Nauti Temptress (Nauti Girls)

by Lora Leigh

  He rubbed at the back of his neck again as he turned and followed Timothy up the hall to John Walker’s office. Once Timothy closed the door behind him, Dawg leaned against it, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at the former—he was doubting the resignation story now—Homeland Security special agent and the supposedly unassuming bar manager.

  There was too much going on here, he thought.

  Suddenly Timothy was lurking in the back offices of Walker’s Run, no doubt because that was one of the only two rooms in the lower levels where the security cameras could be viewed.

  When Timothy had texted earlier to meet him there, Dawg had assumed they were meeting in the actual bar, not hiding in the back. And that made sense only if Timothy was conducting an operation.

  “What are you up to, you little fucker?” Dawg growled.

  Timothy grinned at the insult as though it were a compliment.

  Little bastard.

  At least he didn’t look like a reject from the CIA anymore. His clothes were actually pressed, his hair combed. And he did smile more now than he had before Mercedes and the girls came into his life. Though Dawg admitted that the thought of Timothy Cranston with then svelte, model-beautiful Mercedes Mackay was just freaky.

  “Why do I always have to be up to something?” Timothy asked.

  “The last time I asked you that question you called me a suspicious little bastard who needed to go home and get fucked so I wouldn’t be so paranoid,” Dawg pointed out thoughtfully.

  Timothy grimaced good-naturedly.

  “Do I have to ask again, or send you home to your girlfriend minus some very important equipment?”

  Timothy chuckled at that. “You are too paranoid, Dawg. Even your cousins tell you that.”

  They did.

  “That doesn’t mean you’re not up to something,” he pointed out. “Now, tell me what Brogan Campbell has to do with whatever the hell you’re up to, and how do I keep him away from my sister?”

  Timothy sighed, then leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him.

  “Dawg, do you really think it’s possible for your sister to be interested in a traitor? Doesn’t that go against the Mackay DNA or something?”

  “Are you saying he’s not a traitor?”

  Timothy’s eyes widened innocently.

  “Innocent” and “Timothy” in the same sentence was damned terrifying.

  “How the hell would I know,” Timothy protested. “I just thought that, knowing Eve’s intuition about people is pretty damned good, it seems funny she could be fooled by a man betraying his country, that’s all.”

  “That’s all, huh?”

  Timothy nodded with apparent honesty. “That’s all.” He held his hands out in a gesture of sincerity.

  Sincerity and Timothy?

  Had he just entered the fucking Twilight Zone?

  “You’re pulling an op again and you’re allowing Eve to be dragged straight into the middle of it. Now tell me what the fuck is going on,” Dawg demanded.

  “You’re asking the same questions I am, Dawg,” Timothy admitted. “Who Brogan Campbell really is, and what the hell is going on. What I am fairly certain of, based on the fact that he’s lived in the same house I do for the past two and a half years, is that he’s no traitor. And I’m fairly certain he’s not going to wait much longer before Eve’s little heart is torn in two between you and the only man I’ve seen her interested in since she came here.”

  Dawg straightened from his position against the door, stalked to the desk, and flattened his hands on the top of it as he leaned forward. “He will get her killed, Timothy. How do you think your lover, her mother, will feel when she finds out you let her walk smack into the middle of this and didn’t tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Timothy shrugged. “If I knew what was going on, I would of course tell her first. That’s her daughter, and Mercedes has an amazing capacity to not just love her children, but also to accept the choices they make.”

  “Even if one of those choices gets them killed?” Dawg growled.

  “That’s what we’re for.” Timothy sighed then. “To keep that from happening.” His smile was tinged with acceptance and resignation. “Isn’t that what loving them is all about, Dawg? Letting them find out who they are, and doing all we can to protect them as they do?”

  “Fuck me.” Dawg growled in resignation as he moved back and let himself fall into the chair behind him. “Just let me kill Campbell myself. That would be so much easier.”

  “Can your conscience handle it, then?” Timothy asked.

  “Natches’s can,” Dawg suggested. And he was certain it could.

  “No doubt,” Timothy agreed. “But we’ll be the ones who will know the truth as she cries. As she haunts the house and wonders what could have been. Is that what we want?”

  “She’ll be alive,” Dawg pointed out logically.

  “Will she? Are you sure about that?”

  Dawg’s lips thinned.

  “Would you have been, if something had happened to Christa in that first week after she returned to Somerset?”

  No, he wouldn’t have been, Dawg admitted. He would have been a dead man walking.

  Rising from the chair, he stared down at the Homeland Security agent. “You know what the hell is going on.” Dawg was damned certain of it. “If anything happens to her, I’ll know whom to discuss it with.”

  “All we can do is pray, Dawg,” Timothy said heavily, the fact that he was worried about her clear in his voice as well as his expression.

  Dawg would definitely pray.

  His uncle Ray used to tell him, Rowdy, and Natches that praying was good, but God liked to help those who helped themselves.

  It was time to back up those prayers with a little old-fashioned action.

  Mackay style.

  Turning, he stomped from the office without waiting for a reply or an argument. Neither would do any good.

  She was his sister.

  He hadn’t been able to protect her as she was growing up, and he hadn’t been able to ensure that her life was lived with at least a measure of security.

  He was making up for lost time, and he’d be damned if he would let Brogan Campbell or Timothy Cranston fuck that up.

  * * *

  She should have known he would show up at some point.

  On second thought, she had known he would show up. She’d actually expected to see him when she’d arrived home.

  Stepping from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, she closed the door slowly and stared across the room to where he was sprawled in the easy chair sitting next to the patio door.

  As she leaned back against the door, he rose slowly to his feet, the blue-gray of his gaze gleaming in the low light burning next to the chair.

  He’d obviously had a shower himself. The jeans he’d worn earlier that night had been exchanged for a lighter pair, the white shirt for a short-sleeved lightweight denim, though the boots were absent entirely, his feet bare. And he still looked far too sexy and far too dressed.

  And she was far too underdressed in the large towel she’d wrapped around her body. A body that was becoming far too sensitive as the adrenaline still simmering in her system began to come to a rapid boil.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered, fighting the pulsing arousal she had yet to cool.

  “I wanted to make certain you were okay.” Rising to his feet—her heart began to race furiously—he stalked slowly toward her.

  “I’m fine; you can leave now.” She really needed him to leave now. Now, before she made the ultimate mistake of jumping his bones.

  His lips tilted in a beginning curve of a smile.

  “Are you scared, little rabbit?” The amused rasp of his voice sent heat racing through her lower stomach to clench deep inside her womb.

  As he came closer, Eve found her grip tightening the towel where it was tucked above her breasts, gripping it with desperate fingers. The heat afflicting he
r womb flushed her face before racing through her body as the velvet slide of her juices eased from her pussy.

  Hell, this wasn’t fair—to want him like this, to ache for a man so much, and to have his touch denied her.

  He paused in front of her, his hand lifted, the back of his fingers glancing across the tenderness of her cheek.

  “It makes me sick, knowing your pretty face has been bruised because of me. Sandi would have never targeted you if she hadn’t been aware of my interest.” His eyes moved over her face, intent, filled with purpose and regret. “I promise you, though, I’ll make sure you never have to worry about Sandi or anyone she knows, ever again.”

  Shrugging nervously, her breasts rising and falling as she fought to breathe, Eve shook her head slightly. “She just thought she could clear the playing field,” she whispered.

  “Bullshit,” he growled, anger licking at his gaze. “She belongs to Donny, and no matter the rumors about their relationship, there are some rules in the touring club, just because so many couples are so often in such close quarters. One of those rules makes her off-limits to any member of the club as long as she and Donny are together, and she knows it. The rumors of her and Donny taking lovers outside their relationship has never been true that I’m aware of anyway. Besides, she’s not the type of woman who draws me, Eve.”

  Nervous energy had her mouth drying out, her lips aching for moisture—for his kiss—her tongue peeking out to moisten them. Her breasts felt too tight and swollen, her breath catching as Brogan’s gaze latched onto the parting of her lips as she fought to draw in air.

  “So what type woman does draw you?” she found the breath to ask.

  “You draw me, Eve,” he answered immediately, his voice low, deep, as dark as sin and sex itself. “More than you know. More than I should have ever allowed.”

  His hand turned, cupped her cheek, then pushed his fingers into the hair at her temple, easing back until he could clench the heavy thick strands at the back of her head. The other hand gripped her hip, holding her still as Eve’s fingers clenched at the towel with a death grip.

  Because she knew what was coming.

  Staring up at him, she had plenty of time to say no.

  “I promised,” she breathed out on a sob instead, torn between this man and a hunger she couldn’t deny, and the brother who had saved her and her family’s lives. “I promised, Brogan.”

  Her breathing stalled.

  Icy fingers of sensation, internal ghostly caresses feathered over her body, preparing her for his touch.

  “What did you promise?” The cropped length of his beard brushed against her cheek, the feel of the closely clipped growth of his mustache rasping against the lobe of her ear as his lips caressed the upper curve. “Did you promise not to be a woman? Not to be hungry for my touch, Eve?”

  He brushed a kiss against her ear, moved lower until his lips caressed beneath her jaw, smoothing against skin so sensitive that the feel of his kiss sent tiny explosions of heightened pleasure rushing through her body.

  “Brogan . . . please . . .” But what she was begging for even she couldn’t say for certain.

  Was she begging for release?

  Was she begging for more of his touch?

  At this point—

  His head lifted, his nose rubbing against hers in a gesture that smacked so heavily of affection that Eve was lost.

  It wasn’t love, but no one . . . no one had ever stared down at her with such hunger in his eyes, such gentleness in his smile, and touched her with such easy affection.

  The woman she was couldn’t help but reach out for him as the sensualist, normally so well hidden inside her, came out to play, to luxuriate in the added warmth of affection.

  When his head tilted, his lips slanting over hers, she had no choice but to accept the deep, stinging kisses and hungry licks. The hunger that raged inside her wasn’t for sex. It wasn’t just to relieve the lust that burned inside her.

  Burning need raged through her body. Equal parts sexual and emotional: the need for touch, for warmth, for that hidden quality that couldn’t be faked or practiced overwhelmed her control.

  Emotion.

  If not love, then affection.

  If not forever, then the hope that forever might happen.

  Loosening her grip on the towel, Eve slid her hands to his shoulders then behind his neck. One hand slid into the warmth of his hair while the other held tight to his shoulders.

  Weakness assailed her, stealing the strength from her knees, sapping the memory of her promise and the will to deny him.

  “Eve. Ah, baby,” he growled against her lips a second before he lifted her to him.

  His hips jerked into hers, the heavy ridge of his erection pressing firmly against the intimate mound between her thighs. The feel of the towel loosening from between her breasts brought only a second’s thought before it was pushed away.

  She would remember why she wasn’t supposed to let him touch her when the cold light of day burned away the sensual illusions he was weaving around her.

  For now—for this moment and this man—she needed just a little time, just a night to prove to herself that when morning did come, she would still be the woman she was now.

  Brogan’s kisses became deeper, more drugging, filling her with such a sense of overriding hunger that nothing mattered but his touch and touching him.

  Her hands slid to his broad chest, her fingers shaking, clenching in the material of his shirt. Sensual, sexual intoxication dragged her deeper into the chaotic needs rising inside her, refusing to allow her to think or to control the hunger raging through her.

  The feel of Brogan’s hand sliding along the naked skin of her hip, caressing its way higher until it rested just beneath her breast, was like pouring an accelerant on the fires already raging out of control inside her.

  Her fingers unclenched, trembling; she was desperate to touch him. Struggling with the buttons of his shirt, her hips shifted against his, the ache between her thighs building.

  The heavy erection pressing against her had her body reacting with feminine demand, with a need to feel him hot and naked against her, taking her, driving into her with the power and fierce heat she could feel throbbing beneath his jeans.

  As the last button slipped free, she pushed at the material, forcing it over his shoulders and whimpering beneath his kiss when the garment would go no farther.

  A second later his hands cupped her rear and then turned and strode the few feet to the bed. His kiss never paused; the hunger raging through it never dimmed. When her back met the mattress his head lifted, forcing her eyes to open, her hands to tighten around his neck to bring him back to her.

  He wasn’t leaving her, as she had feared.

  His lips traveled instead to her jawline, then beneath it, moving down the column of her neck as it arched back, an agony of pleasure attacking her senses as his teeth raked against her flesh. His tongue licked and stroked, playing with her nerve endings and sending sensations racing through them. His lips kissed, took fiery tastes of her skin at intervals, and moved lower with each kiss as she arched to him.

  Chaos clashed with the pleasure rising through her system as need burned through her senses. Lying naked beneath him, Eve was aware of every point of contact as the material of his jeans brushed against her thighs and hips. The rasp of chest hair brushed across her nipples, sensitizing them further.

  His hand was at her hip, holding her still as she tried to move beneath him; she was desperate for some point of contact against the swollen, aching bud of her clit.

  A whimper escaped her as her nails bit into his shoulders, the feel of his knee suddenly pressing between hers and driving the hard muscle of his thigh against her pussy dragged a startled cry from her lips.

  Her juices trickled from her vagina, saturating the folds beyond and spilling a heated layer of slick warmth along her clitoris as she rubbed herself against his thigh. The stimulation against the bundle of nerves sent shards of
sharpened sensation exploding to her womb. The driving need for more—more touch, more sensation—rose inside her with a burning force.

  Heat brushed against the curves of her breasts; the rasp of his beard rubbing against the tender skin sent her hands searching between their bodies and finding his belt.

  She wanted him naked. She wanted bare skin meeting bare skin from breast to ankle.

  His lips brushed against the outer curve of her breast, kissed it in passing, then eased higher, his tongue probing, licking, searching—

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Brogan.” She gasped, arching to him as his lips surrounded the tight, violently sensitive peak and sucked it into the heated depths of his mouth.

  Liquid flames surrounded it.

  The heated stroke of his tongue against the nerve endings gathered there sent pure ecstasy racing to her womb, her clit, exploding inside them and driving the need tearing through her higher.

  Eve tore his belt loose. Her fingers tugged at the metal buttons of his jeans. Pulling and tugging, she struggled with them until they were free, pushing aside the material before freezing in shock. A harsh moan escaped her as her hands found the long, broad length of his cock as it rose between his thighs. The flared crest was slightly damp, the shaft throbbing, pounding with the blood racing through the heavy veins just beneath the silken flesh that stretched tight over the iron strength.

  There were too many sensations.

  She felt a roughened heat against her nipple as he sucked at first one delicate tip, then the other. With thumb and forefinger he gripped the other peak, tugging and milking it with his fingers as electric forks of sensation slapped at her clit with each stroke.

  She fought to breathe. She fought to understand the force of the sensations whipping out of control and blazing through her senses, and couldn’t seem to do it.

  As his hand moved from her breast and slid down her waist, over her abdomen, then tucked between her thighs as his knee eased back, Eve knew she was doomed.

  Right here in this bed on this sultry summer night, she lost herself.

  And she wasn’t entirely certain she would be able to find herself once the pleasure was over.