Hell or High Water

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Listen.” He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. She was instantly reminded of the feel of his callused palm on her breast, how the roughness had abraded and stimulated her nipple. “If the loss of life, whether that life be one of good or evil, didn’t make you sick, that’s when I’d start to worry about you.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “I’ve seen it happen,” he continued. “Men who’ve grown so hard over the years that death and violence no longer affect them. Those are the guys who wind up on the news because they ran into a village and murdered a bunch of women and children. Killin’ shouldn’t be an easy thing to see or to do, Olivia. When it becomes easy, that’s when you can go from bein’ a bad guy workin’ on the good side to bein’ a bad guy workin’ on the bad side.”

  “You make it look easy,” she whispered, remembering the quick, efficient way he’d dispatched the tango who drew down on them in the water.

  “There’s a world of difference between proficiency and ease,” he said. “I’m proficient at it. But don’t think for an instant it’s ever easy. I live with the lives I’ve taken. Every day. And even though I feel each kill was necessary, even righteous in some cases, even though I have no trouble sleepin’ at night, that doesn’t mean I’m not changed by each one of them. Just a little. Made less somehow. And made more somehow too.”

  Again, everything he was saying made sense, but… “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do my job,” she admitted. “I’m afraid someone will be depending on me to cover their backs, and I’ll be too busy horking my guts up to do it.”

  He pulled her close and she went willingly, wrapping her arms around his waist and flattening her hands against his warm back. His skin was impossibly smooth, and the hard muscles made a deep groove of his spine. When she pressed her cheek against his chest, next to the old silver coin he wore around his neck, he smelled like sea and sand, like sunshine and Leo. He smelled like everything she’d never known was missing in her life.

  “That won’t happen,” he assured her. “You won’t let that happen.”

  Oh, she wished she felt as sure as he sounded…

  * * *

  3:41 p.m.…

  “And the truth of the matter is, I don’t want to be a bad guy. Even if I am working on the good side,” she admitted, her soft lips moving against the skin of his chest, her hot breath tickling the hairs there. “I want to be a good guy.”

  Had Leo not heard it with his own ears, he wouldn’t have believed Olivia’s tone could ever be described as plaintive. And because he loved her, those three pitiful sentences curled themselves around his heart and squeezed. He wanted to roll her in bubble wrap, lock her in a closet, and stand guard outside with an Uzi. Just to keep her safe from the world, from ever feeling like she wasn’t good enough or worthy enough, from ever having to witness death or dying again. For all her bravery and bravado, Olivia Mortier had a tender, sweet heart.

  He hoped one day, maybe someday soon, to win that heart for himself.

  Pulling her closer, he planted a kiss atop her damp head, loving the way her hair felt against his lips. “Did somethin’ happen in the last eighteen months?”

  She pushed back to blink up at him. Were her eyes overly bright? He cocked his head. Nah. She might be letting him see her softer side, but that stopped well short of tears. He wondered absently what it would take to bring Special Agent Olivia Mortier to tears. Then immediately hoped he’d never get the opportunity to find out. The sight would likely bring him to his knees.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I just mean…and don’t take this the wrong way, but I can’t help but notice you seem different.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Gentler, maybe? More circumspect?”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He tried not to let the fact that he got a peek at that front tooth register with the moron in his wet suit. Unfortunately, the moron was nothing if not observant, ready to spring to life at the drop of a hat. For chrissakes.

  “You mean nervous, right? Less sure of myself?” Her tone definitely wasn’t plaintive now. It was…shaken. And that gutted him like a fish.

  “No,” he assured her, but her eyes slid away from him. A sure sign she didn’t believe him. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “No, Olivia. That’s not what I meant at all. I mean you seem more careful, more cautious. And I can’t help but wonder if somethin’ happened that caused you to—”

  “Oh, other than my life happening?” she blurted, her blue eyes wild. “Other than I spend every day trying to stay two steps ahead of people who would like nothing better than to see our country burned to ashes, and the whole awful truth is that it’s terrifying and exhausting? Other than I’m thirty years old and I don’t even…don’t even…” She stumbled to a stop, shaking her head. “Forget it.” She sliced a hand through the air karate-chop style. “I’m just having a crisis of confidence, I think. Given the way this whole mission has gone, can you really blame me?”

  He clocked her change of subject with a raised brow but decided not to push it. “You couldn’t have known any of this would happen, and besides—”

  She shoved a finger against his lips, and it took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to suck it into his mouth.

  “Don’t,” she warned him, her husky voice like a wet tongue swirling around inside his ear. Her hair was starting to dry, and the salt water made it wave around her face and shoulders. He liked it. It made her look unkempt, a wilder, freer version of Olivia.

  “Don’t make any more excuses for me. This has been a shit show since minute one. And I swear…I swear I’ll make it up to you, Leo. I’ll have the CIA buy you another ship, a better ship. I’ll have Morales increase the fee we’re paying you. I’ll—”

  “Don’t make promises your boss won’t let you keep,” he told her kindly. He’d been in the biz long enough to realize Uncle Sam expected guts but rarely gave any glory. “And speakin’ of your boss, what did he say when you called him?”

  She’d been forced to break protocol and contact Morales via the yacht’s unsecured satellite phone. But Leo suspected she’d kept things short and sweet, speaking in the kind of Company code-talk that sounded like nothing but said everything. Even if the mole or moles had somehow been listening in, Leo suspected they would be hard-pressed to make heads or tails of what had been discussed.

  “He’s unhappy we couldn’t manage to keep even one of the radicals alive to interrogate, but the fact that you’ll be going down to retrieve the capsules makes up for it a bit.”

  “Can’t fault the guy for wantin’ it all, I reckon,” he mused with a half-grin. He’d met Morales once. The man was impatient and rude, but utterly brilliant. A mind like a steel trap. Leo took comfort in knowing Morales had his finger on the pulse of international intrigue.

  “I don’t want you to do it.”

  “What?” His chin jerked back so hard it was a wonder his head didn’t go tumbling off the column of his neck.

  “It was one thing when I thought you’d have your team by your side, but it’s another thing entirely to send you down there all by yourself. Leo”—she placed her hands on either side of his face—“it’s dangerous. If something goes wrong with your regulator or your tanks, there’ll be no one to help you.”

  “I’ve checked Maddy’s brother’s equipment,” he assured her. “It’s good to go. And Wolf will suit up in the regular scuba gear and hang out at the halfway point. We’ll attach a rope between us. If things go wrong, he can reel me up and—”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Leonardo David Anderson,” she spat, giving his head a little shake. His mouth curled at her use of his full name, and he was keenly aware of the cool pads of her fingertips against his cheeks. He wanted to feel them skimming over every inch of his body. Over his shoulders, his belly. Rubbing over his nipples, the head of his—

  “If something goes wrong, there’s nothing that can be done for you at that depth. You’ll e
ither drown, or you’ll have to rise too quickly and get DCS.”

  That she knew the divers’ abbreviation for decompression sickness surprised him. Though, it probably shouldn’t. Olivia prided herself on being at the top of her game, keeping herself apprised of every little detail of her missions.

  “And if I don’t go down and get those capsules, then what?” he asked.

  “Morales can call in an active SEAL Team to retrieve them, go the whole nine yards and—”

  “Obliterate your chances to keep flyin’ under the radar,” he finished for her. “Christ, Olivia, the point of all of this was so that you and your boss could try to make sure this snafu stays under wraps so you will have another shot at catchin’ the traitor or traitors inside the CIA. Now you want to throw that all away? It’ll make the sinkin’ of Wayfarer-I completely meaningless. Everything will have been for nothin’.”

  “But Maddy said that terrorist made a phone call after we hailed them from the Wayfarer. He thought we were CIA, which means it’s likely he passed his supposition along. The mole or moles, whoever they are, are probably already busy covering their tracks.”

  She was reaching, and that wasn’t like her. “First of all, Bran said one look in the guy’s eyes told him the dude was crazy on a cracker. And crazy on a cracker usually goes hand-in-hand with paranoia. He was probably seeing government spooks lurkin’ in every corner. So the question becomes, even if he did pass along his supposition, would the traitors really believe him? And do you really want to risk everything you’ve worked for on the off chance they did? And second of all, you can’t be one hundred percent certain it was even them on the other end of the line. That phone call could have been to anyone.”

  “But—”

  “Darlin’…” He placed his hands on her hips, loving the subtle roundness of them. They fit perfectly into the curve of his palms. “I’ve done this dozens of times before. I’ll be all right. Let me do this for you.” Because I love you. “Let me finish it.” Could you love me, too?

  She blinked and, after a bit, hesitantly nodded. Her expression remained troubled.

  He knew just how to take her mind off her worries. “How about you give me a little kiss for luck, though. You know, just in case.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes taking on a definite sparkle. Bingo, bango, bongo. “That’ll never work,” she said, squeaking when he pulled her close so they were pelvis-to-pelvis, so she could feel what she did to him, know what she did to him. She gasped at the contact, her succulent mouth falling open the tiniest bit. An invitation to put something in there, perhaps?

  Most certainly. But that would come later. For now… “Why won’t it work?” he asked, bending to run his nose over her temple, closing his eyes and breathing her in. Salt water and jasmine and…Olivia. His Olivia.

  “Because we’re incapable of little kisses,” she told him, her voice going all through him, lighting him up, burning him down. He wanted her to go on talking forever. Just so he could listen. And enjoy. “Our little kisses turn into big kisses. And then our big kisses end up with one of my nipples in your mouth.”

  He groaned at the memory. “Exactly,” he murmured, framing her beloved face with his hands and hungrily claiming her lips.

  She met him openmouthed, eagerly, her agile tongue darting out to greet his. And then there were no more words. No need for words. They spoke with their bodies, with their hands. With their sighs and their moans of pleasure and encouragement. And just as she’d said, the little kiss turned into a big kiss. Into a long kiss. It went on and on, lips and teeth and tongues mating over and over. It was delicious. Decadent. But he wanted more. So, so much more.

  Thankfully, he knew the way to more now, had mapped this part of the journey before, back on the Wayfarer. So he reached around to palm her sweet ass and simultaneously pulled the hem of her tank top over the tops of her breasts. This time he flicked open the back closure of her bra before yanking both cups down. He broke the sanctity of the kiss because he just had to look.

  And the sight that met his eyes had his blood roaring through his veins like lit kerosene. Black tank top above. Black bra cups below. And in the middle were two lovely, creamy mounds of feminine flesh with quarter-sized, berry-colored nipples. She was perfect. Perfectly edible. From the plump of her cheeks when she smiled to the subtle arch of her back where her waist met her ass. Curves. She was endless, delicate curves. And he was going to feast on all of them.

  Starting now.

  “Leo…” She breathed his name when he released her amazing derriere to cup a luscious breast in each hand. He pushed them up and together, so he barely had to turn his head to lave first one pouting nipple, then the other. “Oh God,” she moaned when her areolas contracted, forcing the tips of her breasts to rise high and tight against the rasp of his tongue.

  He flicked gently at first, then more forcefully. He was rewarded by the motion of her hips, rubbing, rubbing. She lifted her leg to hook her heel behind his knee, opening herself wider, giving herself room to get the friction just where she needed it. He could feel her sultry heat even through the layers of her cotton shorts and his neoprene wet suit. He wanted to touch. Now!

  Keeping one hand on her breast, his lips suctioned tight around her sweet nipple, he slid his other hand down her warm, quivering belly until he reached the snap on her shorts. It came free with a flick of his fingers. The zipper seemed to melt away, and then… Sweet Christ!

  He palmed her over the top of her black lace panties and discovered just how wet, just how hot she really was. Pressing the heel of his palm into the top of her sex where he suspected she was swollen and begging for stimulation, he moaned when her fingers speared into his hair, her nails biting into his scalp. A little pinch of pain to go along with the pleasure of the woman he loved panting and shaking in his arms.

  “Please, Leo. I want you to—Oh, God, yes!”

  He slid his fingers into the waistband of her panties, past the patch of neatly trimmed hair and into the wet, hot channel between her swollen lips. She instantly bathed him in her passion, coating the tips of his fingers as he rubbed back and forth, back and forth over the distended nub of nerves. Just as I thought. Beggin’ for stimulation.

  Her head fell back. Her hips undulated up and down, showing him without words how she liked to be stroked, how she liked to be loved. He committed every subtle move, every slight shift to memory.

  Her hands left his hair to run over his shoulders and chest, her nails skimming lightly over his nipples, both satisfaction and threat until he was forced to suck in a ragged breath. It was almost as if she’d run those cool fingers over the head of his dick. And then… Jesus Christ on the cross! She was doing exactly that, shoving her hand beneath the material of the wet suit to palm him. His cock jumped at the contact of her fingertips. A tiny drop of passion oozed from his tip. She used her thumb to spread it around his aching, swollen head. And that’s when he knew it was time to taste her.

  * * *

  3:51 p.m.…

  He was just the sexiest man alive…

  That’s all there was to it. The way he kissed, all soft, languid thrusts of his tongue, was a dream. The way he moved, every action both natural and at the same time calculated, was heaven. The way he felt, hot skin over hard muscles, was bliss. And when he fell to his knees in front of her, dragging her shorts and panties down to her ankles along the way, she thought she might faint. Her head was spinning. Her blood racing. The room around her was swaying back and forth.

  Or was that just the rocking of the yacht? Doesn’t matter. The effect is the same. She was on a carnival ride of sensation, her stomach rising and falling in anticipation and delight.

  His nostrils flared, as if he was scenting her. And perhaps that should have been disconcerting. Maybe it would have been disconcerting had those flaring nostrils not been accompanied by the low groan in the back of his throat, the one that went to her head like a straight shot of tequila. He licked his lips like a
starving man presented with a buffet. His tongue flashed deep pink against the brown stubble of his beard. “Step out of your shorts, Olivia,” he instructed, his voice having gone guttural, the low purr of a big cat.

  She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to, but… “Jesus, Leo. Here?”

  “My men will know to steer clear,” he assured her.

  Despite her protests, she found herself toeing out of her shorts and panties. “And the others?”

  “A risk I’m willin’ to take if you are.”

  Some people got off on the idea of allowing strangers a little voyeuristic pleasure. She usually preferred to do the deed in private, so all of her attention could be focused on her own responses and the responses of her lover. But a stroll to the nearest cabin would take precious few minutes she didn’t have. She was so achy, so empty. She needed him now.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Please, Leo.”

  A victorious growl rumbled through his chest and, inexplicably, through her sex. It was almost as if he’d put a vibrator inside her. Her bare toes curled against the polished hardwood floor. She expected him to rise, to pull down his wet suit and impale her on his thick, pulsing length.

  She was preparing herself for it, girding her loins, quite literally, to receive all that hot, heaving flesh. Which is why she squeaked when, instead, he hooked her leg over his shoulder and buried his face in her. His lips found the swollen bud at the top of her sex unerringly. And he sucked it into his mouth, boldly laving it with the pad of his raspy tongue.

  Now, in her experience, very few men were experts at pleasuring a woman with their mouths. Most were too frenzied, trying to turn their tongues into windup toys. Others were too gentle, like they thought the vagina was a delicate flower needing the softest of touches lest its petals fall off. In fact, in her whole life she’d never met a guy who knew the exact amount of friction to use, the appropriate amount of pressure to apply. That is, until she met Leo. He was the Goldilocks of cunnilingus. He did everything just right.