by Rie Warren
JB was as aware of me as I was of her. I remained all the way across the room—arguably a safe distance away—but I felt her gaze on me during the course of the night. She wasn’t obvious about it; I was just good at my job. Reading people inside and out, backward and forward, came part and parcel with my line of work. I lived by my wits, without a safety net. And JB had me free-falling for her in the space of two goddamn hours. She sent her subtle fuck-me vibe in my direction and mine alone. Her attention thrilled me more than I cared to admit.
Finally Brodie sidetracked me by calling for order. Thank fuck for that. As the din died down, he motioned Cole from behind the bar. Leaving the latest MC prospect hanging just long enough so he looked like he might crap his pants, Brodie finally welcomed Cole into the Retribution fold as a full member. When he held up the new leather cut identical to the rest of the brethren’s with the scales of justice and skull and crossbones, I almost shed a goddamn tear.
Cole grinned so hard I thought he’d crack his face as he accepted the MC colors.
He deserved the Retribution patch more than I did. He’d taken shit and come up shining time and time again.
I’d learned something from this brotherhood.
Sometimes you followed protocol. Sometimes you went with your gut. I’d gone with my gut with Brodie and Ashe. Detective Kingston had survived because of it, but I’d been smacked around with rules and regs and psych follow-ups because of my decision to bring Brodie onto the case.
My decision to save Kingston’s life.
I’d lay my career on the line again for any one of them. No questions asked.
So what if I got slapped with my own probationary term because of it?
It wasn’t my gut leading me now though. More like my cock. Straight up, hard as a rock, and wanting release in one babe only. JB. Getting involved with the girl could mean one of two things:
A trip to prison if she was as underage as she looked and as her nickname implied. Jailbait indeed.
Or a trip to heaven because she was nothing if not sex in the flesh.
She was way too young for me to be messing with, not to mention I was absolutely unsuitable for any woman, anywhere, all the time. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her since the moment she’d entered the MC, and I wanted my hands on her, too.
Unfortunately she was dancing. So were a bunch of handsy dudes all around her. I wished I’d carried my Glock on me. I could pick ’em off one by one. But then Cole would be on cleanup detail, and we were buddies. He hadn’t had to mop up one of my bloody messes yet, probably best to keep it that way.
Instead of shooting all the assholes trying to feel up JB as she danced with her hips swiveling, her arms reaching high, her head thrown back, I decided to cut in.
Paving a path through her groupies and gropers, I’d just about reached her when Cole called out across the noise of music and laughter, “Say, why you called Hunter anyway?”
JB glanced back at me with a smile then glided away.
I watched her sinuous moves, answering Cole, “Maybe Hunter is my real name.” Approaching the bar, I splatted Cole’s hand onto it. I took my sharpened Ka-Bar knife from my belt and stabbed it between his fingers. “Or maybe I’m just damn good with my knife. Wanna double down?”
That got big guffaws all around and drew JB’s large inky eyes to me.
“What about Sexton?” Cole pulled his hand back, making sure all the skin was intact.
“You’d have to ask the ladies about any sexin’ . . . ”
MC dudes converged on me with back slaps, but JB spun on her heels with a huff. In an apparent outrage, she marched to the far reaches of the clubhouse.
I had to follow up on that. Usually I liked my liaisons jealousy-free, but considering I’d already imagined putting bullet holes in just about every man in the room for so much as looking at her, I’d give her a free pass to get all green-eyed about me anytime she wanted.
When I made my way to the darts, JB ignored me; her head high and those amazing brown curls tossed back.
I stood in front of the bull’s-eye.
She stomped around me to retrieve her darts.
I blocked the way again, lightly touching her arm. “There a problem?”
“I’m not easy, if that’s what you’re after.”
“That’s not a problem.”
With a stamp of her foot, she went back to the throw-line. I’d barely stepped out of the way before she let rip with a dart that whistled past my ear. “I don’t fuck around, either.”
“Even better.” I grinned at the spitfire.
“What she means to say is BTDT. The T-shirt was not that awesome.” Rayce—the wrench shrew from Stone’s garage—intervened. She was JB’s fake dyke girlfriend from earlier and apparently a bulldog on a mission to put me in my place.
“No need to go rabid on me. I’ll step off.” Almost relieved by her interruption, I backed up with my hands raised. I needed a reason to stop pursuing JB anyway. “For the record, I’d never harm your friend, but I’m glad you’re looking out for her.”
An hour later, I slid onto my motorcycle. Helmet in hand, I ramped the Deus Grievous Angel to life.
JB materialized next to me, huddling inside her padded leather jacket. “Sorry about before. Rayce has issues.”
“And where’s your bodyguard now?”
“I don’t need one.” She unfolded her arms, and her jacket gaped open at her chest. She took my helmet from my hands and slung it onto the handlebar.
“Beg to differ.” She definitely needed protection from me.
JB made the first move, I’d testify to that shit in court. She leaned over me and licked her lips. Then my hands were in her hair, burrowing deeper, and I dragged her to my mouth. She straddled me when I lifted her onto my lap. The moist touch of her tongue parted my lips.
I groaned, opening up to her talented lunges, following the sleek kisses into her mouth where our tongues collided. I wanted to thrust down her throat with my cock. Rip her pants apart and fuck her until she screamed. Take her on my motorcycle and spray my come all over her body. The intensity of my reaction steered all coherent thought from my head.
The soul-searing kiss lit me up inside. I wanted more.
Bad move. One of my worst. I’d regret it later. Right now I’d savor the way JB moaned, riding my thigh, getting off on me.
I wanted to have this for one more minute.
I wanted her.
I couldn’t have her. I shouldn’t stain her. My soul wasn’t even intact.
With a growl, I pushed her off me. I steadied her with a hand on her hip as she found her footing.
“What’s your problem?” JB frowned, her lips swollen from my kisses.
“I can’t. Not with you. Not like this.” I wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Damn right you can’t. I’m too good for you.” She zipped her jacket all the way to the chin.
Nothing hotter than a woman with an attitude who knew what she wanted, but I couldn’t take advantage.
“Exactly.” I throttled my raging black bike, shouting over the roar of pipes, “We agree. Never gonna happen.”
Peeling out of the parking lot, I glanced back one last time. Big mistake. JB stood under the halo of a streetlight with one stiff middle finger raised in my direction. And I wanted her even more.
Not gonna happen.
Only one good thing had come out of my life, and I had nothing left to give.
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Street Team of Awesome
Acknowledgments
I’m baaaack! I had to do the aliens because—aliens! Why the hell not? They were my fun, my palate cleanser, after I completed the Carolina Bad Boys series, which was th
ree years in the writing. Thanks first of all to everyone who got Taming the Alien King, Taming the Alien Prince, and Taming the Alien Warriors—my first ever full M/M/F ménage/poly book.
Now for Mistaken Identities. *sigh* I’m so very happy. If you’ve read the swoon-worthy tale of Jude and Cady, you’ve now met a couple characters from my Bad Boy Ballers series I published and completed last year. Rafe and Peyton, the Carolina Crush football team—if you haven’t read it yet, get on that sex train right now.
So, to the many, many thanks. Missy Borucki! Woman, cheers for smushing some of my ideas together and pointing me in this direction. Gilly Wright’s Red Pen! Gillian Littlehale edits everything in all the many incarnations we go through chapter by chapter. A more dedicated and learned partner in Google and grammar I could not have. Thank you to April Gasaway and Christine Cox—my beautiful and funny beta readers—for making me STFU sometimes and steering me in the right reader direction.
Love to all my Facebook people, the folks on IG, and most especially my readers and reviewers who still take the time to chill with me. I adore you. And my street team, of course. You are the sassiest.
There’s at least one more Mistaken Identities book this summer then . . . hmmm. Dudes. I’ve got a truckload of ideas to play with. Happy, sexy reading to all.
XOXO,
Rie~
About Rie
Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series—a breakthrough trilogy that crossed traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command. Her latest endeavors include the Carolina Bad Boys, a fun, hot, and southern-sexy series, spin-off series such as Bad Boys of Retribution MC and Bad Boys of X-Ops, and the always fun, completely dirty, out of this world Intergalactic Lurve books.
A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around.
You can connect with Rie via the social media hangouts listed on her website http://www.riewarren.com.