Take

by Pam Godwin

  At any moment, the words I don’t want this or I hate you would fire out, but instead, she reached for his face and traced the line of his jaw.

  He lowered his body into the cradle of hers, falling. “You’re wrecking me.”

  “You deserve it.” She hooked her legs around his hips.

  Shoving down the elastic band of his shorts, he slid the head of his dick along her slit. “You’re mine.”

  A pretty growl vibrated her throat. “Shut up.”

  “You want my cock.”

  “Not even a little.”

  “You want to come all over it.”

  “Lies.”

  Her body didn’t lie. A sweep of his finger through her cunt released a gush of arousal. She made a strangled sound and pressed her hands against his bare chest.

  When he pushed back, her fingers caught his nipples and locked on, pinching with an alarmingly strong bite.

  He choked, seated his cock against her pussy, and shoved home.

  With a yelp that rivaled his throaty groan, she wound her arms around his neck.

  “So fucking wet.” He rotated his hips, grinding into her soaked heat, teasing her. “Hear how sloppy you are? You’re creaming all over me.”

  “You’re a good kisser, okay?” Her hand speared through his hair and clenched. “I still hate you.”

  “You want to hate me, but I don’t think you do.”

  Her eyes shuddered, and she looked away. “I want my freedom back.”

  “Can’t release you.” He shifted to his side, taking her with him so that her bandaged leg rested over his hip.

  “Then, for now, I’ll take a different release.” She rolled her hips, catching a slow ride on his cock. “We both need this escape. You can take from me. I’ll take from you, and just for a little while, let’s get lost in it.”

  Her words gripped him deeply, every part of him bowing toward her. An honest touch from her fingers could sustain him forever.

  “No more resistance,” he ordered.

  “No more restraints,” she ordered back.

  He palmed her ass and drove harder inside her. “No more holding back.”

  “I’m sick of fighting this.” She gasped on his next thrust. “But I won’t stop fighting everything else. Especially when you’re being a total dick, which is pretty much all the time.”

  “Except now.”

  She raised her face to his, her expression drunk on desire. “This is a good moment.”

  Lying on their sides, he wrapped his arms around her. Then he fucked her gently, taking, giving, fusing them together. She cried out, her mouth agape as he drove into the hot, tight fist of her body.

  Hands down the best thing he’d ever felt. Soft lips on his mouth. Thick blond hair against his arms. Lush, toned curves beneath his fingers. Wet, warm pussy sucking in his cock. Heaven. Salvation. She made him feel again.

  She made him want to be a man she could love.

  Wrapping up the length of her hair in his fist, he forced her gaze to his. Slowed his pace. Stroked in and out in a steady, desperate grind.

  Eyes locked, mouths connecting and separating, the connection was raw, unhurried, and heavy. Every kiss thrummed with what-ifs, every touch a climbing step to something huge and unstoppable.

  A fever of lust.

  A bolt of energy.

  A blissful fall.

  He came with her, syncing their orgasms by eye contact alone.

  Her body clamped down on him, spasming, squeezing, as unholy pleasure hit him from all directions. Her hungry mouth crashed down over his, stealing her name as it rode on his groaning breaths.

  After, he lay on his back with her body splayed across his chest and her eyes losing the fight against sleep.

  When her lashes stopped fluttering, the fringes spread over her cheeks, he started counting each one.

  His heart knocked an unusual beat.

  Relaxed.

  Peaceful.

  Happy.

  But it wouldn’t last.

  In three days, he would come out of hiding and take Kate with him.

  There was no way around it. He’d been holed up in the desert for two months. Eventually, his enemies would find him, and here, he only had the protection of a handful of guards.

  He needed to get his ass back to Caracas, where he would be surrounded by the fortification of his neighborhood and the hundreds of loyal criminals who worked for him.

  But once he arrived in the city, his enemies would know.

  Twelve years ago, he killed some important people and painted a target on his back. That had never mattered to him. Until now.

  Until Kate.

  There were so many ways he could lose her. So many fucking enemies. DEA, FBI, local crime lords, the Mexican government, neighboring cartels who fought for his smuggling routes, and of course, Lucia’s brother-in-law and capo of the Colombian cartel, Matias Restrepo.

  The biggest threat, however, was Cole Hartman.

  Hartman had steered Tate directly to Lucia, and now he was helping Lucia locate Tate. Once that job was finished, he would come after Kate.

  If anyone could separate her from Tiago, it was that fucking guy.

  A tremor attacked his muscles, the barbs of dread sinking in and shredding his insides.

  Tightening his arms around her, he pulled her closer against his chest and buried his nose in her hair. In her sleep, she burrowed into the shelter of his body and sighed.

  When he lost Semira, he surrendered his humanity.

  If he lost Kate, he would surrender everything.

  Tiago woke with a start, his pulse pelting against his throat as the hum of a distant car engine lingered in his mind.

  Had he dreamed it? Or had he heard it in his sleep?

  The sky hung beyond the barred window like a black velvet blanket, hours before dawn.

  No one should’ve been coming or going. Not the guards. Absolutely no visitors.

  He held himself motionless, his hand possessively gripping Kate’s perfect ass beneath her panties.

  He didn’t wear a stitch of clothing. No weapons within reach. He could only stare across the dark room in the direction of the locked door and listen.

  The pitchlike silence heightened his paranoia, making him twitchy.

  Seconds pounded by. Minutes. His hearing strained against the hush. No sounds. No movement.

  Probably just remnants of the dread he’d carried into sleep.

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.

  Reluctantly, he untwined his arms and legs from Kate’s slender limbs, despising the separation from her soft, warm skin.

  Moving quietly in the dark, he was careful not to wake her. But as he unfolded from the mattress, her groggy whisper floated up.

  “Where are you going?”

  He lowered back to the bed and kissed her parted lips.

  “Getting some water.” He traced the scalloped hem of her panties and fingered the bandage on her thigh, checking that it hadn’t unraveled. “Need anything?”

  “More sleep.” She rolled away, her breathing instantly falling into an even rhythm.

  He ran a hand down her spine, smoothing the oversized shirt. His shirt.

  He’d fucked her so many times last night she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes open. Eventually, he’d put her in the panties and his shirt, because sleeping beside her nude body…

  His dicked jerked. Started to harden.

  Yeah.

  Rising to his feet, he navigated through the dark room, located his bag of clothes, and pulled on the first thing he found. A pair of sweatpants.

  Then he grabbed his phone and checked his messages on his way to the stairwell.

  Just after three in the morning. No notifications. No missed calls. A quick peek at the live video of the shack confirmed Tate was safe and asleep.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the main room. Muted light from the kitchen illuminated one occupied mattress. Arturo.

&nb
sp; No reason to wake him. Not yet. The other guards would’ve been outside, patrolling the perimeter.

  Except there should’ve been more of them asleep at this hour. Three on the day shift. Three on the night shift.

  But only Arturo was required to sleep inside as a last layer of defense for Boones.

  Pacing to the covered windows, he peered through the slit of one and probed the shadows.

  The cars sat where expected. Stillness stretched to the horizon. Too dark. He couldn’t see shit from this position. He would have to go out there to investigate.

  He slipped into the kitchen on silent feet and grabbed the largest knife from the butcher block. Then he headed to the hall and made a beeline to Boones’ room.

  The door stood ajar. He stepped in.

  The faint sound of snoring drifted from the bed, but it wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. He needed to see Boones alive and free from harm.

  He approached the bed and crouched beside it, straining his eyes in the dark until he could make out sheared gray hair, black skin over sharp bones, and the rise and fall of a scarred chest.

  He exhaled a sigh of relief.

  The snoring stopped.

  “What’s wrong?” Boones asked in his native tongue.

  He lowered the butcher knife out of view. His scalp tingled, his senses telling him a tendril of unrest was creeping toward the house.

  Or, most likely, it was just his overactive paranoia taking shape in imaginary noises.

  “Just checking on you.” He rested a hand over the welts on Boones’ sternum, finding sanctuary in the thumps of a strong heartbeat. “If you die in your sleep, I’ll have to find someone else to make breakfast in the morning.”

  “I spit in your eggs.” Boones smacked him away, a smile in his voice. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  He did more than that. As he slipped into the hall, he turned the handle and engaged the lock from the inside without sounding the click and worrying Boones.

  A hard kick would break the door, but it would take an extra second or two to bust in.

  In the front room, he returned to the gap in the window. Outside, the landscape was a black tarp of empty silence.

  Nothing moved. No guards in sight, which meant they were stationed where they were supposed to be, spread out around the property, watching the perimeter from every angle.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the tingling along his nape. His senses hummed on high-alert, the hilt of the knife hot in his hand.

  He prowled through the front room, listening, waiting, second-guessing the foreboding feeling in his gut.

  “Jefe?”

  He turned toward the sound of Arturo’s gruff voice and squinted at the silhouette sitting on the mattress. “Who’s on watch right now?”

  “Blueballs, Iliana, and Samuel.” Arturo rose to his feet and said in Spanish, “Or maybe it’s Alonso, not Iliana. I don’t know. They switched up the schedule last night.” A pause. “Juan was in here when I dozed off.”

  Alarm spiked his heart rate, hardening his body into battle mode.

  “The guys rarely sleep in here.” Arturo scratched his whiskers, wearing only a pair of boxers. “The desert is making them restless.”

  Tiago strode into the kitchen and removed all the bottom drawers in the cabinets. Behind each one waited a stash of weaponry and ammo. He grabbed a .40 cal pistol, two loaded magazines, and glanced down at his pants.

  No pockets. No shoes. No shirt. He wasn’t dressed for combat.

  Tension stifled the muggy room as he loaded the magazine in the gun and set the extra one aside. Then he grabbed the knife, both hands armed.

  Silence buzzed in his ears, a haze of muted light shining down from the ceiling. His skin itched, sticky with sweat, his pulse thick in his throat.

  “What is it?” Arturo approached, zipping up the fly of his jeans. Eyes wide and alert, he loaded his own weapon. “You hear something?”

  “Not sure. I’m going to take a walk outside. I need you to stay here with—”

  The boom of gunfire sounded in the distance.

  He froze, blinked, and in a blur of sharpness, he sped in the direction of the stairs.

  Except Boones was down the hall.

  His footsteps faltered, skidded.

  Kate or Boones.

  Kate or Boones.

  Indecision cost him half a second.

  He swung toward Arturo, pointing the knife. “Go to Boones. No matter what happens to me, you’ll protect him with your life. Don’t let him out, and do not leave his door. Swear to God, Arturo, if any harm comes to him, I will haunt you long after I’m dead.”

  The hard edge of his voice sent Arturo running toward the hall, carrying an armful of artillery.

  He swiveled back toward the stairs.

  Kate.

  Flying into a sprint, he made it halfway through the front room before the windows exploded in a shower of glass and lead.

  He shielded his face with an arm and ran into the shrapnel, hunching low to avoid a wayward bullet.

  The front door crashed open, followed by a stampede of boots. Then the rapid firing of popped rounds and ear-splitting, disorientating chaos.

  His military training kicked in, revving his pulse, sharpening his awareness, and focusing his mind on one objective.

  Kill.

  The Glock in his hand held fifteen rounds, and he used every bullet to clear a path to the stairs. When the pistol clicked empty, he whipped it across the face of the nearest intruder and threw it at the head of the next one.

  Down to the knife, he slashed it along a heavily muscled arm. The man’s firearm dropped out of reach. Tiago slashed low and opened the man’s gut.

  Five intruders left. Two swept up the stairs.

  Kate.

  Fury flogged him, but he couldn’t chase them. Three men were already on him, punching, kicking, and swinging knives.

  He tackled the only one with a gun, gripping the man’s arm and guiding the automatic weapon as the fucker squeezed the trigger.

  The spray of bullets went wild, punching a zigzagged line along the floor, up the front wall, and taking out one of his own guys.

  He swept the man’s legs out and wrestled him to the ground.

  Gunfire sounded from the direction of Boones’ room, ramping his pulse to a dangerous level, distracting him.

  An elbow slammed into the back of his head. He coughed a pained grunt and lost his balance.

  Adrenaline flooded his veins as he rolled, swept the blade wide, and cut a deep gash across the man’s chest. Hardened eyes rounded in shock then tapered with the drive to kill.

  With a grunt, Tiago flipped to his feet and spun as another guy jumped on his back. A backward stab with the blade relieved him of the threat behind him.

  He rammed his forearm against the throat of one in front, pinning him against the wall.

  Footsteps erupted on the stairs, descending at a run.

  He swiveled his neck and marked two men making an escape from the second floor.

  One of them carried Kate, her unconscious body dangling over a bulky shoulder, blood dripping from her face.

  Heat smothered his brain and blinded his vision.

  She’d put up a fight and received a knockout punch for the effort, which meant this wasn’t a rescue attempt. It was a kidnapping, and he knew exactly how it would play out.

  Her chance of survival was nil.

  Rage detonated in his chest and hit the air in a blistering roar. He seethed, breaths shaking, teeth cutting the insides of his cheeks.

  With a surge of strength, he pushed harder against the throat beneath his arm. Holding the knife in his other hand, he buried it in the man’s skull, pushed it in to the hilt, and yanked it free.

  The body dropped, and he launched for the stairs. Until someone slammed into him from behind.

  The wind evacuated his lungs as he collided with the floor, his shirtless chest skidding through shards of glass beneath the weight of the man on his
back.

  He trained his eyes on the front door, where those dead motherfuckers had just carried out his whole fucking world.

  They knew it, too. They knew exactly what she meant to him, because one of his own goddamn guards had tipped them off.

  Someone had told them to head straight for the stairs.

  An arm hooked around his neck from behind, the heavy drive of a knee against his spine. He shoved his upper body into a push-up, dug in his toes, and dove into a somersault. The man lost his grip and came up swinging.

  Fists flew. Elbows. Shins. Bone-crunching smacks. Tiago wouldn’t feel the pain from those hits until later. Right now, all he felt was pure, raw aggression, scorching his blood and driving him forward, toward her.

  If he didn’t get her back, he would burn the whole fucking country to the ground.

  Venom seared through him, powering his punches, propelling each strike harder, faster, spraying blood, breaking teeth, bone, and cartilage, until the man slumped to the floor.

  Legs quaking, heart thrashing, he grabbed a pistol off a dead body and bolted out the door and into the night.

  At the end of the drive, taillights glowed red in the blackness. They already had her in the van. Already driving away.

  Bullet holes littered his cars. Tires deflated. Hoods ablaze with fire.

  He was too late.

  Grief tried to suck him into the earth, but he pushed forward, throwing himself into a burning sprint.

  Serrated air sawed in and out of his lungs. He pumped his legs and leveled the gun on the van’s tires. Fired. Missed.

  As he emptied the magazine, the van sped away, vanishing into the darkness.

  He careened to a stop, braced swollen, bloody hands on his knees, and attempted to stymie the insufferable pain closing around his heart. If he let in the anguish, it would kill him.

  This wasn’t over.

  He couldn’t fail her.

  Her captors would contact him, before or after they killed her. It depended on who they were and what they wanted. He had an hour at most to organize an attack.

  First, he needed to find out where the fuck they were taking her.

  Spinning, he raced back to the house as his mind pored over what he knew and everything that had just gone down. He recalled faces, accents, weapons, and fighting styles.