by Mara
Morganna stepped from the elevator, entering an opulent, richly designed sitting room the size of the lower floor of her house. A wide leather couch and matching chairs sat well back from a gas-lit fireplace. The opposite wall held a huge wall-mounted television.
The small dining room and kitchenette were open into the living room except for gleaming marble columns used as ceiling support. A wide hallway led to the bedrooms. Clint set the duffel bags he had carried from the car beside the couch and turned back to Jayne. "I'm carrying. Make sure your men are aware of that." Jayne grimaced. House policy was no weapons, period. The entrance and exits were equipped with advanced electronic sensors to help pick up any handguns being slipped into the club. "I assumed you were. Stay away from the en-trances and we'll be fine. I've already alerted my men. The bouncers on duty tonight were handpicked by me and are trustworthy. So we should be good to go." He nodded. "We'll be up momentarily." Jayne's lips twitched as Morganna rolled her eyes; the invitation to leave was clear.
"I'll see you upstairs then." Jayne nodded briskly as she turned back to the elevator.
Silence filled the room as she stepped into the elevator and the door slid shut. Clint turned to Morganna, his gaze brooding as he swept over her outfit. "I wouldn't start over the outfit again, Clint," she warned him softly, her eyes narrowing at the dangerous glint in his eyes.
He looked rakish, wicked with the new growth of beard that he hadn't shaven. His midnight blue eyes were dark, filling with lust and just a hint of danger as he advanced on her.
Morganna backed up warily.
"Do you think I'd hurt you?" His voice was a sensual rasp across her senses as she swallowed with difficulty.
Morganna shook her head slowly. "No. You would never strike me." There were other ways to hurt her. He could gain her cooperation with his touch, make her dress in a nun'* habit and enjoy it, until the haze of sexual pleasure wore off. He made her weak. He made her want to give in to him, made her wonder if that would hold him to her forever, even though she knew better.
"Then why are you backing away from me?" He continued to advance on her. She continued to move backward until she came up against one of the thick column supports.
She breathed, a quick, hard inhalation as he caught both wrists, gripping both in one hand as he pulled her arms over her head, holding them against the post.
"Do you know what that outfit does to me, Morganna?" he whispered.
"Pisses you off?" she guessed, fighting to tamp down the nervousness rising within her.
"It makes me very hard. Very horny. It makes me warn to prove to every moron looking at you exactly who you belong to."
"I belong to me, Clint." Oh man, God was gonna get her back for that lie.
"And that outfit proves it," he growled, his other hand gripping her hip, jerking her against his harder body as his knees dipped, driving his erection against the soft mound of her sex. "But baby, we both know the real truth."
His lips covered hers, but rather than the fierce, dominant kiss she expected, they sank into hers instead as a hungry growl left his throat.
Morganna felt her chest tighten painfully as his eyes grew heavy lidded but still stared deep into hers. His lips moved over hers, his tongue licking at her lips, his hips moving against her, stroking the suddenly swollen, throbbing bundle of nerves between the folds of her sex through the material of their clothes.
A whimper of longing, of emotion, left her lips at the exquisite pleasure, the sense of slow-building heat, overtaking her.
Clint owned her with this kiss, and she knew it. The soft rasp of his beard against her skin, the way his lips stroked hers, his tongue tangling with hers as his eyes held her gaze.
She strained against him, feeling her heart racing in her chest as her nerve endings sensitized, heated. The extreme tenderness of the kiss was like velvet, but beneath it was steel, fire-forged, dominant.
"When I get you back here," he whispered, "what's left of those clothes you're wearing will be peeled from your body, Morganna. Slowly. And then you're mine. While you're mine ..." He took small kisses from her, pulling at her lips,
making her moan at the threat of the deeper, darker passion she could feel just beneath the surface. "I'll show you what happens to bad little girls who run around half-dressed."
"Hmm, promise?" Her teeth caught his lips as he moved to pull back, seeing the flare of surprise, of possessive dominance, that flared in his eyes.
The primal growl that rumbled in his chest was her only warning before he stole the kiss from her. Catching her closer, releasing her hands as his fingers gripped her hair and pulled her head back for the deep mating thrust of his tongue into her mouth as his lips slanted over hers.
Oh yes. This was what she liked. A powerful, convulsive clench of her womb had her breath hitching as her hands tangled in his hair to hold him closer. The rasp of his beard, the corded power in his long, leanly muscled body, combined to overwhelm her senses.
"Enough." He pulled back, his breathing as harsh, as heavy, as her own. "You would tempt a saint." His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a grimace of pain-filled hunger that echoed in her body.
"Well... you're not a saint..." she panted. "Am I tempting you anyway?"
He groaned, a snort of laughter mixing with the sound as he laid his forehead against hers and stared back at her with heated need.
"Be careful up there," he whispered. "Reno would kick my ass if anything happened to you."
And how would he feel? She smiled, knowing, feeling the determination in him, the emotion, unspoken, undefined, but whipping from him like invisible waves of power.
"I'll keep you safe from Reno then," she promised softly "Come on, big boy; let's go fight some bad guys."
Chapter 25
THIS WASN'T GOING TO WORK. Clint could feel the blood rushing through his veins, pounding beneath his flesh. A fine film of sweat covered his skin, his sensitive skin. The heavy beat of the music was almost a physical caress as the waves of sound rushed around him. heavy with the singer's strident moans, her throaty, sexual cries of passion. Cries that reminded him of Morganna's. And as he listened, he watched.
She moved to the dance floor within the first half hour in the club, joining her friends Jenna and the dark-skinned young man, Sandy. Sandoval Mitchell was of South American descent, twenty-seven years old and a student at the university. He was a regular club-goer, though not an active part of the peripheral BDSM community.
At the moment, he was in danger of extinction. Honest to God, if he touched Morganna one more time, Clint swore he was going to rip Mitchell's hands off. Not that the other man had touched her in any way indecent. It was just the fact that he was touching her.
Touching bare skin displayed by that mockery of an outfit she wore, his eyes frankly admiring as they went over her. Of course, she had ignored Clint's request to stick close to his table as most of the women who had taken Doms as their lovers were doing.
The little witch had laughed at the order. She was there to dance, not to fetch his drinks, she had informed him.
The dance floor was the central attraction of the club. Here the submissives vying for a Dom, or to please one, danced with abandon. At least, Morganna danced with abandon. She danced like she made love, without reservation. And to this song it was the worst torture. "French Kiss." The song was pure sex. Morganna was pure carnal heat.
Her hands smoothed down her mostly naked thighs her head tipped back, her long hair caressing her bare hips as her hands came back up her thighs, caressing slowly across her midriff as her head rose, eyes slitting open, her gaze locked with his as her hands moved slowly, lifting until they clasped above her head as her body swayed.
The beat picked up, the moans and passionate cries echoing around him as her hips kept in time to the beat, moving side to side as her hair swept around her like a silken curtain
Perspiration glistened on her flesh; her eyes gleamed with purpose, with desire. She beckoned him wit
h her look, with the movements of her body. Sent shards of hunger to rip at his tortured cock as he shifted in his chair.
Damn her. Son of a bitch, he was going to tie her down and spank her bottom red. She had him ready for her now ready to pick her up, rip those next-to-nothing pants from her body, and fill her as deep and as hard as he could go.
When the song finally came to an end, he found himself breathing in deep, relief warring with driving lust. The song might have changed, but Morganna's energy hadn't Her love for the music was clear on her expressive face; her joy in the movement, in tempting him, making him crazy, was even more evident.
His fingers tightened around the drink sitting on the table before him as he lifted it to his lips and consumed the liquor he had ordered. Pure, raw Jack burned its way down his esophagus as he fought back the lust.
He was here to do a job, not to pant after that damned wild cat he couldn't seem to get enough of. He could barely keep the sweat of pure driving lust out of his eyes enough to do that.
Clint grimaced at the thought. He knew she was dangerous to his self-control and mental health years before. He'd had no idea how true that was until now.
"Clint, I hear you snagged our girl's apprenticeship." Timothy Wagner, the stocky Dom sitting across the table from him lifted his drink as though in congratulations. "There are a lot of jealous men watching tonight, my friend."
Clint let his lips quirk into a facsimile of an amused grin. Truth be told, he wanted to rip Wagner's face off.
"She's a joy on the dance floor," Timothy called out again, "Watching her is better than foreplay."
Better than foreplay? Clint stared back at Timothy broodingly before dragging his gaze back to Morganna. She had retreated farther within the circle of dancers, obviously talking with Jenna and the young man, Sandy, as they all danced. The other woman had a less sophisticated style of dance. More gyration than flow with an explicit grinding of hips that did little for Clint. Morganna was like water, though, all smooth moves and swaying desire.
His cock throbbed at the memory of holding her, possessing her, as she moved like that beneath him.
His gaze moved over the dance floor farther, eyes narrowed against the clash of light coming from the strobes and the haze of smoke slowly building from the cigarette smokers. Shade and Reese were within feet of her, dancing with several of the young women on the floor. It wasn't unusual to see a Dom dancing with the women, and Clint had to admit no one could have mistaken the two Rangers for less than full alphas.
There were a lot of new dancers, which wasn't unusual. He recognized Craig making his rounds as well as Joe as he lounged lazily against the far wall. Grant Samuels was missing, called home unexpectedly.
Clint continued to survey the club, coming back every few minutes to Morganna as he listened to the pulse of music and hollow voices in the receiver at his ear punctuated with the reports coming from the technician in the van that had accessed Drage's security cameras.
Morganna continued to dance, conversing as she moved, laughing, enjoying the freedom of movement. She was drifting farther into the crowd, which made him nervous.
"You can't take your eyes off her, Clint." Timothy's voice was smug, superior. "You're going to lose control of her at this rate."
As though anyone would ever have control of Morganna. There was no controlling her; he was learning that quickly.
"She'll do okay." He had refrained from commenting much due to the simple fact that Morganna wore the same receiver in her ear that he wore in his.
As the wave of the crowd moved around her, Clint kept his eyes on the top of her head, tensing as the dancers shifted as well. Jenna was moving farther and farther away from Morganna, as was Sandy. Clint couldn't glimpse the man dancing next to her now but had noticed the other man's fondness for her hair. He kept touching it. Kell and Ian were still close to her. Catching Kill's attention, Clint flicked his gaze deliberately on the stranger, indicating that they should stay close. Something about the man made Clint uncomfortable.
The two SEALs were on radio silence, unknown to Joe and his team. Which meant the mole couldn't mark then. Kell nodded imperceptibly before he and Ian began to move in, drawing the women dancing with them closer.
A short pulse of static at Clint's ear heralded the tech in the van.
"Boys and girls, we have an anomaly at the club's bad door. Do you have that, Drage?"
"We have it." Drage answered. "Jayne is heading there. It appears the security lock is being disengaged. Can you see anything?"
"Nada, too many shadows," the tech answered.
Clint's gaze jerked to the dance floor's exit leading to the private halls and the back door. Jayne Smith was gliding smoothly through the entranceway, her shoulders straight and tense as she headed for the area.
Timothy's voice droned in the background, Clint swung his gaze back to the dance floor. Once again Morganna had moved, and this time he had lost sight of her. Standing easily to his feet, he searched the floor, finally catching a glimpse of her on the far side with Ian and Kell moving in close synchronization with her and the stranger.
The stranger was making Clint damned nervous. He was too careful, keeping his face shadowed and out of Clint's range of vision. And he was too close to her. If it were any other woman, Clint would have felt a spurt of jealous anger. But he knew Morganna now, and he knew damned well she wouldn't allow another man to dance that closely with her.
"Who's the stranger?" Clint snapped out, moving along the edge of the dance floor.
"We can't get an ID. He's keeping himself shielded," Joe reported. "He reminds me of the bastard trying to slip that last girl the drug."
Which was exactly what Clint was thinking. "Craig, can you see anything?" he questioned, watching the taller forms of his men as they moved into combat mode. He knew the signs. Their bodies were tense, prepared, the subtle hand signals they sent back to him warning.
Morganna didn't appear to be dancing anymore; neither did the stranger. Dressed in heavy leather, a hat shielding his ice. the figure led her to the edge of the dance floor; coming c quickly on the rear was the young man Sandy.
Morganna, is everything okay?" Clint snapped the question, knowing the sensitive mic on the receiver would pick up his words.
There was no answer.
"Morganna, report."
"Her receiver is disabled," the tech suddenly reported. "We have no contact with her. I repeat, no contact." "Kell? Report." Radio silence be damned.
"We can't get a clear look at his face, but she's scared. We have them covered for now, but he has a hold on her upper arm. I think he's heading for the exit."
"Converge." Clint snapped the word into the receiver as he headed for the back door.
"Fuck! We have a security breach at the exit. Jayne is covering. The bastard just led Morganna into a blind zone, Clint I can't see her anymore." Drage's voice was dark with anger as Clint moved quickly along the side of the dance floor once again losing sight of Morganna.
The bastard had somehow tagged the cameras again. "Use camera backup, Drage; we have a problem on the floor," Clint snapped into the link.
"Backup is running, but the crowd is too thick," Drage retorted.
"She's being led to the exit at the far end of the floor Lyons." Clint spoke to the tech. "Can you pull the van around and check out the action there?" There was no answer. "Lyons, report," Joe snapped into the link. "I'm heading for the back door," Craig reported. "I have a bouncer heading there as well," Drage can back. "Clint, do you have a sighting yet?"
"Ian. Kell. Report." Clint pushed his way through the crowd, desperate to get to Morganna now.
"Fuck!" Kell's voice was low, furious. "The bastard has a gun on her, Clint. It's hidden between his body and hers and the grip on her arm is a tight one. This is going to get sticky."
"Who the hell is that, Clint?" Joe was snarling. "What the hell is going on?"
"Backup," Clint snarled. "Concentrate on Morganna. The bastard
who has hold of her is your mole, man, and since only one of your men is unaccounted for, want to bet who it is?"
Clint knew who it was.
"I have bouncers covering the door, and the outside can eras are showing action outside it."
As Drage spoke, the crowd began to surge mindlessly, Screams rose above the sound of the music as Clint jerked his revolver from the small of his back and rushed for the center of the disturbance and began to pray.
MORGANNA KNEW THE MINUTE GRANT Samuels danced up to her that something was wrong. For one thing, he wasn't wearing his trademark ball cap. But if that hadn't been a clue, the minute he reached out and quickly slipped the receiver from her ear, she had known she was in trouble.
The gun suddenly pressing into her side was a good indication as well.
"Clint isn't this stupid," she warned Grant desperately as he led her to the far side of the dance floor. "You know that, Grant."
This was Joe's mole, and the shock of it was nearly mindnumbing. At least it would have been mind-numbing if she wasn't so damned scared. Fear had a way of clearing the mind, and suddenly everything in Morganna's head was crystal clear.
"It doesn't matter now, Morganna." His voice was cold, unregretful. "They won't know it was me. That's all that matters. All I have to do is get you to the back door, and Fuentes' men will take over. No one will even know when or where you disappeared."
Oh yeah, she was just going to go peacefully here. She stared around her, catching Reese's gaze and the confidence in his face. He was aware of what was going on, covering her, but that gun in her side was pretty damned threatening. "Are you crazy?" She tugged at the painful hold Grant had on her arm. "Do you think Clint will just sit nice and still once he loses sight of me?" "He'll depend on Lyons' and Drage's camera abilities."