CROSSING THE LINE (RANGER SECURITY Book 5)

by Rhonda Russell

  Unfortunately he’d walked right out of that nightmare into one with a woman who seemed to be some sort of emotional astringent, and every minute he spent with her—every sexually satis­fying, curiously enjoyable second—he could feel himself losing ground, could feel everything he’d managed to keep locked down boiling up inside him.

  Skinny, scabbed knees, Spider-Man T-shirt and blood. So much blood...

  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and beat the images away, replacing them with her smiling face, the way she’d sunk her teeth into her bottom lip as he’d plunged into her, that little grin she’d worn when she’d smelled those flowers last night. Happy snapshots of memory, and he realized too late the significance that they were all of her.

  Shit.

  Presently they were sitting in another dingy back room in another tiny library, flipping a page at a time through the microfiche records. The little octogenarian in charge with a pack-a-day voice had let them know in no uncertain terms that she would close promptly at five and all records had to be returned to their proper place. She’d checked on them a few minutes ago and had told them that she was stepping out back to have a smoke. Big surprise there. They had fifteen minutes.

  Rhiannon closed the final file, returned it to its slot and sighed as her shoulders sagged.

  “Another dead end,” she said. “This is going to take forever.”

  “Not forever,” Tanner corrected. “But it is going to take time.”

  Frustration laced her tired voice. “Don’t you feel like we’re running out of that?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We’re actually making good progress, better than Theo, I’d wager. We will find him. I am certain of that.”

  “I wish I was as optimistic,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. The innocuous gesture smacked of familiarity and trust, things he wasn’t accustomed to feeling with a woman, and naturally, burned through him like a wildfire. He had tried to act like a professional today—he was working, after all—but it had been damned hard. All of him, he thought darkly.

  For what felt like the thousandth time today, he wondered if his “relationship,” for lack of a bet­ter term, with Rhiannon would get him fired. He wasn’t altogether sure that they’d sack him for it, but he could hardly blame them if they did. He sincerely doubted screwing around with someone directly involved in his first case—he resisted the pressing urge to snort—was considered good form. He’d intimated as much to Payne, though, and the man had still advised him to take her along. Of course, Payne probably thought he had enough sense of restraint and self-preservation to resist her.

  His gaze slid to her once more—the elfin face, that especially cute little nose and lush, pink mouth. His dick stirred, readying for sport.

  Clearly he did not.

  He turned and wrapped his arms around her, meaning to simply comfort her. That was all. He could control himself, he thought, even as her soft body melded against his as though it had been made especially for his arms.

  Comforting her worked for a moment, then he felt her lips on his throat and soothing her suddenly was no longer his primary objective.

  Getting into her again was.

  It was madness, sheer and utter insanity, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.. .and didn’t want to.

  Without the slightest bit of hesitation, he found her lips and breathed a sigh of relief into her mouth when he tasted her again. She made him crazy. Absolutely wrecked him. A need that was never fully sated reared up at the slightest provocation and pulled him under. His muscles tensed, his loins burst into flame and the desire to plant himself between her thighs again obliterated every other thought.

  It didn’t matter that they were in a tiny little library in the middle of nowhere with a librarian who was more a warden than a book lover. It didn’t matter that he could potentially lose his job—he was damned either way now anyway, right? Sinner or saint, he was still going to hang.

  He just wanted her. God help him, had to have her.

  “I can’t keep my hands off you,” she confessed, as though it were a mortifying weakness.

  “Good,” he said, setting her on the table, thank­ful that she’d worn another skirt. He freed himself and pulled a condom from his pocket, then swiftly rolled it into place. “I like it when your hands are on me.”

  He nudged her gratifyingly damp panties aside, then he pushed into her and his world fell back into place. Everything settled into its rightful position and the breath he’d been holding leaked out of his lungs in a sigh of relief that felt dredged from his very soul.

  He rested his forehead against hers and smiled, silently admitting to himself that he was doomed.

  She sighed, as well, as though she needed him as much as he needed her, then scooted forward, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck.

  “Take me,” she said once again, his own per­sonal porn star.

  And he did.

  * * *

  The despair and frustration she’d felt only sec­onds ago seemed like a distant memory, Rhiannon thought now as Will’s big warm hands settled on her hips and he pushed into her.

  She sighed, savoring the sensation, and clamped her feminine muscles around him. He was hot and hard and completely filled her up, chasing away an emptiness she hadn’t known existed, would have sworn she’d never felt.

  She wrapped her hands around his neck and held on as he repeatedly plunged into her, in and out, in and out, harder and faster. Her breath came in labored little puffs and her nipples tingled with every thrust of his body into hers.

  “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she con­fessed. “Wanting you all day.”

  And it was true. Every cell in her body had been keenly aware of him, practically singing with his nearness. She’d looked at his mouth and gone wet, let her gaze linger on the smooth column of his throat and something in her belly had gone all hot and muddled.

  And his hands...

  Damn, how she loved his hands. Big, capable, wonderful on her body. They made her feel small and feminine, safe and protected, enflamed and unbelievably alive.

  He smiled down at her and nuzzled her ear with his nose, sending a wave of gooseflesh racing down her spine. “You could have said something. It’s been hell keeping my hands off you.”

  “I was...trying to be...good,” she said, leaning back so that he could get better access. She shifted forward, aligning their bodies so that she could feel his balls slapping against her sensitized flesh.

  It felt wonderful. Positively wicked.

  She bit her bottom lip as pleasure bolted through her, felt her neck grow weak and her head heavy. The flash of climax ripened in her womb, build­ing and building, growing heavier and more insis­tent with every frenzied stroke of him deep inside her.

  “I like it when you’re bad,” he told her. “It’s sexy.”

  “I was waiting on you to snap,” she said. “Your control is impressive.”

  And it was true. She’d been trying to make him crack all day. Little touches, a heavy-lidded look, double entendres left and right, and yet he’d determinedly clung to his self-control. It was infuriating. She’d wanted to make him give in first today—for reasons she’d couldn’t begin to fathom, that had seemed vitally important—and then he’d wrapped his arms around her and the affection she’d felt in the gesture had been equally bittersweet and terrifying.

  Affection wasn’t supposed to be a part of this, and worse still, she wasn’t supposed to want it.

  And then, because she’d needed a distraction—a reminder of what they were supposed to be, that this was casual and nothing more—she’d given in and kissed his neck, knowing that it would set him off.

  He chuckled. “You weren’t the only one trying to be good,” he confessed. “I am supposed to be working.”

  Her gaze tangled with his. “By law you’re supposed to get a fifteen-minute break every four hours.” She felt a cry of pleasure build in her throat and swallo
wed it back. She fisted around him, holding him to her. “You’re good.”

  Something in his expression changed, his eyes smoldered and, without warning, he lifted her off the table and backed her against the wall. The shift in her weight and their positions was absolutely eyes-rolling-back-in-her-head perfect.

  She gasped as he managed to hit a hidden spot deep within her, nailing the supersensitive flesh with each brutal thrust into her body. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and, catching his rhythm, worked herself up and down on him. She tasted his neck, slid her fingers into his hair and gave a little tug. He growled low in his throat and pounded harder, pushing into her with relentless, reckless force. Knickknacks on a shelf wobbled ominously and the sound of her ass and back hit­ting the wall reverberated like a gunshot repeatedly through the room. She was breathing too loudly, making too much noise, and she buried her face in his shoulder in an attempt to drown out her own cries.

  “Come for me,” he said.

  And she did. On command. The orgasm broke over her with enough force to make her spine go rigid. Sparklers danced behind her lids and her vision blackened around the edges. She couldn’t catch her breath and then stopped trying—oxygen seemed overrated at the moment compared to the cataclysmic storm of sensation whirling through her sex. She fisted around him and with every forceful spasm, another almost unbearable bolt of feeling swept through her.

  Tanner pistoned in and out of her, pounded into her as though he couldn’t take her hard enough—rough and thrilling, elemental and raw—and little mas­culine growls of pleasure slipped between his clenched teeth.

  Her orgasm seemed to trigger his own and he suddenly shuddered against her, angling high and burying deep, seating himself as far into her as he could. A low, purely masculine cry stuttered out of his mouth and his hands tightened against her rump, holding her utterly still as the force of his release rocketed through him. She could feel him pulsing inside her, sending another shudder of sensation racking through her.

  Breathing hard, spent and fully sated, Rhiannon pressed a kiss to his temple. “You need to be bad more often,” she said.

  He grinned. “Likewise.”

  A bell tinkled in the distance and her eyes widened as that significant sound registered in her foggy brain.

  Tanner chuckled. “Can you stand?”

  She nodded, not altogether sure that was true. “If not, I’ll just lean here,” she said. “And try to look normal.”

  He carefully set her down, snagged a tissue from a nearby box on the table—evidently dust was a problem in this airless little room, she thought— and quickly disposed of the condom.

  When she was sure her legs wouldn’t give way,

  Rhiannon pushed tentatively away from the wall and dragged her skirt back down over her hips into its proper position. Meanwhile Tanner tucked his shirt back in and zipped his pants. They were present­able, she realized, but the scent of sex hung heavy in the air, betraying their latest activity. Rather than have the librarian wander in and assess the situation, she quickly grabbed her purse and his hand and darted from the room.

  Just in time, too. Mrs. Marcus was on her way back. “I’m closing,” she announced without preamble. She smelled like menthol and mint, and the scent instantly triggered Rhiannon’s gag reflex. “If you didn’t find what you were looking for, you can come back tomorrow. We open at nine.”

  “Thank you,” Tanner murmured, nodding his good­bye—ever the gentleman, Rhiannon thought.

  She covered her mouth, gagging again, and he quickly propelled her out the door, quiet laughter shaking his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  Rhiannon pulled a cleansing breath into her nose and glared at him reprovingly. “Yes,” she said. “Don’t make fun. I told you I can’t stand it. Ugh. That was strong. My nose is still burning.”

  He still chuckled. “Minty breath, your Achilles’ heel.” He threaded his fingers through hers and tugged her toward the Jeep. “You got any other quirks I should know about? Anything else that might make for an awkward situation?” He opened the door for her and waited for her to climb in.

  She pretended to think. “I cry during credit-card commercials, I’m afraid of clowns and spiders, I am anti-pumpkin pie and am Begonia’s current watermelon-seed-spitting champion.” She paused and slid him a look. “I have no desire to be spanked, but a little light bondage sounds intriguing.”

  His eyes glazed over comically and she laughed. “You okay?”

  He determinedly closed her door and joined her in the car in record time, then cranked the engine and quickly darted out onto the highway. “In a hurry?” she asked, unable to hide her grin. “Where are we going?”

  He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel and slid her a smoldering look. “To a hardware store. We’re going to need some rope.”

  Chapter 11

  “So you’re afraid of clowns?” Tanner asked, taking a draw from his beer. They’d found another hotel for the night—the same chain that had suited her before—and had settled in at a little Irish pub. The music wasn’t too loud, the beer was cold and the food was delicious. His gaze slid over Rhiannon.

  And naturally, the company was above par.

  She sipped her whiskey—Jameson, so he had to approve—and her eyes twinkled with warmth. “And I’m the watermelon-seed-spitting champion,” she reminded him. “I thought you’d be impressed with that. I beat out several men for that auspicious title.”

  There were lots of things that about her that impressed him, but that didn’t necessarily make his list. Still...

  He nodded, chasing a bead of moisture down the side of his bottle with his finger. “You’re an impressive woman.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You thought I was crazy.”

  “I never said that,” he told her.

  She tapped her temple. “Didn’t have to, remem­ber?”

  He thought about lying, but no doubt she would pick up on that, too. “I thought you were...differ­ent,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly.

  She laughed, the sound hearty and uninhibited, much like her. ‘That’s a politically correct description if I’ve ever heard one.”

  He took another drink. “More diplomatic, I would say.”

  Her dark blue gaze caught his and she seemed to be considering something. “Actually, it was the gentlemanly response.” She tipped her glass at him. “I like that about you. It’s refreshing.”

  So she’d said, Tanner thought as another one of those increasing urges to bare his soul whisked through him. His hand tightened around his bottle and he determinedly beat it back.

  She grinned and quirked a knowing brow, but didn’t ask. She never asked, and after a moment he wondered why. He knew she had to be curious, had to wonder what haunted him.

  “What?” he asked. “No questions? You’re just going to arch your sleek little brow and give me that I-know-your-secrets look?”

  “I don’t know your secrets,” she said. “I only know the pain.”

  Her expression grew thoughtful and she seemed to focus on something he couldn’t see. It made him unaccountably nervous and he belatedly wished he’d kept his thoughts to himself.

  “Regret,” she murmured. “Loss. Shame. And something else,” she said, her gaze tangling with his once more. “Something elusive that I can’t put my finger on.”

  More disturbed by her assessment than he could ever have imagined, Tanner felt an uncomfortable laugh rattle out of his throat. “Well, if you can’t figure it out, I’ll be damned before I try.”

  She hesitated again, then leaned forward, drawing him in once again. He could feel his center of gravity shift, inexplicably pulling him closer to her. “The feeling of someone else’s private emotions is intrusive enough,” she said. “I can’t help it, but it doesn’t negate my accountability. So stop worrying that I’m going to ask you about it. I have my suspicions, of course.” Her lips twisted. “I’ve been me for a long time, you know, and there are certain markers for partic
ular emotions.” She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. As always, her touch sent his heart into an irregular rhythm and sizzled through him. “But I will not add insult to injury by asking you to explain it to me.”

  Wow, Tanner thought, impressed by her compas­sion and conscience. She was...simply remarkable. If he were as emotionally attuned to other people, would he be so magnanimous? he wondered. Would he resist the urge to mine those emotions and the impulse to interfere?

  He cleared his throat, uncertain what to say. “Thank you,” he finally murmured.

  “Thank Theo,” she said, leaning back once more. “I didn’t used to always be so sensitive.”

  He chuckled. That fit, actually. It was the logical, compassionate response to her gift. He could see her wanting to help, to soothe. It was her na­ture, after all.

  She folded the edges of her napkin. “I didn’t used to appreciate the fact that just because I could pick up on a person’s emotions it didn’t mean that I owned them. I had no claim to them, though I felt them, as well.”

  He studied her. “Sounds like that would be confusing.”

  “It was, in the beginning.” She blew out a breath. “But like I said, Theo helped me. He is much more empathetic than I am. He can pick up on subtle nuances I can’t even detect.”

  “I imagine that’s more curse than blessing,” Tanner remarked.

  She merely smiled. “It comes in handy.”

  He grinned, but it faltered. “So you said you had your suspicions,” he stated in a leading way.

  Her expression grew cautiously still. “I do. Are you asking me to share them?”

  “I’m curious as to how close to the mark you are,” he murmured.

  She considered him another minute, testing the atmosphere around him, he imagined. “All right, then,” she said. “The weight I feel around you... It’s enormously heavy. The grief, the shame and the regret feel like death to me, like you blame yourself for it.”