by Lynda Bailey
Using his body to keep her from falling to the ground, he leaned over and took command of her lips in a raw, scorching kiss. He poured every ounce of pent-up desire—seven fucking years of pent-up desire—he felt for this woman into that kiss.
When his need for oxygen overrode his need to consume her mouth, he dragged his teeth down her neck to a taut nipple. He suckled her deeply while cupping her mound, his fingers teasing through her wet folds, his thumb circling her clit.
Tension quaked her legs. She widened her knees. But he didn’t delve into her canal. Not yet. He wanted to revel in her writhing body. In her puffy gasps of air that was his whispered name.
He paid homage to the other breast then finally turned his attention lower. He ringed his tongue around her bellybutton and nipped each hipbone.
He snaked his hands under her upper legs to hold her steady as his fingers parted her folds. He immersed his face between her thighs.
Her taste hadn’t changed, not in seven years. It was still the freshest, purest, most intoxicating flavor known to man. He lapped at her delicate skin while his middle finger pressed deep into her slit. Her feet came off the handlebars which opened her even more for his questing mouth and probing finger. He closed his lips over her clit, worrying it slightly with his teeth.
And she exploded.
God.
It took all his self-control not to come in his jeans. He loved the sound of her strangle cries. Loved how her hips bucked and her intimate muscles fucked his finger. Loved the taste her succulent juices on his tongue.
But he wasn’t satisfied. Not by a long shot.
He sucked her clit into his mouth and tunneled a second finger into her slick channel. He twisted his digits high and hard, grazing her g-spot to prolong her orgasm. To wring out every last morsel of her pleasure.
She shuddered and quaked, and pure male pride streaked through him. Even after seven years, he knew her body so well. Knew how to give her this kind of pleasure. The ultimate pleasure between a man and a woman.
Lynch withdrew his fingers then stroked her clit with gentle licks to soothe her down from her climax. But her convulsions continued. As did her hitching breaths. He looked up at her, and dread tightened his shoulders.
Both arms were folded over her face, still he saw the tears tracking down her cheeks.
Realization clicked in his brain.
She’d reacted the way she had because it had been years since any man touched her. Because she was married to a man in a wheelchair.
Regret carved a hole in his heart. He straightened and tenderly gathered her into his arms. She shook her head and brushed away his hands, but he insisted. He sat on the seat, Shasta cuddled on his lap, and awkwardly draped the sweatshirt to cover her nakedness. She crossed her arms over her breasts and wept into his shirt.
He rocked her and murmured low, the words incoherent in his own ears. He traversed his hands back and forth across her back, desperate to alleviate her anguish, his earlier lust forgotten. The only thing that matter was Shaly, and making sure she was okay.
She cried for a long time. Long enough for the rainstorm to cease and for sunlight to peek through the holes in the barn rafters. She took a deep, stuttering breath then eased away from him. The moisture brightening her eyes landed another hard blow to his heart.
She knuckled moisture off her cheek. “Sorry.”
“No…I’m the one who’s sorry.” He caressed hair from her forehead. “I shouldn’t have allowed anything to happen between us.”
“It’s not like you did it alone.” She sat up, drawing the sweatshirt tighter around herself like armor. “Is it still raining?”
He set her on her feet. “No.”
“Then I should go.”
His eyebrows veed. “Not by yourself.”
“Oh, please. I’ll be fine. Those guys are gone.”
“No they’re not. They’ve been watching you for weeks.”
Blood leaked from her cheeks. “Watching me? How do you know that?” Her eyes widened. “Wait…do you know them? Were they Streeters?”
Lynch picked up her discarded clothes and shook off the stale hay, mentally kicking himself. He couldn’t tell Shasta the truth—that might put her in greater danger, not to mention jeopardize the FBI operation. But to say nothing would fuel her curiosity. He handed over her top and shorts. “Probably.” He turned to retrieve her shoes and helmet and give her some privacy.
“Probably? Don’t you know who’s in your own club?”
He heard fabric rustling. “Not anymore. There’s a lot of guys in the crew I don’t know, and don’t trust.”
“Like Junkyard?”
“Yeah. He’s the new VP.”
“It sounded like he had me targeted. Why?”
“Retribution for your brother taking me into custody.”
“But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
He heard the distress in her voice. “Doesn’t matter. Not to guy like Junkyard.”
“And the shipment thing they were talking about?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She stepped in front of him, pulling on his sweatshirt. Even with messy hair, swollen eyes and a slightly blotchy complexion from crying, she looked beautiful.
“Same with the money?” she asked.
“Same with the money.” He held out her shoes.
She slipped into them, but didn’t bother with the laces. “Are you taking me home?”
He shook his head while stowing his damp clothes. “Can’t risk Junkyard’s guys seeing me. I’ll drop you at the Grab-n-Go on 314. You can use Felix’s phone to call someone to pick you up.”
She puffed a grim laugh. “Dell’s gonna freak when he hears about this.”
Lynch seized her upper arms, ignoring her startled yelp. “No one can know about this, Shaly. Especially your brother.”
“But Dell’s the sheriff—”
“I don’t care. You tell no one. If you do, you could be in more danger.”
“Okay. Okay. I won’t say anything.” She shrugged her shoulders and he released her. “So those guys get off scot free?”
“No.” He handed her the spare helmet then donned his own and buckled the strap. “I’ll handle the situation.” He straddled his bike.
She fastened her chinstrap. “Handle it how?”
“Don’t worry about it and don’t say anything, understand?” He extended his hand to assist her onto the seat behind him. “There’s one more thing…”
She paused and met his gaze.
He gave her his best scowl. “No more running in the desert by yourself.”
She rolled her eyes.
He tightened his grip on her fingers. “I mean it, Shaly. It’s not safe.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You sound like Graham.”
He stared at her. A blush stole across her cheeks as she shut her mouth with a click of teeth. She averted her gaze and settled onto the bike. He slowly motored the Harley out of the barn.
The licorice aroma of rain-pounded sagebrush hung in the air. Sunshine streamed through the dark clouds, arcing a rainbow across the sky.
Maneuvering around the puddles, Lynch couldn’t help but notice how Shasta held herself away from him. Her husband was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla situated between them. No doubt she regretted what happened. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d never regret being with her.
But he did hate that he hurt her. Hated that he hadn’t been stronger. That he’d surrendered to temptation and took advantage of her.
Most of all, though, he hated that she was married to another man.
*
While Lynch navigated the back streets toward the Grab-n-Go, Shasta worked to stay detached. To not dwell on the erotic experience she shared with Lynch. Impossible when orgasmic aftershocks continued to ripple through her core.
How could she have cheated on Graham? Yes, she’d been scared and cold and Lynch had been a beacon of stalwart strength. But that wasn’t an excuse. And neither was th
e fact it’d been years since any man touched her.
She squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the memory of his kisses. Of his hands and mouth on her…in her.
Her chest constricted and she fought to breathe. It felt like she was drowning. Drowning in a sea of guilt.
Some people might say she had the right to have a normal sex life, given Graham’s inability to perform. But she was not such a person. Her husband was the most decent, caring man she knew. In the face of all Graham had done for her and Wyatt, the least she could do was remain faithful. Apparently she couldn’t. She swallowed a sob.
In less than ten minutes, Lynch parked his bike across the road from the convenience store, behind several over-grown juniper bushes. He kicked down the stand, but kept the engine idling then offered his hand to help her alight from the Harley.
She took off his helmet and sweat jacket, setting both on the passenger seat. Lynch kept his gaze straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight. She removed her hair band, threaded her fingers through the tangled locks and redid her ponytail.
When he maintained his stony silence, she walked toward the store.
“I’ll stay here until you get picked up,” he said. “You gonna call your brother?”
Her stomach rolled. In the aftermath of everything, Dell learning of her little excursion slipped her mind. He’d find out eventually, but she could maybe postpone the inevitable.
She didn’t bother turning around. “I’ll call Todd, one of Dell’s deputies.”
Not waiting for a response, she hot-footed across the road and pulled open the Grab-n-Go door. The bell chimed as the air conditioning raised shivers on her skin.
Felix, the owner, paused in restocking candy at the register when she entered. His eyebrows arched high. “Holy shit, Shasta. You get caught in that gully washer?”
“Yeah, and I lost my cell. Can I use your phone to call for a ride?”
He reached behind the counter and handed her the cordless receiver. “Of course.”
“Thanks.” Shasta moved to the window, her back to Felix, seeking out Lynch by the bushes. She saw nothing. Todd picked up on the second ring.
“Hallo?”
“Todd…hi. It’s, uh, Shasta Dupree.”
“Well…hell-oh.” He sounded much too pleased with himself. “To what do I owe the privilege of this call, on my day off no less?”
“I need a favor.”
Todd’s chuckle crawled over her skin. “Isn’t that interesting?” he drawled. “You needing a favor from me. And I bet I know what your favor is.” He gave another creepy chortle.
And Shasta’s remaining composure splintered. “Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, Todd,” she hissed. “Can you please, for one bloody, goddamn minute, not be the biggest douche bag on the planet?”
Despite her best efforts, her voice cracked. She willed away the tears burning her eyes.
“Hey…” Todd’s voice sounded clearly different. “I was just joking around. What’s wrong?”
She rested her forehead on the glass. “I’m at the Grab-n-Go on 314. Can you come get me?”
Silence answered her question, then…
“Jesus Christ,” Todd exploded. “What the hell are you doing there? Where the fuck are the goddamn officers assigned to you?”
She fingered the display sign for thirty-weight motor oil. “Graham had a last minute meeting in Vegas so one drove him to Reno. The other one went to a birthday party with Wyatt.”
“That doesn’t explain how you ended up out on 314.”
“I went for a run and got caught in the downpour.”
“Are you shitting me? I’m calling the sheriff.”
“No, Todd, please. I realize what I did was irresponsible and wrong, but don’t call Dell.”
“He needs to know.”
“And he will. I promise to tell him. Just please…come get me.”
Todd sighed. “Okay. But tomorrow, I will talk to the sheriff about this. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you, Todd.”
“See you in a minute.”
Chapter Fourteen
SO WHERE THE fuck is she?
I clench my hands to keep from heaving my laptop across the plane’s cabin. Can’t do that. It’ll just bring the unwanted attention of the first class attendant. And I’ve got enough goddamn problems already…like not knowing Shasta’s whereabouts.
Fuck!
I have access to every manner of surveillance paraphernalia known to modern man, yet I don’t know where she is. If I hadn’t arranged for the invalid to go to Vegas, she never would’ve left the house. But I needed the worthless blob of skin for that stupid impromptu meeting tomorrow. Goddamn it to hell anyway.
When I saw Shasta leave via the external camera at the rear of the house, I didn’t think it would be an issue. GPS trackers have always been installed on her phones. Who knew I’d lose her signal? Now I’m flying at thirty-five hundred feet and can’t do a fucking thing about it.
The fasten seat belt sign comes on in preparation for our descent. Shit.
I quickly switch my monitor back to the outside cameras at the cripple’s house. Still nothing.
My chest squeezes. What if something happened to her? What if she needs my help and I can’t get to her? She’s my whole world…everything I’ve done, I’ve done for her. For us. What will I do without her?
The attendant tells me to put my computer away. I scowl at her terse tone. Fucking whore. If she knew who I was, she’d be much more respectful.
I reach to close the lid when a cheery red, two-door Camaro comes into the picture. I know that car, and it’s owner. But it’s confirmed when Todd Weedly gets out. As does Shasta.
My heart jumps into my throat at seeing she’s safe. But then my stomach burns. Just what the fuck was Todd doing with her?
The attendant tells me again to power down. I absently nod while zooming in on Shasta’s face.
Her clothes are disheveled…her cheeks look pale and her eyes swollen, like she’d been crying. Todd comes around the hood of his car and says something to her. She smiles. He pulls her into a hug.
I see fucking red.
How dare he touch her.
The whore’s back, sounding even more testy about my laptop. I give her a harsh look then switch off the appliance. But I can’t forget what I saw.
Todd embracing Shasta. Why was she crying? Had Todd done something to her? If he did, he was dead.
Oh. My. God.
Did Todd bang her? My thought is not just no, but hell no. With all the equipment I’ve got watching Shasta, she can’t tinkle without me knowing about it.
My pulse stutters.
Except for the past two hours, I had no clue where she was or what she was doing. Had she been with Todd during that time? Had she fucked him?
Staring out the plane window, I drum my fingers on my laptop lid. I might not know what’s been going on between Shasta and the good deputy, but I do know this…
Todd Weedly must die.
Chapter Fifteen
THAT NIGHT, LYNCH rode his Harley seven miles south of Stardust…to Rolo Pruett’s house.
Flat alfalfa fields stretched out from the single-lane, dirt road then collided with the steep peaks of the Sierra Mountains. Rolo’s grandfather had bought the six hundred and forty acre parcel, the best farming soil in Grant County, back in the 1950’s. The land had long since been sold, but Rolo still owned a small acreage with a house and barn. The relative seclusion often came in handy when the Streeters had to deal with…sensitive topics.
Lynch rolled his bike through the gate and cut the engine. He surveyed the area as he peeled off his gloves while swinging his leg over the seat. Rolo’s hog sat next to a small compact car in the open garage. After removing his helmet, Lynch marched up the walk to the ranch-style house. He paused before knocking.
Since Shasta drove off with Deputy Weedly that afternoon, Lynch fought to subdue his rage over her attempted kidnapping. Fought and failed. He visualized
his hands around Junkyard’s neck…squeezing. The weasel’s beady eyes bugging from their sockets.
His vision blurred and he took a breath. Shasta was safe—that’s what he needed to focus on. He compressed his lips. But if he found out Rolo was somehow involved in the botched abduction…
Lynch rapped his knuckles on the front door twice. He needed to keep his shit together and not let his emotions rule because he was about to attempt the mother of all bluffs.
After a few moments, a gorgeous teenaged girl dressed in an oversized t-shirt and Capri pants opened the door. With her striking black hair and brown, almond-shaped eyes that harkened back to the family’s Mexican, Italian ancestry, Lynch assumed this was Rolo’s youngest daughter, Vivian….
He smiled. “Vivi, right?”
Wariness narrowed her gaze and she angled herself behind the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m an associate of your father’s. From work.” Early on, Rolo taught his girls to not question when a “work” associate came to the door. “Is he around?”
She looked Lynch up and down then called over her shoulder, “Dad…some guy’s here to see you.” With that, she turned and walked away, leaving the door open.
Lynch accepted the unspoken invitation and entered the house. Rolo came in from the kitchen, a dishtowel in his hands.
“Brother.” Rolo’s face split into a wide grin. “What brings you here? Not that it ain’t great to see you.” He tossed the towel on the dining table. “Want a beer?”
“No thanks. We need to talk. In your office.”
Rolo’s expression sobered. Without a word, he turned and headed through the kitchen, past the washer and dryer and down the narrow hallway at the rear of the house. Lynch followed. In the small, paneled room, the older man plopped into his padded chair behind the desk while Lynch closed the door.
Rolo eyed Lynch. “What’s going on, brother?”
Lynch sat in the only other chair in the room, opposite the president. “Grunge told me about the black market pharms we’ve been escorting down to Vegas.”
Rolo scowled. “When’d he tell you that?”
“A few days after I got home.” Lynch braced his hands on his knees. “But we both know there ain’t no pharms in those vans.”