Heat
Soldiers of Fortune: Book 1
Aubrey Irons
Five years ago, that cocky, egotistical a**hole played me like a fool and broke my heart.
Hudson Banks; the dominant, tattooed, womanizing, ex-Marine-turned-billionaire who runs God-knows-what at my late father’s company.
Oh, and he’s sexy as all f**k, and he damn well knows it.
He’s like a gasoline fire; a scorchingly hot disaster, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to get burned.
I’m on track to be the youngest New York State Senator ever elected; the bright, gutsy, good-girl media darling. Except my campaign funding just went dry, and it looks like the only solution is coming from the last person on Earth I’d ever want to take anything from. Oh, and it turns out bad-boy, tough-guy Hudson will be shadowing me 24/7 after he makes it clear that he’s in charge of “protecting the investment."”
Yeah, just perfect; a reckless, irresistible d*ck like Hudson Banks is the last person I need being “in charge” of anything to do with me.
Especially when I still can’t forget the taste of his lips or the feeling of that massive hardness I know he’s packing between his legs. It’s not fair that he’s even hotter now than he was back then. It’s not fair that those smoldering, arrogant eyes and that cocky, panty-melting grin still make me warm in places they shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not fair that five years later, I still can’t get him out of my head.
So it looks like I’ve got two races on my hands: the one for election, and the one against the burning heat threatening to tear us both apart. But on the sprint to the finish line, what happens when the man who has everything comes up against the one thing he can’t have?
Author’s Copyright
Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons
Cover Photo: FXQuadro/DepositPhoto
Cover Design: Aubrey Irons
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and all acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
“They’re fucking what?!” I almost drop the glass of champagne in my hand as I feel the floor practically drop out from beneath my feet. My campaign manager Donald’s face is impassive and steely - pretty much like it always is even in crisis meltdown situations like this - with his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing slightly like they do when he’s got news for me neither of us want to hear.
“They’re pulling out, Reagan; entirely.” I see him reach out of habit for the phantom pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that hasn’t been there for five years; the frown in his eyebrows deepening.
“All of it?”
He sticks a pen between his lips instead of his old vice and glowers at me; “Every damn penny.”
I swear fiercely under my breath, clenching my hand tight and digging my nails into my palm as the reality of the situation hits me like a wet blanket; “How fucked are we?”
Donald tenses his face; he hates when I swear, especially in public and especially in public when there are cameras everywhere. “Lower your voice, Reagan” He mutters through the pen in his teeth, looking at me like I’m an ill-behaved child in that way that drives me crazy. In the movie version of my life, Donald is the kind and sagely grandfatherly type who guides me along a path of adorable metaphors and teary-eyed life lessons to victory. In reality, he’s cold, calculating, and robotically efficient at keeping me in line with his battle plans. But then again, kindly grandfatherly types doling out anachronisms like they were candy don’t win elections; robots do.
“They were forty percent of our campaign.”
I can feel the breath leave my lungs as the room spins around me; my lips moving soundlessly as my brain searches for the words to possible use here. This simply can’t be happening; not after we’ve worked so freaking hard to get to where we are.
Donald glares at me as he furiously chews on his poor pen; “Maybe next time, you’ll stay on the damn speech I give you instead of going off on one of your ‘save the world’ tangents, Reagan. You know they’re going to jump down you throat for that kind of things because-” His phone beeps and he frowns, trailing off as he shakes his head and mutters at whatever’s just popped up, but I can pretty much take my pick of what he was going to say anyways: ‘Because I’m a girl,’ or ‘Because I’m the youngest person to ever run for the State Senate of New York,’ or my favorite, ‘Because I’m the daughter of the late William Archer; billionaire philanthropist-slash-arms-dealer, depending on who’s opinion you ask.’ To most people, I’m either the next great American Dream for politics, or a nut-job, which plays nicely to the split media opinion of eager-eyed media darling or poor little rich girl, depending on which new station you like to watch. I hang my head; running was one thing, but dropping out like this is going to be a news anchor joke for years.
“So this is it then? We’re done, just like that?” I can hear my voice from outside my body, my ears ringing and my jaw clenching in that way Donald always tells me not to do in front of cameras because it makes me look aggressive. I look down at the trembling glass of champagne in my hand, suddenly wishing it was the size of a movie-theater cup.
“What?” My campaign manager takes the mangled pen from his mouth and briefly wrinkles his face at it, as if just noticing how gross a habit it is. He looks up at me, a stony look on his face; “No of course not,” He snaps, a bit more condescendingly than I need right now; “We’ve been approached by another new donor who sees a lot of promise in our campaign.”
I feel myself exhale for the first time in what seems like an hour and start to shake my head; “Well Jesus, Donald, you scared the living-“
“Now, you aren’t going to like it, of course, but try to let go of personal baggage for once,” He interrupts me, his voice low as he glares at me; “Try to remember that this is about more than just you?”
Instantly, I narrow my eyes as suddenly every one of my gut instincts start to tingle at the look on his face and the tone in his voice; “Donald-” I start to shake my head, my jaw clenching as I feel the anger and the heat rising in my cheeks; “No, absolutely not! It’s not even an option!”
Even though we’re off in the corner of the big open gallery of the museum where we’ve been throwing the now seemingly-useless campaign fundraiser, people around us turn to stare at my outburst. Donald shushes me again as if I’m some child acting out; “It’s our only option, Reagan.” He huffs, “Look, we all get that you don’t want your Father’s company’s money, but it is the only move here.” Donald’s rolling his eyes at me in the obnoxiously patronizing way that makes my blood boil, and for the eight-hundredth time, I have to remind myself that he’s really good at this job, otherwise I’d have blown up in his face and told him where to stick it a month ago.
“Now, there’s a man here from Archer Holdings to meet with you, and he’d like to talk with you-”
“Ms. Archer, they need some shots with some of the museum trustees.” I’m still shaking my head furiously, my mouth open and closing like a fish out of water, when one of my staffers scurries over and starts to tug me by the ar
m; yanking me away from Donald before I can even come up with anything to say. I turn back to over my shoulder to yell something like ‘We’re not done talking about this,’ but they’re already pushing me in front of the wall of flashing lights and clicking cameras and back into the spotlight where I can’t look like I want so break something.
*****
By the time they’re done, my face is feeling sore from all the fake smiles, and my palms are slick from other people’s sweaty handshakes; the hazards of the campaign trail they never tell you about. I’m extricating myself from the stuffy museum board of directors and scanning the room for another glass of champagne when I hear it - his voice; the voice from my past and the voice I haven’t heard in five years; “Hey, Princess.”
I turn and he’s just there, standing in the flesh right in front of me. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I suddenly look up into the bluest, most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen, and then I feel my pulse actually skip a beat as I fully grasp the man they’re attached to. He’s even more gorgeous than he was back then, in that unbelievable, magazine-model way. His dark hair is slicked back to one side, and beneath those stunning eyes is a cocky grin stretched across a strong, chiseled jaw, marked on one side by just the faintest white line of a scar across his clean-shaved chin. He’s the same infuriatingly hot dichotomy he was five years ago; the perfectly tailored tuxedo and gleaming silver watch on his wrist screaming money, but the teasing glimpses of tattoo ink creeping out from beneath his French cuff sleeves or the neck of his linen shirt. His lips part as he grins at me; I know those lips.
Suddenly Donald is there, beaming at this stunningly good looking man as if he’s the one running for a Senate seat instead of me; “Ahh, good, you’ve met!”
I’d almost want to laugh if my body wasn’t suddenly froze in time where I stand. Yeah, we’ve met. I complete tune Donald out as I lock eyes with the brooding and handsome man grinning that goddamn smug smile at me that hasn’t changed a bit in five fucking years. He might be a little bit older and a little bit more polished looking now, but suddenly my body is remembering exactly how I know Hudson Banks. I know how his body feels pressed against mine, how his hands feel on the skin at the small of my back, and how his lips taste. This time, we’re sipping champagne at a $5,000 a ticket political fundraising event, instead of moaning into each other’s mouths as he grinds that hardness into my thigh, making my whole body melt for him.
It’s been five years since that night; five years since I was at my lowest - drunk, confused, and grieving. Five years since I completely embarrassed myself by dragging this man away from the crowds at my father’s wake and attacking him like some sort of hot mess, and five years since he pushed me away from him and suddenly walked out, leaving me utterly mortified and even worse than I was before.
And in five Goddamn years, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.
Donald is smiling benignly at me as he fawns over the smugly handsome man grinning that cocky smirk at me; “As I was saying, Mr. Banks, as you may know, works for your father’s comp-“
“We’ve met” I say it with an icy tone, trying to look everywhere else in the room but Hudson’s eyes; “And this isn’t happening, Donald.” I shake my head, my jaw set as I grind my teeth together. I’m furious, and of course embarrassed like I was that night all over again, and all I want to do is walk away from this entire horrible exchange right now.
“It is happening, Reagan.” Donald’s voice is firm and he shoots me a warning look; “This is happening or there is no campaign-“
“Then fine, there’s no campaign. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Donald.” I spit out.
“Well, nice to see you haven’t changed at all, Ray.” He says with a chuckle. He’s got that fucking smirk on his face, that cocky grin that I once found unbelievably attractive, and then I feel my face burn red as I realize I still do. He’s even more attractive now than he was back then; healthier, his eyes even sharper, those broad shoulders even stronger looking as they stretch the tuxedo just enough to show off. I’m remembering those shoulders now, and the way my hand felt hot against that hard, chiseled chest; his hands on my skin as I breathed and whimpered into his mouth.
My hand is shaking, and I grip the champagne flute tighter, willing it to stop. I do not get this way over guys, especially a prick who tried to take advantage of my grief; winding me up around his finger before shoving me away, quite literally. Hudson Banks is a fucking head-case; some ex-military jock who somehow found his way into my Father’s good graces and wound up running a whole division of his company. I shake my head again, suddenly realizing I actually would rather there not be a campaign than take my father’s money; especially if it’s coming from Hudson fucking Banks, however stupidly good looking and sexy he looks in that damn tuxedo with those piercing blue eyes the color of a stormy sea.
I’m dimly aware of Donald hissing at me as I shove the champagne flute into his hands and walk away, ignoring the cameras, the stuffy museum trustees, my campaign aides, and especially the hot asshole in the tuxedo, as I march right out through the museum foyer and out the door.
She storms out of the foyer and through the double glass doors into the museum courtyard, and I’m shaking my head and following her. Of course I’m following; like I’ve been following her for longer than she’s ever known and in spite of how damn bratty she gets. It’s cold out here in the open-air courtyard, and the city lights and sounds are only slightly muffled by the four walls of the museum around us.
She whirls on me with a look of fury on her face, her mouth open ready to spit fire and brimstone and vitriol at me like I know she is, when suddenly she’s slipping on the ice under her heeled feet. I move faster than my brain even knows how to; years of training and reflex just making the body move on its own accord I guess, and I’m catching her before my head even totally registers that she’s falling.
Fuck, she feels amazing in my arms. She’s come out here without a coat on in that classic hot-headed Reagan way, and as my arms go around her, I can feel the heat from her skin against my palms through the low-cut open part at the back of her dress. Her hands clutch at my jacket lapels, one seizing my arm as she gasp and tumbles right into my chest. I close my eyes for the briefest moments, smelling her perfume or shampoo, or whatever voodoo magic she’s using to bring my head completely to a stop as I just hold for a frozen moment in time.
You know, smelling her, like a totally normal person.
“Put me down,” Her voice is high and whispered, but she’s not fighting or struggling against me. I’m still frozen, feeling her hand against my chest and my shoulder like that; her hair in my face and her scent just enslaving me.
“Hudson!” She sounds more insistent this time, and now she’s pushing at my chest; “The last thing I need is some photographer snapping pictures of me canoodling with some hot prick in a tuxedo.”
I pull my face back to grin into hers; “So, five years later and you’re still thinking about my hot prick, huh?” I smirk at her, still relishing the feel of her in my arms, and doing everything I can, even if it’s obnoxious, to keep her there even a moment longer.
Reagan rolls her eyes; “Emphasis prick,” she huffs out, squirming out of my arms and stepping away from me.
“Hey, your words not mine, sweet stuff.” I wince inside, regretting saying it even before it leaves my mouth. Why the fuck can’t I just be normal around her? There’s something about the way she talks to me - the way she’s always talked to me - that brings out the fighter in me when all I want to do is be normal around her. Well, that’s of course not the only thing I want to do with her when I’m around her, but I let that thought simmer away for the time being. It doesn’t help that she’s sexy as hell standing here in the freezing cold with her red hair looking wild and fierce and wearing that ridiculously hot black dress with her nipples poking through. I can feel my cock stir in my pants, and I shake my head, trying to tear my eyes away from her perfect tits in th
at perfect dress with her perfect nipp-
“In your dreams, asshole.”
You have no fucking idea, babe I think inside, gritting my teeth and trying to will my erection to go away. Instead, like I always do with her, the snark comes out instead; “You know honey, Donald’s right about you.” I can see her bristling at the word honey and add that one to the list of probably slightly offensive names she clearly hates.
“What?”
“You do have a hell of a mouth on you.”
She smirks at me, all sass and sexiness; “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”
I groan inside, feeling my cock go rock-hard inside my tuxedo pants. I don’t know if she means for it to come out as innuendo-laden as it does, but before I can even think about it too hard, she whirls to march away from me and suddenly she’s slipping on the ice all over again. I lunge again, catching her once more before she falls.
“Stop touching me, Hudson!”
“Well stop fucking falling then!”
Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance Page 22