Hung (Mister Hotshot Book 1)

by Anne Marsh

  “Open up more,” he growls.

  Bossy, isn’t he? I hesitate just a moment, thighs tensing against his shoulders before I give up and give in. I open my legs wide. He immediately rewards me for that obedience, moving higher, his fingers curling into the hot, salty spot where my thighs meet.

  “Farther,” he coaxes, nudging me. Anything. I’ll do anything to keep him right there. Never mind that I can feel the cool surface of the metal desk beneath my butt and there’s a ridge of fabric jammed at the base of my spine. It would have been smarter to jump him at a Four Seasons, but we’re here now, and I’ll kill him if he doesn’t finish what I started.

  “Did you lock the door?” Yes. I have to ask, even if I kind of hope he ignores my question. Or just tells me that yes, of course he did, and he’s got a tank or something equally impenetrable (har) blocking the entrance to our impromptu love nest. Lies. Truth. All I want is plausible deniability and the green light to go ahead. This is the best worst idea ever, and I totally blame his hot physique and that unexpected flash of caring. How was I supposed to resist?

  Unfortunately, he lifts his head. An inch. Crap. “Do you care?”

  That’s not a yes. In fact, I could probably infer it’s a fuck no because you didn’t give me a chance, babe. The problem is that I can feel each one of those three words on my skin. His breath brushes over me in a dirty, wicked tease. Do I care? Yes, I decide reluctantly. I do. Despite the fire camp baking outside in the summer heat, the air in the cabin feels shockingly cool on my bare skin. Which is bare because my skirt is hiked up to my waist and I’m using Pick’s shoulders as my own personal footrest. I lift my hands. Set them down. Consider crossing them over my boobs. Why is casual hook up sex so goddamned awkward?

  He takes pity on me. “No one’s coming through that door. You can relax.”

  Right. Because stopping and having a conversation in the middle of hot, impulse sex-on-a-desk is so relaxing making. He must correctly interpret the look on my face, because he lowers his head and hooks my waistband, his thumbs drawing my panties down. The fabric teases me where I’m slick and swollen, pulling over my swollen flesh. He doesn’t take them off, though, just leaves them tucked below my mound like now that he can reach what he wants, nothing else matters.

  Thank God. We’re done passing the appetizers around, and now we’re going for the main course. I expect him to hop up, grab a condom, and get down to it, but instead he swipes his tongue over me. Oh. FREAKING. Yes. I suddenly understand why the hotshot team is sort of legendary all over town. If his teammates are anywhere near as talented, it’s amazing anyone ever lets them out of bed.

  Sensation bursts through me, pleasure following each sure lick. No more thinking. No more worrying. I fall back—forgetting all about my metal bed—grab his head with my hands, and turn him into my own personal steering wheel. Left, a little more to the right, and then right. Fucking. There. I yank him closer and let him hear my appreciation of his insane oral skills.

  Once again, Pick proves he isn’t a man in a rush. Again and again, he kisses me while I bump and grind, riding his amazingly talented face to the best of my abilities. He’s admirably thorough too. He swirls his tongue around the top of my girl bits, drawing torturous circles around my clit before making the trip back down like he has all the time in the world and it’s no rush, nowhere to be but here as the sweet, slow ache builds in me.

  At some point, he’s set me down on the desk because now he’s got two hands at his disposal and God, can he use them. He slides his thumbs up, loving the hell out of my pussy. When he presses inside me with one callused finger, I see stars. And then I do some more groaning and demanding because why settle for looking at the Big Dipper when you could have the entire galaxy? I try to explain that to him, but my mouth seems incapable of anything more than babble and throaty moans. I run my hands all over him, touching each inch that I can, feeling up his arms, his shoulders, the top of his head. More Pick, please.

  And he gives it to me. “Let go. Lean on me a little. No worries, honey.”

  It’s rather obvious that I have worries, an entire tanker truck load of them, but I try to let it all go. His finger pushing back inside me again helps a whole lot with my attempt, because God bless the man, he finds my G-spot like he’s got his own personal map of my body with a big X marking all my favorite, dirty spots. I come so fast that I surprise myself, grinding hard against his mouth and moaning his name.

  Yeah. I just did that. I grabbed a guy, dragged him into some kind of storage shed, and proceeded to use him as my own personal dildo. It sounds kind of bad when I think about it like that. Whatever else he is, Pick’s a decent guy, and he deserves more than being my police evasion tool. Like a matching his-and-her orgasm. He totally deserves that.

  It takes me a moment to come down from cloud nine or wherever it is that Pick’s magic tongue has catapulted me to. I’m sort of hanging onto his head, alternating between patting it and pulling on it. Hopefully, I haven’t snatched him bald, but he’s certainly to blame. He made me see stars, and he made me lose control. Any resulting bald patch is just the price of entry.

  And… he’s watching me. I mean, that’s better than having him stare at my post-orgasm cooter, but it’s a little unnerving. I’ve spent most of my time recently doing my best to hide in plain sight, and rule number one of hiding is don’t attract attention. I should say thank you. Or praise his mad oral skills. Something. Anything. Instead I blurt out one word.

  “What?”

  Awesome. I could have gone with that one. Or fantastic. Mind-blowing. Even without the thesaurus app on my phone, I have to be able to come up with a dozen more flattering words to hit him with. He doesn’t look offended, though. He just keeps on staring, although his hands drift lower, running over my inner thighs and making little shivers run up and down my back. It’s both relaxing and arousing at the same time, which explains why my eyes start drifting shut. After the monumental orgasm I’ve just had, a nap sounds perfect. I know I should move, should return the favor, but he’s reduced me to this boneless pile of limp.

  “You don’t like being told what to do.” He slips the casual observation in, like he’s telling me something I don’t know.

  I force my eyes open and attempt to multi-task, wriggling back enough to sit up and slam my shameless thighs shut. My inner hussy has been exposed enough for today, thank you very much.

  “Why would I?” I’m sure he’s not a fan of order-taking, if we’re swapping secrets here, so why should I like it any more than he does?

  He laughs, rocking back on his heels. Yes, I shoot a look at his crotch, trying to check out the goods. As far as I can tell, he’s abnormally blessed in the downtown department. Super shlong, packing, hung. “Sometimes, taking orders can be fun.”

  I’m about to ask him for an example because I still have my doubts that he’s ever taken orders and enjoyed it, but the dinner bell rings outside and someone hollers my name. Real life is about to come a-knock-knocking on the door.

  “I need to go.” Wham, bam, and thank you sir, but we’re done here. In reality, after hiding in plain sight for so long, I’m feeling a touch too exposed now that he’s been eye-to-hooha with me. A little strategic retreat is in order

  “Gotcha.” He pushes to his feet, the masculine grace and raw power of that big body kicking my senses into overdrive again. Or maybe I’m just disappointed that I’m going to have to make do with appetizers and not the main course after all because so much for having sexcapades. “Looks like I have a date with dinner after all.”

  “We’re not dating.” It’s hard to sound dignified and in control when he gives me a hand off the desk and stands me up. Plus, I’m still super wet from his attentions, and there’s an embarrassing noise I can’t and won’t place. At least I don’t have sperm running down my legs, right? I try to lunge for the door, but my panties are still down around my thighs, and the sudden movement throws me off balance. Rather than face plant, I catch myself on his
shoulders before I even realize what I’m doing. I’m grace incarnate and so not-sexy. Oh well, right? He adjusts my panties matter-of-factly, but then he squeezes my ass gently and points me toward the door. I think…

  I have no freaking idea what to think.

  “Whatever you say, honey.”

  8

  PICK

  The fire camp at Big Bear Lake isn’t precisely easy to find, and the two-lane highway that dumps visitors out at the ranger station near the park’s entrance is a poor excuse for a road. Most folks end up cranky as fuck, and from the dust coating the sheriff’s cruiser that pulls into the parking lot the day after I make Sarah Jo see stars in the storage shed, this newest of visitors hit every pothole and then some. Hope the taxpayers sprang for high-end suspension on that car because otherwise its driver has to be both shaken and stirred. You need a truck out here, one with four-wheel drive. We’re not Kia country, and our rides have one job: to get us from camp to the fire and then to haul our asses out double-time when it’s either quitting time at the zoo or the fire overruns us.

  Not sure what’s up with the cruiser, though. I spot a full rack of shotguns as if the good officer had prepared for bear or Armageddon. There’s no snap-crackle-buzz of the radio, either. I’m betting this guy’s running dark, which may have something to do with the name painted on the side of the car. He’s across his county line, and he doesn’t have jurisdiction this far southwest. I’m betting, however, that he’s got something to do with Sarah Jo being jumpy as fuck yesterday—jumpy enough that she’d dragged me into the storage cache and had her wicked way with me. I probably shouldn’t have done that, that whole letting her seduce me and ride my face thing. But it’s hard to regret when I imagine I can still taste her every time I lick my lips.

  So I watch as the officer finally opens the door and stands up, adjusting his uniform. Despite however long he’s been sitting around with his thumb up his ass, his pants still hold a perfect crease and his utility belt is a thing of beauty. In addition to his semiautomatic, he sports what looks like a department-issue baton, a pair of cuffs, and a Taser. He still looks like a douche, though. Like he thinks he’s in charge of All The Shit and he’s just looking for an excuse to haul your ass down to the station in the back of his car.

  I know what he sees when he looks around. The Bears’ Lair, aka fire camp, is a sleepy dot in the middle of nowhere. This is our downtime space, the spot where nothing happens, and we fucking love it that way because out in the field hell is either breaking loose or you’re mopping up after the last break out. Camp is a handful of weathered wooden buildings and a patch of gravel mostly filled with beat-up trucks and a few Japanese imports. A dented POS peels out of our impromptu lot, a foreign car from overseas with good mileage and a decent resale value. There’s a little fuck you spit of gravel as the driver leaves the parking lot too fast.

  I’m betting that’s Sarah Jo leaving. I could will her to stay all I wanted, but she’d been scared yesterday and itching to go.

  The Douche pauses next to his car like he’s expecting a marching band welcome or celestial trumpets announcing his arrival. He’s gonna be waiting a long time. I count it off, one one thousand, two one thousand… Get to fucking thirty before he gives up on anyone pulling a meet-and-greet and scans the buildings. He hasn’t spotted me yet. Instead, the cabin door next to the cafeteria seems to catch his eye. Someone has added a neat sign saying main office. Honestly, that someone is messing with The Douche because none of us are office types, and that office is empty. Everyone’s either eating or out in the field.

  I saunter over to intercept the man before he can spoil anyone’s lunch. I’m such a saint—my boys can thank me later for taking one for the team. The good deputy spots me when I start moving, and promptly comes to a halt, waiting. He clearly thinks he’s pulling a genius power play by making me approach him, and I’m itching to disabuse him of that idea. Preferably with my fists, although my feet wouldn’t mind getting in on the action and kicking the shit out of him, either.

  He looks complacent as fuck. He’s tall, but not as tall as me. Bet he hates having to tilt his head back to make eye contact with me, so I get right up in his space. He’s the kind of pretty boy that looks like he belongs on a billboard advertising cologne or tighty-whities. His dark hair is slicked back from his face, and he’s got a real nice pair of cheekbones and a perfect nose. You know Humperdink in The Princess Bride? This guy could be his doppelganger, except without the velvet and lace.

  “What’s up?” I come to a stop when moving another inch would put my steel-toes on top of his shiny, hi-gloss loafers. Leaving my footprint there would practically be charitable of me because then his ass will have a nice keepsake of his time with us.

  “Deputy Thad Hill,” the Douche announces in self-satisfied tones. This is apparently my cue to fall down and worship, or at least show him the kind of respect I’d give my president or commanding officer. He must have the world’s smallest dick, given the amount of compensating he’s doing. I, on the other hand, know I’m hung. God’s been over-generous in the dick department, and so I don’t need to get into a pissing contest here.

  The Douche then proceeds to trot out a badge case, just in case I have any doubts that my presence has been blessed with greatness. He flips it open smoothly, flashing a square of laminated, official looking plastic at me. His creds certainly look genuine, although there’s always the possibility that Deputy Douche (to give him his official job title) is a fake with the real article. Deputy Douche flicks the case shut and slides it into his back pocket.

  We look at each other for a moment. Eh. Fuck it. I’d like to eat lunch, and I’d also like to go after Sarah Jo. Sleep, a shower, and a cold beer are high up on my to do list as well, so Deputy Douche needs to get on with it.

  “You got business here?” Looming over him is ridiculously easy. Bet Deputy Douche is wishing he’d met a smaller hotshot or put lifts in those fancy shoes of his. Deputy Douche isn’t a small man, either, but I have the advantage, the biggest one being that I don’t have to pretend to be nice. Or professional. Even if Hunter Black is off-site at the moment and that makes me the man in charge. Which is very convenient when Deputy Douche shoves a picture in my face.

  “No autographs,” I tell him, enjoying the way he chokes on his righteous indignation. I’m not sure why I’m baiting him. Normally, I have nothing but respect for law enforcement—they do an important job, and like my hotshot team, their number one goal is keeping people safe. I admire that. This guy, however, rubs me the wrong way.

  The photo is also a problem. I snatch it out of his hand and head into the office just in case that wasn’t Sarah Jo getting the hell out of Dodge a few minutes ago. I also think I’m not going to want an audience for this conversation because that’s definitely Sarah Jo in the picture. Her hair’s a little less colorful, but she’s beaming at the camera with her trademark smile, flashing her fingers in a vee for victory gesture. She looks happy and way the fuck less haunted.

  Her expression’s almost as good as the one she sported yesterday after my tongue and I got done expressing our heart-felt appreciation for her pussy. Fuck, but she tasted good. Probably a good thing we didn’t get around to actual penetration because she’s obviously in an emotionally vulnerable place. You can’t believe I just said that? That makes two of us. But banging the hell out of her on a desk when she was scared shitless about something didn’t sit right then, and it doesn’t feel any more right today. Sure, I’ve got regrets. My dick’s been sending urgent messages to my brain since we parted and my balls are permanently Smurf-colored.

  But even if scared and sexy can co-exist, I feel like I should take care of the scared thing first for her. Must be because I’ve still got a gentlemanly side and if she’s not worried, she’ll be able to focus all her considerable attention on the amazing orgasms I’m giving her. Who wouldn’t want his best work appreciated? Just thinking about her spread out on the desk gets me hard all over again. Hope D
eputy Douche doesn’t think the hard-on’s for him and end up with his precious feelings crushed.

  “I’m investigating an arson.” Deputy Douche obviously expects his pronouncement to be greeted with a chorus of Hallelujahs because my continued silence makes the other man blink. Which is why I continue keeping my mouth shut and wait. Sooner or later, Hill will tell me what I need to know. Then I can assess my options, fix whatever shit Sarah Jo’s landed in, and go after her for round two in O-ville.

  Hill fidgets. Gotcha. “You run into much arson up here?”

  He’s standing in the middle of a fire camp—we’re a goddamned fire buffet up here. There are plenty of ways a wildland fire gets started, and arson ranks right up there at the top of the list. Idiots with matches, campers who think a no-burn rule doesn’t apply to them, lost hikers who decide building a big-ass signal fire will get them out of the woods faster, firefighters who want the overtime or the experience… it’s a crowded list.

  “We’ve got plenty of fire up here,” I allow.

  Hill shakes his head. “Not a Big Bear kind of blaze. My fire is three hundred miles northeast of here.”

  The downright possessive tone in Hill’s voice sets off all kinds of alarms. An officer of the law shouldn’t be nosing around here without some kind of professional reason, but this doesn’t sound like a routine investigation at all.

  “Have you seen this woman?” Hill trots the line out like he’s starring front and center in a bad television show. Just in case I’m terminally stupid, he taps the photo I’ve set down on top of the desk.

  I’d sort of guessed based on her reaction to the sheriff’s car yesterday that she was on the run. Turns out I’d also harbored a stupid hope that she’d let me in on the reasons why before law enforcement showed up for her. It’s easier to hide the bodies before they’re on public display, you feel me?