“That I believe.”
She blew her nose and glared at him through swollen eyes. Then lowered her gaze because, God, she could guess how badly she looked. “What does that mean?”
He stroked a knuckle down the side of her cheek. "It means you're strong. You know it, and I know it." He hooked her chin and lifted it. "I didn't tell you that to hurt you, Bailey. That's not why I'm here."
He was too close. Way too close. He filled her vision, and suddenly she couldn't breathe again. The pain in her heart ebbed, replaced with the first threads of desire. "Why are you here?"
His face shifted from concern to a grimace, as if he’d fought something and lost. “Hank sent me to protect you because he knows I won’t fail him. Understand me, I won’t. But I’m not here for him alone, Bailey. I’m here for you.”
Chapter Ten
Emmet's words, the conviction in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes, Bailey desperately wanted to believe him. Needed to believe everything he said. He was the only thing she had, but she didn't really have him. She didn't have anyone.
“I don’t know if… How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You work for him, the man who abandoned me.”
“Yeah. I do.” Voice granite, yet his fingers were ever so gentle on her skin. “But I won’t abandon you. Ever.”
His gaze dipped to her lips. Bailey leaned in. It was an automatic response. She couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried. His lips traced hers in a barely there caress that sent a tremor racing down her spine and wetness pooling between her legs. Wasn’t enough. She tilted her head for more.
He caged her with his body pressing into her, with one hand cupping her cheek, and the other threading through her short hair, all before lowering his head and claiming her mouth. She parted her lips on a groan and didn’t stop groaning as he licked into her mouth. He tasted of Chardonnay—hints of vanilla, a touch of caramel—and all man. Lips smashed together, teeth banging, tongues dueling, never stopping. Don’t stop! He fisted her hair, angled her head and took it deeper.
Emmet kissed her until she no longer needed air because he breathed for her.
Bailey tugged at his shirt, grabbed it, and slid her hand beneath the soft flannel. He moaned into her mouth, and he'd picked her up to plop her ass on the counter.
Did she take his shirt off or did he? Either way, it ended up on the kitchen floor, leaving him in an undershirt that also ended up on the kitchen floor.
Oh, God. She'd seen plenty of muscle-bound men who'd spent a lifetime in the gym, honing their bodies, none were as defined as Emmet. Hand on the back of her head, he brought her in for another kiss and another. He sucked her tongue, licked into her mouth, retreated to nip her bottom lip and soothe it with another long, lick.
Lost, she ran her hands over his shoulders, down the taut muscles lining his back, around his waist to his ripped abs, to dip into his pants, through crisp hairs. His fingers sunk to her scalp and gripped her head. A hard tug pried them apart, left both gasping.
“Are we doing this?” he demanded, followed by another bruising kiss as she shoved her hand deeper into his pants. He was granite, a solid mass in her palm.
She squeezed and earned a strangled hiss. He angled her head to the side to trail his tongue up her throat, to sink his teeth into her earlobe. It was her turn to hiss as the sharp sting transformed into pleasure when he licked the outer shell of her ear. “Answer the question, Bailey.” His free hand traveled under her sweater to trace lazy circles on her lower back.
Wherever he touched, licked, bit left a trail of heat demanding she give only one reply. “Yes.”
He snatched her to him and lifted her off the counter. Startled, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding on as he dumped them onto the sofa. Her sweater went up and over her head. She helped by unsnapping her bra and letting it fall away, while he opened her jeans and pulled them and everything else shielding her from his view off. Naked, she lay in the soft light cast from the table lamp with Emmet looking over her.
She wasn't shy, knew her assets—small boobs, athletic build, no real curves for a man to get hung up on. But the way his gaze devoured her…her shortcomings didn't matter. He wanted her, as much as she wanted him with a desperate edge that cut sharper than a knife. God, he was beautiful from his full sensual mouth, slightly crooked nose, and icy blue eyes.
One of his hands covered an entire breast, his palm warm and rough against her stiff nipple. He teased her, rubbing and squeezing the sensitive peak. Shuddering from the sensation, she pushed his hand lower, down the center of her body.
He slowed, drawing out the torture until she writhed on the sofa, legs splayed, begging him to touch her.
Emmet leaned over Bailey, his weight on his other arm, his kisses as unhurried as his fingers parting her slick flesh and diving into her body. Their groans mingled, echoed, Emmet's harsh, yet triumphant. Bailey's breathy, as if she'd run a race, but the finish line was miles away.
She yanked at his buckle, gripped the bulge inside his jeans. The emptiness inside her demanded fulfillment.
He knocked her hands away and completed the job, yanking the rest of his clothes off. Naked, Emmet was a revelation. He was lean with sculpted muscles under tanned skin. Scarred tanned skin. Most were faded. The one under the ribs on his right side was newest. About an inch long and raised, she wondered what happened, who did it and was that person still alive.
None of that cooled her blood or stopped her gaze from roaming over his broad shoulders, corded arms, ripped abs, and…
His cock was a thick spear of hard flesh that made her core clench. “Condom,” she croaked, her throat suddenly dry.
“Not yet.”
He dropped down over her and licked into her mouth as he settled between her thighs. Fingers slid between her folds and circled her clitoris. The first tendrils of a blinding orgasm curled through her. She arched into the pleasure, reached for it.
Emmet slid down her body. He traced his lips over her chin, down her throat, and settled on the pulse flickering beneath her skin. She wanted him to mark in some primal ritual she couldn’t name.
He continued to the valley between her breasts, nipping, licking. She tugged on his hair in an attempt to guide him to a nipple. It worked, and his mouth settled over the peak. Pulled into his hot mouth, and sucked. She arched into each pull, losing herself to the feel of his tongue, teeth, and lips on her flesh. He switched to the other nipple to deliver the same attention. Only after she was a panting, writhing mess, did he sink lower, his tongue wreaking havoc as he dragged it down her body.
Emmet didn’t stop until his tongue spilt her nether lips and his mouth closed around her core in the most intimate of kisses. Back bowed off the sofa, a keening moan spilling out of her mouth, Bailey came apart.
He sat back, a satisfied smirk on his face. “That was fast. When was the last time?”
Panting, she gasped, “Two days ago.” Which meant the day they’d met. The heat in his eyes died. “Me and my vibrator had an intimate evening.”
Heat flared in his eyes again. “When was the last time with a flesh and blood man, or woman?”
Men and their need to know. “Nine months ago. Do you approve? Or should I have been a virgin waiting for my knight in rusty armor?”
He pushed two fingers into her and brought his thumb up to tease her clit. “I can’t see you waiting for anything.” He pulled out of her and licked his fingers clean. She loved the way his tongue worked.
“Do I need to get my vibrator?”
He chuckled and reached for his pants. From his wallet, he pulled out a familiar black and gold square packet.
She barked out a laugh. “Good thing you packed my condoms.”
“Good thing.” He ripped it open with his teeth and rolled it over his length.
Spreading her wide, Emmet lowered himself to Bailey. The blunt head of his sex parted her slick folds. He drove into her with a series of sharp thrusts, then seated himself balls deep. Together, they tr
embled. She whimpered at the wounding fullness, but God forbid he stop. She wrapped her limbs around him and swallowed his harsh groan.
A roll of her hips had him fisting her hair and grabbing her ass. She couldn’t move and didn’t need to because he pumped into her, his strokes unhurried and long, torturous. She clawed at him, rocked her pelvis, and met each thrust. “Harder, harder, Emmet.”
He growled, released her hair and buried his head in the crux of her neck. His hands on her ass, his body pressing her into the sofa, while he drilled into her body. Pleasure gripped her and tightened with each thrust. Writhing, gasping, clawing at his back, Bailey splintered, her orgasm so intense she broke apart, crying his name, pleading for him not to stop.
Emmet shuddered, faltered for a split second as if to gather his strength, and slammed into her again, and again until she was a quivering mess. He reared back. Buried within her core, Bailey watched his entire body tense, a taut bowstring ready for release. Then she felt him, throbbing inside of her, pouring his release into the latex barrier.
Looming over her, the epitome of male prowess at its peak, he was beautiful. His head tipped forward, banked pleasure swimming in his eyes.
So that's how he looks spent. Bailey took a mental picture.
Emmet smiled, a lazy, easy stretch of his lips that had her insides purring.
“Where’d you pack the rest of those condoms?”
Chapter Eleven
“There’s no one here.”
"Tell me something I don't know," Hank growled at Whiskey and moved around the oak-paneled banquet room decorated for a western style wedding. Not unusual for a modern couple in the Philippines.
“Bad intel.” Whiskey circled the room flipping chairs, peering under the table for anything hidden.
“Apparently.” Hank paused at the bank of windows and peered out onto downtown Manila. Bad intel, his ass. He trusted his source. The info came from the highest level. If that source was compromised, Rogers’s betrayal had leapfrogged him and landed with the ones who gave the orders. “We are in the right place. At the right time. Yet we are alone.”
Agitated, Whiskey shook his nearly bald head. “Fubar. This is a fucking set up. We gotta go, Hank.” He headed for the door.
“We’re staying.” Hank pressed a button, closing the blinds. Glass broke, close to his left ear, followed by the air whistling through a tiny opening and the feel of it on his skin. Hank hit the deck with Whiskey right next to him. “He always was a lousy shot.”
“Thank whatever god you pray to for that ’cause the inside of your head would’ve decorated my shirt.” Whiskey’s laugh held no humor.
“Thank you for the graphics.” Hank shot out the overhead light, dropping the room into darkness.
“Can we leave now?” Whiskey crawled away from the window and climbed to his feet.
“No. That’s exactly what he wants us to do, run. Which means he has something else set up for us. I’m not running. Secure the door.”
“With what?” Whiskey held up his MP5 slung over his shoulder.
Out of the pocket of his leather duster, Hank pulled a small brick of Semtex and tossed it and the detonator to Whiskey. "Small explosion, please. I want to get out of this alive."
Whiskey grinned and got to work, while Hank shoved the chairs out of the way and flipped the table on the side. He used the butt of his gun to bust the camera in the corners of the room. He set up his weapons—an AK-47 with suppressor muzzle to keep their little discord as private as possible, two nine-millimeter handguns, also with muzzles, and four smoke grenades.
“You know there are cameras all over this place, not only in this room.” Whiskey shaped the plastic to the seam of the double doors.
“Not worried about them. Whoever set this trap isn’t worried about the cameras, so neither am I.”
“You that certain, huh. Well, you’re betting our lives on this, so I guess that’s something. Just so you know, I’m not surviving this to end up in a Philippine jail.”
Hank snorted as if any jail could hold Whiskey or any of his men. He mounted his semi-automatic on the edge of the table. He lined up the sites using Whiskey’s back as a target.
“Tired of me already?” Whiskey griped when he turned and found a target on the center of his chest.
“Been tired.”
Deeper into the room, Whiskey righted a chair and used it as a stool to plant a micro-camera on a light fixture well out of the blast radius. After the dust settled and they’d evacuated, it would be interesting to see who showed up. That task complete, Whiskey killed the lights and joined Hank on the other side of the table. “You know. If you’re wrong—”
“I’m not wrong.” Hank cut him off.
“Of course not, but if you are, try not to break anything when you jump out the window. Five stories. That’s a long way down for a man your age.” Whiskey snickered.
“I’ll make sure to land on you.”
“You know, I believe you will.” Whiskey shouldered his weapon, the same weapon as Hank’s, and settled in.
They didn’t have long to wait. A kick to the door and the Semtex did its job. It exploded, taking whoever was the unfortunate fool with it. And hopefully a few others. Smoke filled the room, followed by the blare of an alarm and strobe lights over the exit. Someone coughed.
“Didn’t kill them all,” Whiskey murmured and adjusted the butt of his weapon against his shoulder.
“Good.” Bombs were so impersonal. Hank liked the personal touch. And everything about this was personal.
Fucking Rogers. He just couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t accept it. Veronica had to die. The kill was clean. She never felt a thing. One bullet to the back of the head. It was a mercy she didn’t deserve—that lying, deceitful bitch. She got in Rogers’ head and twisted everything to her liking.
She said she’d do it and Hank hadn’t believed her. He didn’t think any man would be stupid enough to fall for her bullshit, but the power of the pussy.
Shots whizzed through the smoldering opening. Hank waited, and Whiskey followed his lead. He wanted to see who the lucky bastard was, yet wouldn’t get lucky enough to have Rogers waltz into his crosshairs.
A red laser sight appeared through the smoke. Then two. Then two more. Hank tracked them back to the gunmen. He tapped the lead gunman, one bullet to the forehead. Whiskey took care of the other three and had the gall to chuckle.
“Keep up, old man,” Whiskey murmured.
A flash grenade rolled into the room. Both ducked behind the overturned table and closed their eyes and covered their ears. It helped. Instead of stunned and writhing in pain, they still functioned enough to pick up their weapons and return fire. Five minutes and all was silent, except for the warble of sirens.
They rose slowly and advanced on the bodies, eight altogether. All male. All head shots, destroying their faces, except for one tall fellow who caught one in the chest and lay doing the fish out of water routine.
“I know him.” Whiskey bent over Aquaman.
Hank moved closer and halted on the other side of the body. “So do I.” He crouched. “Triad. He works with Gwan Zhang.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The disbelief in Whiskey’s voice mimicked Hank’s.
“We have to get out of here.”
“No shit!” Whiskey leaped to his feet.
“But not yet.” Hank grabbed the chin of the dying man and angled his face toward him. “Who told you to come here?” he asked him in Chinese.
“Gwan Zhang.”
“And who told him?”
The crackle of a comm snapped Hank’s attention to the man’s earpiece. He plucked it free and listened to the voice of the man he had to kill.
“Is he dead? Report back.”
Seething, Hank crushed the earpiece beneath his heel. Let the fucker wonder.
Whiskey dragged a hand down his face. “Zhang and Rogers are working together.”
“No. My guess is Rogers promised Zhang an inside track
to the agency once I’m out of the way.”
“Once Rogers takes over.”
Hank nodded, aware of the sirens drawing ever closer. “We have to leave.”
They ditched the guns, not worrying about fingerprints because of their gloves, turned their outer clothing inside out for a bit of subterfuge, and went for the chopper on the roof. Wasn’t difficult to steal after knocking out the security guard and the pilot. Hank took the pilot seat while Whiskey took the co-pilot. They cleared the airspace without any further incident, almost as if he was let go.
“That wasn’t as hard as it should be.”
Whiskey’s voice came over the headphones and Hank agreed. “It wasn’t. Zhang wouldn’t have sent a skeleton crew, not for something as promising as an inside track to the agency. This was Rogers fucking with our heads again.”
Whiskey cursed long and loud, which was completely unnecessary. “He keeps getting ahead of us, every single time. We’re always on the back foot. It’s gonna get us killed.”
“Not yet.”
Whiskey’s head jerked around. “What the fuck does ‘Not yet’ mean?”
“He doesn’t want me dead yet. He wants me to suffer.”
Whiskey snorted. “Like you made Veronica suffer?”
Hank had a second of guilt, then he shoved it away. “It was necessary. She would’ve sold us out to the Russians if I hadn’t stopped her. She had the information I needed and wouldn’t give it up. Even after I asked nicely.”
“Pistol whipping is nicely?” Whiskey quipped, not hiding his amusement.
“A variation of what she liked in the bedroom.” Hank input in a set of coordinates and put the chopper on autopilot.
“Man, you could’ve kept that detail to yourself… Did Rogers know about you two?”
“Ancient history. We had our fun. It ended three years before the agency reassigned me Rogers.” The first of many mistakes. He never should’ve agreed to a partnership, even though he’d trained the man, and the agency footed the bills, paid for the overhead and his toys. Used to saying yes to the powers that be, he didn’t think to say no. Mistake number one lasted a year. A year of two-stepping around each other, which worked.
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 7