Busted (Barnes Brothers #3)

by Shiloh Walker

  “Breakfast, right?” She glanced at her friends, saw the speculative glance in Lynnette’s eyes, saw Ellie opening her mouth—then wincing. Probably because Tori had just kicked her under the table.

  “Breakfast!” Tori smiled. “You’re buying, remember. You owe us.”

  Ressa bit back a groan and then nodded at the group in general, before turning on her heel.

  She had a bottle of wine in her room. Ellie had brought it when she drove in from Albuquerque—her friend hated to fly and drove everywhere.

  Ressa was going to crack that baby open and drink the whole—

  “That was smooth.”

  She practically came right out of her skin. Whirling around, she glared at Trey. He stood less than two feet away.

  “You . . .” Heaving out a breath, she pressed a hand to her racing heart and then looked past him into the hotel restaurant. Max had settled into her seat and Baron was shouldering his way deeper into the crush.

  Nobody looked their way. At all.

  “Mr. Barnes—”

  “It’s Trey,” he said, his voice mild.

  Narrowing her eyes, she continued to speak. “Unless you needed something, I’d like to go on up to my room. My panel is at eight thirty in the morning. I don’t know who thought that was a good idea, but I need some sleep if I’m going to be functional.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “I just wanted to tell you thanks for the coffee.”

  As he cut around her, she reached up and pressed her fingers to her temples. “You are a very frustrating man, you know that?”

  She watched as he turned around, still walking, backward. “So I’ve been told. You didn’t need to apologize. You didn’t know. We’ll just chalk it all up to an . . . awkward experience.”

  Then he headed off down the hall.

  She should have just let it go.

  Just let it go at that. Really.

  “Oh, it’s been an experience. Not really the kind I was shooting for, but yeah. It’s been an experience.”

  This time, when he turned around, he didn’t keep walking backward. Instead, he moved toward her, his steps slow, his eyes thoughtful. “Yeah? Exactly what sort of experience were you shooting for?”

  Ressa thought about the ring he’d worn, the one he’d taken off and how he’d stumbled and fumbled through trying to explain it.

  She thought of the storm of emotion that had been in his voice, in his eyes. It wasn’t just grief—there was a storm of emotion that she couldn’t even begin to understand.

  Then she thought about the faint smile that tugged at his lips, that heat she’d seen in his gaze.

  Don’t. Just don’t—her common sense screamed.

  “I’ve got wine in my room. I was going to drink the whole bottle. Want to save me from myself?”

  “I don’t drink much these days,” he said softly. Then he blew out a breath. The words were laden with things unsaid. Then he shrugged. “But I can maybe keep you company.”

  Chapter Ten

  It took almost twenty minutes to get to her room, thanks to the crush at the elevators. During that twenty minutes, Trey waited for the voice of reason to ruin things.

  Waited for that awkwardness that had accompanied the last three dates.

  Waited for his gut to start to churn at the thought of sitting down over a drink—it did, every time. He dealt with it, smiled through it and handled the headache after.

  Waited for a rush of guilt, for the elevator to get stuck, an earthquake, a meteor strike . . . anything that would signify this was just a bad, awful idea.

  But with each minute that passed, he just wanted to be in her room—at this point, any room would do, so long as he had some privacy—because he was dying to touch her.

  He didn’t know exactly what she was offering.

  Part of him thought he did, and he was almost certain he was right, but Trey was a realist. He was also more likely to believe in the negative with some things, because it was easier that way. Disappointment sucked.

  He was also fully aware that more than likely, even if she was interested in . . . anything, this was the most likely scenario—if she touched him, his brain was going to screw everything up and then he’d look like a basket case in front of a woman he wanted more than he wanted his next breath of air.

  His hands were shaking.

  To hide it, he shoved them into his back pockets as they waited for their turn to shuffle onto the elevator. Finally, they managed to wedge themselves in and then more people wedged themselves in after that. Trey found himself so close, he could have turned his head and he’d be able to bury his face in her hair. Soft, wild twists of curls . . . what would she do—

  “Oh! Sorry!” There was a giggle, a squeal . . . and then like a bunch of dominos, people half fell, half crashed into others as the woman in the front continued to giggle. “Oopsie! Too marny—ah, too many marnis—too many martinis!”

  A couple of snorts, a couple of snickers and more than a few curses. Trey barely heard any of them. Ressa had ended up crushed against his chest and he was pinned to the wall. Her hip was pressed snug to his crotch and even as he tried to ease her away, her gaze shifted, lifted . . .

  His cock started to pulse, throb.

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

  Her hand fisted in the material of his shirt as she licked the full, ripe curve of her lower lip. If he didn’t at least taste that mouth—

  The elevator dinged and bodies spilled out. As the person next to them escaped the press, Ressa eased back. Dusky color rode along her cheekbones as she slid her eyes up to meet his.

  Tearing his gaze away, he looked at the lights flickering above the elevator door.

  It hit her floor and as she turned away, she slid her hand down, caught his.

  Sweat beaded at the nape of his neck and he had one brief moment of lucidity.

  Trey Barnes was a man who liked order. He liked to be in control.

  But he had absolutely no idea what in the hell he was doing.

  And he was absolutely fine with that.

  * * *

  Her heart was still racing.

  Despite the fact that they’d been packed into that elevator like sardines in a can, for one brief moment, it had just been the two of them. Voices had faded away. The press of too many bodies and a woman’s drunken laugh. Everything faded.

  The only press she’d felt was his . . . the press of his body to hers, his arm under her breasts as he steadied her, his cock against her hip, pulsing in a way that had her core tightening in response.

  The only voice she’d heard had been an internal one that whispered, I need to touch him. So bad. I need . . .

  Now, as she swiped her key through the card reader, her hands were sweating, almost shaking.

  And the damn key card wouldn’t work.

  “Figures,” she whispered, her voice hitching.

  A warm hand came around, took the key. “Let me see,” he murmured, his voice way too close to her ear.

  Eyes closed, she stood there, struck dumb from the want ravaging inside her. The door clicked and she opened her eyes as he came around her to turn the handle, push it open. Then he turned his head, stared at her.

  Waiting. On her, she knew.

  Do or die, she thought, a little desperately.

  Kind of extreme, maybe. But it felt apt. Because in that moment, she knew if she didn’t take him inside . . . and then just take him—let them take each other—some little piece inside of her would feel like it had died.

  She slid past him, brushing up against his body as she did so. She felt his ragged intake of air and that hot, hungry need inside trembled, swelled.

  She didn’t turn on the light.

  As the door clicked shut behind her, she kicked off the spike heels and then turned to look at him.

  Abruptly, a line from the book Lynnette had been reading danced through her mind.

  With need and want a vicious tangle . . .

  Yes, this was a tan
gle, one that was entirely too twisted, considering how short a time she’d known him. Hours, really. Just a handful of hours when you added it all up.

  None of that mattered.

  She moved toward him.

  He met her halfway and as his arms came around her, everything inside her breathed out a sigh of delight . . . even as the need inside her demanded for more.

  * * *

  The curls he tangled around his hand were every bit as wild, as soft, as crazy as he’d thought they’d be.

  And her mouth was pure, silken sin.

  Spinning her around, he pressed her to the wall and caught her hips in his hands, boosted her up. Her dress caught, stopped him from spreading her open and he snarled, shoved it up—only to stop, sanity trying to intrude.

  You should pull back. Pull back now before this just goes to hell—

  Pull back?

  Ressa hooked one leg around his and rolled her hips.

  Rolled her hips against him and his cock throbbed, pulsated behind the barrier of his jeans. Desperate, he shoved the skirt of her dress the rest of the way up and cupped the lush curve of her hips, fingers digging into the silken flesh. With a groan, she wrapped her legs around his hips and started to rock, rubbing herself up and down.

  His eyes all but rolled into the back of his head.

  She was already wet—he could feel her, through something silky and thin.

  Tearing his mouth from hers, he braced one hand on the wall, eased back.

  Ressa continued to roll her hips against his and he could hear the shuddery, shaking breaths as they escaped, felt his own echo within his chest as he looked down. He was still completely dressed. So was she—but her dress had been pushed up to her waist and a pair of panties painted a murder-red swath across her hips.

  And still she moved against him, like that contact was vital.

  To him, it was.

  But . . .

  But . . . that voice of reason demanded to be heard now. You can’t do this. You know better. You have to be in control, more in control. You have to be careful.

  “Ressa.” Her name was a ragged, broken whisper.

  She reached up. “I’ve got something in my bag,” she said softly. “I’m healthy. Haven’t been with anybody in two years. You’ll use a rubber, though.”

  Easy, practical . . .

  The voice of reason went silent, soothed.

  She stroked her hand down his chest and his body leaped, all but ready to lunge and pounce and take. He kept waiting for something else—for his body to freeze up on him like it had the last time he’d tried to so much as kiss a woman.

  “Trey . . .” She leaned in, pressed her mouth to his neck.

  Fuck this. Trey pushed away from the wall and turned, half stumbling toward the bed.

  If it all fell apart, well, he might as well enjoy it as much as he could before then.

  He bumped into something on the way to her bed, swore. Did it again and then swore again, tearing his mouth away from hers only to have her catch his head and try to draw him back. Three boxes, a suitcase and a desk the size of a postage stamp turned the room into an obstacle course. Shifting his grip on her, he edged around the desk, a box—her teeth caught his ear. “You’re taking too long.”

  He grunted as he reached the bed, slowly lowering her to her feet. “Sorry.” Holding her eyes, he reached down, catching the material bunched around her waist, dragging it up. “Can we do away with this?”

  “Let’s.” She turned, presenting her back and sweeping her hair out of the way.

  Catching the tab of the zipper, he dragged it down, watched as the material spread open. Lust slammed into him as flesh was revealed. The band of her bra, the same bright murder red she’d slicked across her lips, interrupted the smooth skin of her back. But that wasn’t the only color.

  Flames.

  Twining around elegant, scrolled print. It started at her nape and ran down the line of her spine.

  Desperate to see more of her, he shoved the material down over her arms. It caught at her waist, bunched there and he shoved it lower until it hung over her hips. She went to wiggle out of it but he caught her waist, eyes locked on the tattoo. And despite how his cock was throbbing, despite the need that had his hands all but shaking, he found himself smiling, almost charmed.

  “‘You are who you choose to be,’” he murmured, running his finger down the script, the flames that danced all around it.

  “Now if you don’t recognize that quote, I think we’re gonna have to call this whole thing off, baby.”

  He went to his knees, intrigued by the bit of color he could just barely make out under the material that tangled at her hips. “Please.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to her spine. “Give me some credit.”

  Her breath caught as he smoothed the dress down, leaving her clad in scraps of lace and silk. It was a picture that would leave him with fantasy material for a good, long time, he mused. Then he smiled even wider, leaning in to press a kiss to the little figure tattoo at the very base of her spine. Whoever had done it had been good—the robot was no more than a few inches, but it had some of the finest detail he’d ever seen, and while he wasn’t as big into ink as some, he figured he knew talent when he saw it.

  “The Iron Giant.” He rose, sliding his hands around, pulling her back against him. “Favorite movie?”

  She laughed easily. “Oh, I like it well enough. But that line stuck with me. Decided maybe I’d keep it with me as a reminder.”

  “Hmmm . . .” He slid one hand up, up, up until he could trace his finger over the triquetra inked onto her chest, dipping low between her breasts. He wanted to turn her around, press his mouth just there—where the softly rounded point disappeared between those lush curves. His cock pulsed and she reached back, cupping his hips in her hands, tugging him closer.

  No. He better not do just anything yet—

  Control. Find some control first.

  Voice raw, he reached around and trailed his fingers over the tattoo where it ran between the valley of her breasts. “This one?”

  “My first one.” Something of humor touched her voice and he slid her a look. She angled her head back, met his eyes. “I was feeling all wise and philosophical. Read that it had something to do with beginnings and endings and how they were all connected. Part of me wanted to get something that signified a slamming door—as in kiss my ass—but then I got to thinking about how I needed to remember how something ended, so I wouldn’t go back there. It’s all connected.”

  That humor faded, and fast. Because he didn’t want whatever had moved through her mind to come between them, he leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “I’ve got to tell you—whatever it means, why ever you did it . . . it’s sexy as hell.”

  * * *

  His voice stroked all over her skin, almost like he’d run his hands along her body instead of that light brush across the tattoo. She wanted him running his hands along her body.

  And she wanted him naked.

  Wiggling around until she faced him, she reached up and toyed with the top button of his shirt. “What about you?” She lifted a brow. Her mind went hot and hazy as she remembered the day she’d seen him running—and she knew it had been him, but she wasn’t about to point out how she’d all but drooled over the quick look she’d gotten as he pounded the pavement outside her library. “You got any ink?”

  “I guess you’ll have to find out.” He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her upper chest, right at her collarbone.

  “Going to make me work, huh?” Ressa gasped as he flicked the skin with his tongue, felt her pulse kick up when he nibbled his way up her neck. “I’m good with that.”

  He straightened, staring down at her, his gaze hot, raw, and so intense, it threatened to steal her breath. She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, taking her time as she moved down and took care of the second, then the third button. Unable to resist any longer, she smoothed one hand past the cotton of his skirt and laid it flat aga
inst his chest. Skin, warm and firm, met her hand, and when she scraped her nails over his flesh, a rough noise escaped him.

  She caught his lower lip between her teeth and tugged.

  His hand twisted in her hair when she would have pulled back. “Come back here,” he said, and his voice was rougher now, lower.

  Her nipples drew into tight, hard points just at the sound. When he stroked his tongue across her lower lip, then dipped inside her mouth, she felt her toes curling.

  Enough with taking her time. She finished the rest of the buttons in a rush, but instead of shoving the shirt off his shoulders, she curled her arms around him and pressed herself tight against him.

  He responded to that by falling backward on the bed, taking her with him. Delight whispered through her and she automatically shifted, placing one knee on either side of his hips and undulating against him. The length of him, the heat, the way she could feel him pulsing inside his jeans—something liquid and fiery spread through her veins, coalescing between her thighs.

  Dying to have him inside her, she sat up and shoved at his shirt. Strong, hard lines, toned muscle. He was lean, skin stretching over firm muscles, his belly flat with a ribbon of hair running down to disappear behind his jeans, but his chest appeared to be bare of any tattoos. “Hmmm. No ink here,” she murmured.

  “Maybe you’re just not looking.” He came up onto his elbows, a grin crooking his lips, and then he cocked his head as her fingers danced along the line of his abdomen.

  Arching a brow, she shifted her attention down. Black ink, something rounded, peeked above the waistband of his jeans, situated just above his hipbone. “Well, now. I need to take a look.”

  “By all means.” His voice was steady, but as she unbuttoned his jeans, she heard his breath skip.