stretching from one side to the other, I scowled. “I have some serious concerns about you coming into the Legion with me.”
Her eyes opened and she hit me with the haughty stare she used when she didn’t give a good fuck what me or any one of the other dudes thought.
I tried again. “You do understand the MC is a male-dominated world. So you can’t be callin’ the shots.”
“I’m well aware of club politics, Storm. But just you remember, behind the scenes, I’m still your boss lady. That is what you and the guys call me, right?” She lifted her chin, peering down her nose at me.
Not exactly what I called her. More like wet dream. Hot bitch. Ride my hog, honey.
I sat
taller, topping her by at least a head. “You can tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better.”
“I don’t have any problems sleeping at night. Do you, Storm?”
Oh yeah. Definitely. When she was involved in the above-mentioned dreams. I had plenty of problems. The hard, throbbing, wanna come in her pussy problems.
“Have you ever been on a bike before?” I asked.
Blaize snorted. “Yes, Storm. I have been on a bike. I’ve been on a dirt bike. I’ve commandeered a tank. I can ride horseback, bareback, and I know how to drive a car in reverse through busy city streets. I did that training too.”
Her cool reply made me all hot inside. I groaned, mashing my hand to my forehead.
I needed a fucking cigarette.
And for this bird to land.
Sandwiching myself back against the window, I relented. “So, what’s our cover?”
“I’m your old lady.”
I swung my head around and almost had to throttle my cock. “You mean—”
“We’re a couple. Lovers.”
Oh. Shit.
So I spent the remainder of the flight fidgeting in my seat. Fantasizing. Wondering how much role play would be necessary to convince the crew our relationship was real.
I was pretty sure during that last hour wicked thoughts showed on my face, unveiled and very fucking real.
Blaize didn’t know what she was in for.
I couldn’t wait to show her.
Chapter Four
Safe As Houses . . . Riiiight
IT WAS NIGHTTIME BY the time we landed in New Orleans. Blaize had arranged a safe house in the Faubourg Lafayette division we quickly took a taxi to. She kept our location central and totally locked down.
Inside the secured house, our supplies waited for us. I checked the premises in case we’d been tagged, tapped, or made while she ensured all the window blinds were drawn tight.
Then we went to work, unearthing our secret resources. Two burner cells hidden beneath the loose floorboards to be used only in cases of we’re about to die, come collect our corpses emergencies. Extra firepower in the form of semi-auto machine guns, smoke canisters, grenades, and prewired explosives, in case extreme measures were needed. Extensive first aid kits including skin glue, IV fluids, cauterized medical instruments, gauze, tape, morphine pills—everything needed for a field triage.
All of these were in place because there was no contingency plan.
Blaize and I had to get this right, and we had to make sure we didn’t get played in the process.
We took our duffels to separate rooms. Inside the canvas bags were our disguises, although mine was more like an authentic coming home. Leathers. Motorcycle boots. My cut. Sleeveless shirts. Jeans.
I couldn’t wait to see what Blaize had brought.
Fucking hell. She was gonna pose as my old lady, and there was no telling how long this mission would last.
If I didn’t get to fuck her, my nads were definitely gonna turn purple. Unless I found some other broad to get me off.
I dressed quickly in the leather pants, a muscle shirt, and shoved my feet into the boots. Holstering one Sig at my hip, tucking the other at the back of my pants, I sheathed a knife at my thigh and the other inside my boot.
After raking my fingers through my hair, I stomped out into the main room of our safe haven.
Blaize was already waiting.
I almost stopped breathing, and the sawed off shotgun in my hand nosedived until it went muzzle to the floor.
Hot shock at seeing her dressed as an MC babe travelled down to the balls of my feet and straight back up to the balls in my pants.
Swiping a hand over my face, I shook my head.
Yup. Blue balls. Coming right this way.
Blaize. Blaize. Blaize.
Fuckity-fuck.
Her hair was down, falling over her shoulders, framing her face. Glints of gold worked through the thick red mane that rippled in waves. She hadn’t rimmed her eyes in black rings, as was motorcycle-babe trend 101. In fact, it looked like all she’d done was gloss her lush lips in deep shiny lickable red. Sex-red. Fuck-red. To go with the hair, no doubt.
Her tight leather skirt was short enough I could probably see right up it if she bent over. Hoped I got that chance. Black boots with big silver buckles and super high heels encased her legs all the way to her knees—above that? Bare skin. A whole luscious landscape of naked thighs. On top she wore a leather vest that cinched in at the waist, plunged low between her tits, and was all held together with suede laces.
By the time my lust-stunned gaze traveled back to her big blue eyes, she’d completed her own inspection of me. My body tingled wherever her gaze had landed—my shoulders bulging with big muscles, my groin snug in the obscenely tight leathers, the black stubble on my chin and cheeks.
Seconds passed while we stood rooted to the floor only a few steps away from one another.
I tore my eyes away.
“Well”—I rubbed a hand over my mouth—“that certainly ain’t a power suit.”
Fuck. Me. Hard.
“I take it I pass muster.” Blaize ran her fingers through her hair.
I nodded. Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. More than passed muster. She was well on her way to getting fucked with that vest ripped open and the skirt rucked up to her hips.
I swallowed.
Sauntering to me, Blaize leaned up and placed her hand on my cheek. “You ready for this, Storm?”
I wanted to kiss the glossy lipstick clean off of her mouth.
Leaning back, I let my eyes rove all over her again.
Grabbing her hand—instead of her ass—I said, “Oh yeah. I’m ready.”
Hell yeah. I was starting to get into this whole role reversal cover story. Me the dominant. Blaize the subordinate. She had no idea what she was in for.
Outside, my bike waited, fine-tuned, fuckin’ hot, and ready.
“Where’s mine?” Blaize pulled her hand from me.
I chuckled, sitting on the Harley chopper night train with the massive ape hanger handlebars. “Hey, lady. You’re the one who organized this op. You forget one of the details?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
Nice.
Push those ripe puppies out a little bit more for me.
I nearly leaned forward to grab some of her tit flesh between my teeth. I wanted to run my tongue from her collarbone to her cleavage—and then inside.
“Seems there’s no bike for you.” I shrugged. “Your bad. So unless you wanna walk a bunch of city blocks, you probably oughtta hop on.”
She started marching off, the heels snicking on pavement, her hips swinging in the sinful skirt.
I caught up in two long strides, reaching an arm around her waist.
She whipped her head back. “I’m still carrying a weapon.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“I’m still your boss.”
“Well, not in this scenario.”
“I want my own ride.”
A smirk sliding up my lips, I pumped my hips forward. “Got one for you right here.”
“A motorcycle!” But her eyes skimmed down my body.
“Oh no. For the purposes of this mission you’re a road hummer. My road hummer. Got it?”
She was getting ready to go off on me with that famous smart mouth of hers.
I towed her back to the Harley and stuck a brain bucket on her head. “But we can probably secure you a car if you want.”
“I’m going to write you up on so many levels of insubordination once this is over.” Blaize fumed.
Laughing with my head thrown back, I straddled the bike. “Cher. You’re the one who wanted in on this. Remember? Get on and hold tight.”
She mounted the beefy chopper. I gripped the ape hangers. She curled her arms around my waist, slinging complaints the whole damn time.
Chapter Five
Thunder Road
I SPED THROUGH THE st
reets, dodging drunk fucks stumbling from side to side nursing tall plastic glasses of 100 percent proof neon green alcohol. Beaded necklaces rained down from wrought iron galleries, caught by pedestrians tanked up to their eyeballs. Chicks lifted their shirts and shook their braless tits. Blues music and rock-a-billy tunes overflowed from bars that overflowed with folks onto the sidewalks.
In certain areas of the Crescent City, Mardi Gras took place three hundred and sixty-five days a years.
Blaize stayed alert, but she hugged me around the waist. Her thighs rode up against mine and her breasts pressed against my back. Her breath hit my neck—hot and ragged.
NOLA nightlife. This area was garish. A tourist destination that showcased the good and the bad. It wasn’t exactly my Cajun heritage. But it was alive. It vibed.
It made me hammer down and throttle through the streets.
The closer we got to Central City, the rougher the element became.
Fistfights spilled onto the streets from dive bars.
Cagey characters stood in half shadows at the mouths of alleyways, selling drugs, titty shows, hookers.
Gunshots sounded in the distance. Police sirens wailed through the night. Storefronts closed for the day with black iron cages locked down over cracked windows. In other areas there were no windows, just boarded up plywood to cover empty holes in buildings.
“When we get in there you let me do the talkin’. Hear?” I shouted back to Blaize.
She nodded.
But I wondered how fucking long that would last.
The woman who was used to giving the orders was about to step into testosterone central and macho overdrive.
Pulling up in front of Thunder Road Bar, I slid my chopper into a spot sandwiched in a long line of lean, mean, black Harleys. I took off my helmet, unstraddled, and helped Blaize from my ride. She took my hand, squeezing it once, ultimately sending new forbidden sensations ricocheting through my body.
Too aware of how snug my leather pants were around that one area of my anatomy that needed no further encouragement from her to plump up—trying to get my head in the game and out of the gutter—I flashed Blaize an insolent grin before hanging our helmets on the handlebars.