Sutton Lee

by Christa Wick

  "Maddy know we're here?" I ask. "Paperwork needs to be back to the school by four-thirty."

  "She's coming up," he huffs. "Want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

  I cant my head at Emerson. "Paperwork, signature, Maddy."

  "You and Mrs. Mays," he clarifies.

  I mirror his scowl. "The boy lost his father. My being around seems to help, and getting him in this summer program is really important to Delia."

  "None of that requires you screwing her."

  I suck a breath in, then freeze as four thoughts race through my head, one of them twice.

  He's my brother.

  He carries a sidearm.

  He's a federal agent.

  I'm surrounded by a building full of federal agents also carrying firearms.

  He's my brother.

  "You've got the wrong read on this," I say, my jaw locked tight.

  Emerson snorts. "I know when the monk is out of his cell."

  His gaze cuts to Delia, skipping Caiden altogether. Two small dots of red flare on my brother's cheek but quickly fade.

  "Oh," I laugh as the elevator pings. "I see."

  Madigan steps into the hallway. Her gaze meets mine, her face pulling wide. I jerk my head toward the window and wait until she enters the room before turning my attention back to Emerson.

  "Look, baby brother, far as I know, the path to Delia is clear. You don't have to worry—"

  He opens his mouth to interrupt me with fake outrage. I lift a finger, silencing him before he can speak.

  "And it's none of your damn business who I sleep with."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Standing at the corner of an exterior window, I watch Sutton leave the building with my sister and nephew. They are in a hurry to get back to the school, but he takes the time to settle Caiden into the back seat then opens the front passenger door for Delia and holds her hand as she steps up.

  My chest contracts. My nose pinches.

  I wonder why.

  For a second, maybe two.

  Then I turn back to my duties. I write a summary report on the surveillance tapes. Troy Sprankle, our target, is taking a trip to Seattle. Sipping iced coffee at an outdoor table, he made the flight and car reservations while I shivered beneath the air conditioning that cools the electronics in the surveillance van.

  With the reservations secured, he called a guy named "Jimmy" who has no last name that we know of. They both use burner phones. We haven't figured out how, as frequently as they call one another, they manage to communicate their new numbers. Turnover on the phones is near constant. Usually at least once a week. And Sprankle never uses his phone in his apartment, which we have bugged.

  "Near finished?" Emerson asks, entering our common work area for the first time since his brother left the building.

  "Yeah."

  I click a few buttons, send it to file, then think about what comes next in my workday.

  "Moorecock's mom had a stroke," Emerson says. "She called him babbling around five this morning, talking about his dad as if the man were still alive."

  I bob my head and think about the mental list I keep on what I'm supposed to do or say—both to Moorecock when I see him and to Emerson because he is the one reporting bad news. The list isn't entirely in my head, but I don't want to look at my phone with its notes on socially appropriate responses.

  "Is someone getting flowers?" I ask after a few seconds.

  He scowls. "Leave that to the regulars. It's his shift following Sprankle around in the van that I need to resolve."

  Again, I bob my head. The "regulars" are the agents that were here when Emerson and I arrived from the Boston field office. He still thinks of Billings as a way station even though it is the closest FBI office to his family.

  I don't know what I think about the Billings office, especially now that Delia and Caiden are with me. Emerson is working the Sprankle case hard. He figures it's his best line to a plum position in a field office, maybe the top position. When he talks of leaving, he speaks in terms of "us" and "our."

  Our next office.

  Getting us the hell out of this state.

  Emerson clears his throat. "So you should clock out, get some rest."

  Blinking, I look up. I don't know if I stopped listening to him or if he just threw his last sentence out after a minute's worth of silence.

  "In the van at two a.m.," he says.

  "Right."

  I log off my computer and remove my access card from the device. By the time I turn in my chair to stand, Emerson is on his laptop, softly tapping away at the keyboard with speed and precision.

  I don't expect him to say anything as I leave, but he does, his voice low.

  "Sounds like the meeting at the school went well."

  "Yes," I agree. "I won't need to request any schedule restrictions."

  I wait for a nod or some other reply, but he doesn't turn his gaze from his screen and he is back to tapping at the keyboard. I ghost down the hall and out of the building.

  Reaching my car, I get in and drive.

  A soft knock on my car window wakes me. The sun was out when I left the federal building in Billings. It is well past sunset now. I stretch, momentarily forgetting about the noise that pulled me from sleep or why I drove to Willow Gap instead of going home.

  My phone rests in the cupholder. Mouth gaping in a yawn, I press the power button to check the time. It's a quarter past nine.

  "Madigan…"

  My eyes open a bit wider. I peel back the layers of wool that gathered in my head while I napped and remember exactly whose driveway I parked in.

  Looking out the window, I see Sutton. The deliciously thick arms are folded across his chest. His mouth quirks to one side in an expression I cannot read.

  Heat flares through me. I may not have known what I felt watching out the window as he folded my nephew and then my sister into his truck, but I know what I feel now.

  Done waiting, Sutton reaches out, grabs the door handle and tugs. Nothing happens because the door is locked.

  "Madigan."

  His tone is sharper than before. I hit the button. This time when he tugs, the door opens.

  "How long have you been here?"

  Long enough to fall asleep, I think. A couple hours, likely, but I admit nothing.

  "Why didn't you call to tell me you were here?"

  I shrug and hear the hot release of breath as he snorts.

  "Does Delia know where you are at?"

  "She knows not to wait up for me," I answer.

  Sutton grunts, then turns. When he makes it onto his porch and I haven't left the car, he stops and looks at me over his shoulder.

  "Come inside, Madigan. At least one neighbor already called Betty Rae, who then called me to say I had a strange car parked outside my house. The longer you stay in your car, the more calls that are going to be made."

  I grab my bag, phone and keys then follow him inside. He holds the door open, shuts and locks it behind me.

  "Thirsty?"

  "Parched."

  He fills a tumbler with orange juice then places it on a coaster on the coffee table before sitting down.

  "You have a reason for the drive from Billings then waiting hours in front of my house without calling me to say you were here. Tell me."

  I take a sip then stare at the liquid in the glass. Drawing a sharp breath, I lift my head as if to speak, but remain mute. Sutton stands. He stops about a foot away from me, hands wrapped around his lean hips, fingers strumming against the snug jeans he wears.

  "Finish it," he orders with a hard rasp.

  I gulp the rest of the juice down and return the tumbler to the coaster. Sutton captures my wrist.

  "Stand."

  Again, I obey in a hurry. Heat sizzles down my spine and across my breasts and thighs. Even if I can't admit it, this is what I came for.

  His fingers holding me like a vise, Sutton leads me down the hall. He pulls me into his bedroom then hits the lig
ht switch. He takes me to the bed, sits first and grabs me by the hips as I remain standing.

  "Do you want to leave?" he asks, green gaze turned up to meet mine.

  "No," I rasp.

  "You say 'no,' or 'stop,' or 'don't,' and I will pull back until you can tell me what you want," he warns. "Is that clear?"

  "Crystal," I answer as my heart hammers in my chest.

  "I won't be gentle with you."

  Now it's his voice that is scratchy. Heat scours my flesh. My thighs start to sweat. Tight as my throat has become, it's almost impossible to talk. I squeeze one word out.

  "Good."

  His hands jerk at the waist of my dress pants. His fingers are nimble, accustomed to working with fine electronics. The top button and zipper melt away like butter. The fabric pools at my feet.

  Seeing the pale blue panties of lace and silk hiding beneath the pants, he groans. His head dips. He bites at one hip as the pads of his fingers dent my flesh.

  With a quick, sharp roll, he has me on the mattress on my back, his body pressed against mine. Separating our flesh are the buttoned blue dress shirt and the silky bra that matches the panties.

  He gnaws at my neck, rubbing his hard body roughly against mine as his fingers slide from button to button. When they are all unfastened, Sutton jerks the fabric down my arms.

  For one flashing second, I see how he could trap my arms like this. But he meets my gaze and I know I am safe. He tugs me up, peels the shirt the rest of the way off and tosses it by my pants.

  "I want you naked," I tell him.

  He grins but doesn't oblige.

  "Soon."

  With effortless speed, he unhooks the bra, frees my breasts and grabs them. His hands are dry, the skin roughened from the time he spends hanging around the ranch. My skin is delicate in contrast. Delicate and alive with the sensation of him touching me.

  He squeezes. I moan and thrust.

  Pushing me onto the mattress, he slides down my body. He grips the sides of my panties. I expect him to slide them down my plump thighs.

  The shriek of fabric defies my expectations. The panties fall to the floor in pieces. His mouth is on me half a second later. His hands part my thighs, pushing them down and out, spreading me wide for his demanding tongue.

  I tremble in need as he takes hard licks. I tremble harder as his teeth scrape against the fragile dangle of my swollen clit.

  This is how I want it—how I need it.

  Sutton is the only man I trust to oblige.

  Moans gurgle up from my throat. I writhe, grab his head and push him harder against me. Cream pulses from my pussy as my internal muscles grind around one another.

  My eyes strain upward. Breathless whispers escape me.

  "Yes," I moan. "Almost—"

  My climax is cut off before it can unleash.

  Sutton rolls me onto my stomach. I hear the unbuckling of his belt, the slide of his zipper. He pushes into me, hard and thick, my cream and arousal accommodating the unanticipated invasion.

  Working his hand between my body and the mattress, he grips my mound and squeezes.

  "Spread your legs," he demands.

  I immediately comply.

  He finds my clit, pinching and tugging at it to match his strokes.

  Ah, sweet, merciful heaven…

  His teeth sink into my shoulder. I claw at the mattress, my pussy growing wetter and hotter. I clamp down on his thick cock, muscles coiling and milking the shaft and fat head.

  Sutton rubs my clit, his touch rough and excruciatingly exquisite. My climax vibrates through me. Crying out, I buck against the mattress and his hard body.

  His teeth release their hold on my flesh. His hands slide to my hips and he rears back. His cock rams in and out, harder and faster. Heavy balls slap at the back of my thighs.

  I can't stop coming. Each thrust sends fresh shockwaves racing up my spine. And there are so many thrusts, fast and hard, relentless. The shockwaves pile up, whip my body.

  Despite the impossibly tight fit, my juices escape the seal of our raw fucking. I feel them trickle along my skin, down my mound to the curve of my stomach. The stream thickens until I am quivering and crying out.

  Sutton freezes. His cock jets inside me. Tears stream down my face from how complete I feel.

  For the first time since we left the living room, his touch turns gentle. He eases from me and guides me onto my side. He kisses my shoulder, the press of his lips losing their earlier firmness.

  I squeeze my eyes but I can't stop the rest of my body from tensing. When I open them, I catch sight of the clock on his nightstand.

  "Maddy?"

  Shaking my head, I slip from his hold and sit up.

  "I have a surveillance shift that starts at two," I tell him.

  Sutton wraps a hand around my hip, gently at first then harder when I shrink from his touch.

  "I obviously enjoyed what we did," I say, risking a glance over my shoulder.

  His gaze is intense, not yet judging me harshly.

  "But I'm never going to stay the night," I add. "You have to know that."

  The thick brows crinkle.

  "I want to like you—"

  "You saying you don't?"

  "I want to keep liking you," I amend.

  My hand lifts to tug at my ear. He captures my wrist, stopping me.

  This is hard. Really hard. I look up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay. My throat convulses as I swallow, the muscles tight and unwilling to yield.

  "Do you like Delia?" I ask.

  To Sutton, the question must feel like it's coming out of left field, but it is part of what drove me to him tonight—seeing the way they interact, seeing how easy it would be for Sutton to take over Ken's place in her and Caiden's life after an appropriate amount of time.

  "Your sister is a fine woman and a great mom, but you're dancing behind vague words, Maddy."

  There's a bit of a growl to his voice. I look down and to my right to study him from the corner of one eye.

  He sighs and sits up. He doesn't touch me, but he is right behind me and I can feel the soft feathering of his breath against my skin.

  It should feel nice—like a whisper of his affection or the welcomed ghost of the intense intimacy we just shared. But it doesn't and that is one part, however large or small, of why anything between us will not end well. I want to cringe at the soft current of air he produces.

  "I don't like anyone the way I like you, Madigan," he continues after a few seconds of silence. "It's your hair I want to run my fingers through, your body I want yielding to mine."

  My head wobbles on my shoulders for a second. I gasp a breath in, stifle the cry that wants to burst out. Bending down, I scoop up my clothes and hold them against my chest.

  Standing, I take one last look at Sutton before I head down the hall.

  "It would be better if you preferred Delia."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The bathroom door shuts, the fan turns on, then water runs in the sink. It would be easy to imagine Maddy going through the motions of cleaning herself after the act we just performed. Maybe she runs cold water to soothe the tender flesh I just pounded into, maybe she runs it hot to scour our juices from her body.

  I see it clearly. Across her breasts, between her legs. The washcloth dips beneath the faucet again and again, removing me from her, returning her to the state she was in before she yielded.

  Rolling over, I face away from the bedroom door. The sound of the water fades to the back of my mind as I replay her words.

  I want to keep liking you...

  Is it possible Madigan cannot move past merely liking me, desiring me, using me, but never connecting beyond the physical?

  Hell, we haven't had a real conversation beyond her telling me about Caiden and briefly opening up about her own challenges. Only the latter would count as an intimate exchange.

  The water cuts off. I push onto one elbow as I consider meeting her in the hall.

  I wan
t to keep liking you…

  Shaking my head, I lower my body onto the mattress. There is no point chasing a woman who doesn't want caught. She will only gut me over and over until I have the good sense to walk away.

  The fan goes silent. The bathroom door opens. This time, as she leaves, she doesn't step on the creaky board. I have no idea of her progress until I hear the front door open and softly close.

  I shut my eyes against the sweep of her headlights. I keep them shut, controlling my breathing and relaxing my muscles until, a few minutes later, I fall asleep.

  Light bleeds around the edges of my curtains. The glow is soft, the color more blue than yellow. It is the hue of early morning that I am most familiar with.

  Body stiff, I roll until I face the alarm clock. Ten minutes to six.

  I stretch out, surprised I spent all those hours sleeping in the same position. I point my toes, grab the top of the frame, lift and pull, release. Rotate one shoulder then the other.

  Coffee, I think, swinging my legs toward the side of the bed, the momentum bringing me into a sitting position. Coffee will clear my head, let me plan my day until it's packed so full I won't have time or inclination to think about Madigan Armstrong.

  First up on my schedule is a nine o'clock meeting with our new doctor, Thorne Nygård.

  Sore as I am over Maddy leaving like she did, thoughts of the doctor make me chuckle.

  The man arrived Sunday. Adler's return flight overlapped Nygård's scheduled landing, so big brother picked him up and brought him straight to the ranch. The poor man had little more than an hour to quietly settle into his temporary room at Mama's before being thrust into the fundraising activities.

  Of course, the more money we made on Sunday, the better equipped his office will be and the more staff he can hire. So I didn't feel too bad for the good doctor having to glad-hand the locals so soon after his arrival.

  The fun part was watching Siobhan. Mama had her hogtied to the goat roping pen. I've never seen my cousin miss so many throws as she tried to teach the youngsters. Heck, the kids did better than her!

  Sliding into my jeans, I feel the vibration of my phone in the back pocket.