Gray Wolf Security: Wyoming

by Glenna Sinclair

  He knew how to touch a woman, knew just where to run his tongue, where to use his teeth. I leaned my head back as his teeth scraped my nipple, my fingers pressed into his thick, brown hair, encouraging him to come closer, to do more to send those shivers of pleasure down my spine. I thought I was in control, thought I knew what I was doing. But then he smacked me hard on my ass, a smile on those full lips that only grew bigger when I cried out.

  "What are you doing?"

  He sat up and buried his fingers in my hair, twisting it around his fingers as he pulled me back down on the mattress, rolling his body over mine again.

  "You're a bad girl," he said roughly. "And you know it, don't you?"

  I stared up at him, confused for a moment. But then he hit my hip, my upper thigh, again. I cried out as he came in for another kiss, swallowing my scream. And that kiss felt ten times better than before, the pain only adding to the pleasure of it all.

  What the hell?

  I tried to touch him, tried to run my hands over his hard ass, but he grabbed my wrists and slammed them down onto the mattress, pressing them down much harder than was necessary. When I fought him, that only seemed to increase the intensity of his kiss, the need in the slow, grinding movement of his hips against mine.

  He liked it. He liked this roughness, this violence.

  I fought harder, not really wanting him to pull away. I didn't want him to free me. I wanted to see how far I could push him. I fought and he became breathless in his attempts to hold me still. His knee forced itself between my thighs, his cock hard and ready to show me just how manly he really was. I closed my thighs hard against his leg and he smacked me again, his hand slapping against my outer thigh.

  I was more turned on than I think I'd ever been. I wanted him inside of me, wanted the pleasure that his kiss, his touch brought. I relaxed my thighs just enough to make room for his thick hips, lifting my own hips to meet him. He reached between us and guided himself to me, his cock heavy and thick, sliding inside with more patience than I would have expected. He kissed me again, stealing my lips with less intensity. My wrists free again, I slipped my hands around his waist, my fingers digging into his ass as he filled me, as he began to move with a quick, steady rhythm that touched everything inside of me and more.

  I hadn't wanted this, but my body was screaming in gratitude, my muscles wrapping around him, tugging him inside deeper and deeper. He tugged at my hip, pulling me over onto my side just enough to expose the side of my ass. He smacked me again, slapped his hand hard against my ass, the sound of it echoing through the room. It smarted, but the pain sent more shivers of pleasure through my body. I never would have thought such a thing possible, had always thought people who got off on this sort of thing insane. I was never a Fifty Shades kind of girl. But maybe I'd underestimated it.

  I cried out as an orgasm shot through my body. I wrapped myself hard against him, riding the wave for the first time in so long that I'd almost forgotten how truly wonderful it could be. He pulled away, his cock still hard and swollen. He wasn't done with me. This was just the beginning.

  Who said older men weren't perfect lovers?

  Chapter 7

  Clint

  I'd woken with another woman's name on my lips, my dreams so intense that I'd brought them with me when I reached consciousness. I was afraid. Not for myself, but for her. A distraction was the only thing I could reach for, a few moments of oblivion that would take me out of that fear and help me get my head on straight again.

  And this pretty little girl was convenient.

  She was breathing hard, the orgasm I'd just delivered to her still making its way through her body. I rolled her onto her side, the pain from my stitched wounds too distracting. She had a beautiful body, a petite little thing with perky breasts and slender hips. I'd be stupid if I hadn't imagined what it would be like to see her naked... even if everyone else at the police department had been doing the same since she began making the rounds of the uniforms. I might have taken my own taste this morning if I hadn't been so drained from blood loss.

  I couldn't believe she would just undress in front of me. What kind of woman does that?

  She fought it, but it didn't take a psychologist to figure out that she liked playing it cool. She was a fucking tease if I'd ever seen one.

  And she wasn't fighting now.

  I rolled her onto her side and entered her again, sliding inside from behind, closing my eyes as the sensation of that tight cunt locking down on my cock sent every nerve in my body to singing. She moved her hips back against mine, the sweetest little moans escaping her lips as I moved. She liked being fucked, liked the feel of a man inside of her. I liked that. She knew what she wanted, too. She reached back for my hand, pressed it against the front of her cunt. She wanted my finger on her clit, wanted that delicious pressure that would send her back off that cliff. I liked that, too. I loved a woman who knew what she wanted.

  There weren't many of those out there.

  I rolled her clit, made her make some very interesting sounds as she rocked back against me, her hand grabbing my hip, trying to pull me closer against her. I had to push her hand away, the danger of her touching my wound much too possible. She was lost, riding that wave of ecstasy. But, truth be told, I wasn't far behind.

  I slapped her ass one last time, loved the sound that came from between her lips. And then... I could feel my balls tightening, could feel the wave coming for me. I buried myself as deep inside of her as I could physically reach, loving the feel of her, needing the feel of her. There was nothing like the feel of burying yourself as deep inside a woman as possible.

  I pulled out, instead though, spilling my seed along the small of her back. I fell back, lying against the pillows, the pain of orgasm competing with the pain of my wounds. It was a close match.

  She curled into a ball beside me for a long time, then simply slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her in a clear statement that she didn't want me to join her. I could hear the shower a moment later, the sound of her washing me from her.

  I stared up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how the hell I'd found myself here. It was supposed to be a simple bust, a quick in and out. I was leading the team that was to extract the employees of the accounting firm. But we didn't even make it up to the second-floor landing. They were there, waiting for us, the stairs barricaded just out of sight, smoke grenades going off all around us.

  How had they known we were coming?

  I knew the Mahoneys. I'd worked half a dozen cases against them when I was with the DEA. They weren't this smart. Someone had fed them information, told them what our plan was. Someone had walked them through it, step by step, and then created a counter plan for them to implement. There was no other explanation for it. And it had to be someone at Gray Wolf. No one else knew enough to help them create such a perfect ambush.

  I had to find out who it was.

  I sat up, pain shooting from my hip up through my entire right side. I needed clothes, but mine were on the bathroom floor. I wasn't surprised, however, to see that my petite companion had purchased clothes for us both.

  She even got my size accurately.

  I dressed as quickly as my pain would allow and went out to the SUV. There were half a dozen cars parked near ours, but most of them were on the other side of the lot. I opened the passenger side door—she'd left the keys on the table—and discovered I'd left behind quite an impressive amount of blood. If I was coming on this scene as a detective, I would have assumed someone suffered a mortal wound. No wonder she'd been in such a fit to get the wound sewn up.

  I'd brought with me paper towels from the room. I cleaned it up as best as I could, using water from a bottle I'd found among her other purchases. When I was done, the seat was usable again. I tossed the towels in a dumpster in the alley. By the time I was done, she was dressed and gathering the other supplies she'd purchased. More water bottles, juice, some crackers. And she was dressed in a pair of s
kinny jeans that hugged her ass quite deliciously and a short pink top that highlighted her generous breasts, the color bringing out the red in her dark brown hair. She had blue eyes, too, a light blue that was magnetic, eyes I'd wanted to stare at for hours the first time I saw her. Not that I'd ever admit to it.

  "Are there any bloody towels in the bathroom?"

  She gestured to a couple of bags sitting on the table. They were stuffed to the top, one of them dripping pink water. I quickly gathered them up and tossed them into the same dumpster, ready to go when she started the SUV.

  We took out of there without talking about what our next move should be. It was dark, just past midnight. My petite companion got us on a network of backroads that seemed to go through nothing but pastures and plowed farmer's fields. I wasn't even sure if we were going south or north, east, or west.

  "We need to go to Denver."

  She glanced at me, her eyebrows cocked a little. "Denver?"

  "There are people there I trust."

  "Cheyenne's closer."

  I shook my head, adjusting my position on the seat to ease the pain in my hip. "We don't know how deep this goes. Someone very clearly tipped those people off. They weren't just waiting for us. They knew exactly what our plan was. They were set up to deflect our exact actions. Someone close to your bosses or mine is tipping them off."

  "It could have been the FBI. It was the FBI before."

  "Could have been. But we don't know, so we can't go to Cheyenne."

  "I need to call my boss, let them know where I am."

  "Are you not listening to me?" I leaned over the space between us so that there could be no missing what I had to say. "They knew our exact plan, down to the minute changes we made on the way over to the target building. Someone tipped them off, someone who was involved in the planning. That is only a handful of people, including your bosses."

  "Sutherland hasn't been in the business long enough to do something like that. And this is a personal thing for Ash."

  I nodded, my thoughts drifting to things that I didn't have the time to worry about just now. And then I wondered if I should tell her about Ash. I saw them take him. I saw them with a gun to his head, saw them walk him out of that building. There were others, too, but it was Ashford Grayson I recognized. I wasn't surprised, to be honest. The moment I realized what was going on, I knew what they were up to.

  Ashford Grayson had been an enemy of the Mahoneys for a long time.

  "What about the others? David Grayson? Kirkland Parish?"

  She shook her head. "From what I understand, they've all worked together for years and years. Some of them go back fifteen or twenty years, back to when they were all in the military together. Even Sutherland... her husband was in the Green Berets with Ash, Hank, and Kipling McKay."

  I'd known that, but it was still an interesting tidbit, something that explained the looks and the touches I'd observed that day at Gray Wolf's offices.

  It had been my job to observe everything about the people around me. It was a little surprising how much you could learn about a person by the way he or she interacts with other people, the way they speak, where their eyes go while they're speaking. It's a habit I've never been able to break, and it still served me well in my work for the Casper Police Department even though it was hardly the adrenaline rush the DEA had been.

  "We don't know who we can trust. Until we figure that out, we have to stay solo and we have to get as far from the Mahoneys as possible."

  "But my bosses are probably thinking were dead or kidnapped or something by now."

  "Probably."

  "That doesn't bother you?" She glanced at me. "Don't you have anyone worrying about you right now?"

  That question—and its many variations—always annoyed me. People made assumptions about a person without asking and when you contradicted those assumptions with the truth, they resented you. I'd learned a long time ago to keep my answers short and sweet.

  "No."

  She glanced at me, her blue eyes almost glowing in the dark. "No wife or ex-wife? No girlfriend, or buddy, or whatever?"

  I shook my head. "No one."

  "That's sad."

  "What about you? You got a boyfriend somewhere, worrying over you?"

  She was quiet for a moment, her hands working at the steering wheel like she was wrestling with something. Then she sighed, relaxing a little, clearly having come to a conclusion.

  "I've always liked a man in uniform. I joined the Marines, naïve enough to believe that I'd find some good guy to settle down and marry. I had my life all planned out, this perfect fairy tale. My mom called me stupid, said I was going to get myself killed for a fantasy."

  "You obviously didn't."

  "No."

  "But you didn't get your fairy tale, either?"

  "Oh, that I did get. It was beautiful. Absolutely perfect. He was everything I'd dreamed of, the perfect guy, the perfect situation. We were engaged and ready to go off into the sunset. I was going to finish out my contract and get a discharge. He was in for life, planning on a career. It was everything I'd wanted."

  "And then?"

  "He was killed in Afghanistan. A sniper."

  I nodded. It was a story I'd heard before. It was sad how many of those stories there were out there in this modern world. We didn't learn enough from Korea or Vietnam, we had to go do it again in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  "You in the military?" she asked.

  "Briefly. I was Army."

  "You, and Ash, and Sutherland."

  "I heard Ash worked with the CIA for a time, too."

  She shrugged. "I don't know a lot about him, just what I learned from some internet research when I was applying for this job. But that's what they say."

  I wondered why they didn't recruit him to their ranks, but then I knew his father was a politician. That might have had something to do with it. And then he left the service after his girl—his CIA partner—went missing. Maybe they had, but his heart wasn't in it.

  We drove in silence for a while. I was thinking through everything I knew about the Mahoneys. Jack Mahoney was the current big boss. The cartel had begun as his father's pet project, but the old man handed over the reins some twenty years ago. Jack was the one who expanded the business into other states, the one who took them into the big time. Daddy had let other groups handle the more dangerous stuff, working with the Russians, the Irish, and others. Jack took the control back, deciding they could no longer trust those other groups. It was a little at a time sort of thing that kept the others from noticing what he was doing, but with the end of the Bazarov Cartel in Santa Monica, the Mahoneys severed their final connection to the Russians. They still had contracts with other Irish gangs, including the Callahans in Boston, but that was more to ease territorial disputes than anything else.

  Jack was a sharp business man, a cool character who frightened most of the people who'd ever set eyes on him. But few had set eyes on him. He liked to run things from his tower, sending his minions to do his bidding. That's what made this whole Wyoming thing curious. Rumor was, Jack himself was out here, running things. And rumor said he wasn't happy with the way things were progressing.

  What happened this morning was Jack's doing. It suggested that someone close to Jack had managed to get equally close to Ashford Grayson. Ash was the beginning and the end of this operation. He was the one who made all the decisions, the one who delegated responsibilities, the only one who knew the final plan in its entirety as we walked into that building. Someone close to him had turned on him, walking him into his own kidnapping.

  Because that had to be what this was all about. Jack Mahoney wanted Ashford Grayson and he wanted him alive.

  But why?

  That was a question I couldn't answer.

  Chapter 8

  Ryan

  We drove until nearly dawn. He slept off and on, his snores low and reassuring. I glanced at him from time to time, wondering what he was thinking about in the long moments he was a
wake, staring out the windows pensively.

  I was worried about his wounds, worried that they would get infective and render him useless should we find ourselves in a tight spot. He was clearly in pain, his movements calculated, even just the slight movement to adjust his position on the seat. He'd mentioned a vet we could visit to get the stitches replaced, but he hadn't said a think about it since we left the motel.

  I pulled the SUV into a gas station a few hours north of Denver. The detective—Clint, I supposed I should call him Clint now that we'd slept together—sat up, wincing as the movement jostled his wounds.

  "You should let me look at that. Change the bandages."

  "It's fine."

  He climbed out of the SUV, moving gingerly, but not as calculatingly as he had before. Clearly he was trying to prove a point, but I wasn't impressed. I walked around the massive vehicle and pulled a credit card out of my back pocket.

  Clint grabbed my wrist.

  "You can't use that!"

  "It's under the same false name as the ID."

  He frowned. "You really shouldn't be telling me these things. I am a cop still."

  "Then don't ask."

  He made a face, but he didn't argue any more. Instead, he gestured toward the small convenience store connected to the gas station.

  "I'm going to go find something to eat. Want anything?"

  "Some powdered donuts?"

  He made face, but nodded. I watched him go inside, watched the slight hitch to his movements. If I didn't know, though, I didn't suppose I would have known. He walked like a man who'd had a long night, nothing more, nothing less.