Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC) (2 page)

I toss the smoldering smoke to the dusty ground, crushing it
beneath the heel of my leather boot.

“I was hoping you were out here for more than a smoke break,”
he growls, letting his strong, rough hands slide down my bare arms. His fingers
leave a trail of goose bumps all along my pale skin.

“You know exactly what I’m out here for,” I breathe,
reveling in the sensation of his expert touch.

“Sure,” he shrugs, resting those hands on my slender hips,
“but I still want to hear you say it.”

I gasp as he tugs me forward, flush against his ripped body.
I swallow a groan as I feel his swelling desire pressed against me, exactly
where I want—no,
need
—to
feel it. The urgency of my yearning skyrockets, knocking every lingering worry
from my mind. All I can think of is how good his hands feel as they run all
over my body. Now that I know what he can do to me, there’s no way I could keep
from coming back for more. He’s far more addictive than his signature
Marlboros, that’s for damn sure.

“Tell me that you want me,” he commands, his voice raspy and
rich in my ear. The scruffy stubble along his jaw brushes against my smooth
cheek, driving me mad. The smallest things about him turn me on. And that’s to
say nothing of the
big
things.

“You know how much I do,” I breathe, circling my arms around
his tapered waist.

“Come on,” he grins, taking my face in his hands, “it’s just
three little words. And not even the ones people usually get worked up about.”

I laugh, resting my forehead against the smooth leather of
his vest. He’s got a point. And if saying it out loud means I get to have him
that much sooner, then...

“I want you,” I whisper, my eyes fixed firmly on the rocky
ground beneath our feet.

“What’s that?” he asks, raising my chin. He won’t let me get
off that easily. His intense gaze nearly renders me speechless all over again,
but I screw up my courage and find my voice.

“I want you,” I say, my voice full and forceful, “
Now
.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, lowering his lips to mine at
last.

The taste of him—smoky, sweet, unmistakably male—satisfies
and intensifies my craving at the same time. What’s a girl to do?

He pushes me up against the red brick wall as our mouths
move together. His sure, deft tongue glances against mine, sending a jolt of
pleasure rolling down my spine. I slide my hands over his firm, denim-clad ass,
tugging him tightly against me. He’s hard and ready as I arch my back, grinding
my hips against his. He catches my bottom lip between his teeth, biting just
hard enough, and a low groan escapes my throat.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep from jumping you the
second you walked into the room?” he says, kissing along my neck, nipping my
collarbone. “Just look at you...”

“I’m too busy looking at you,” I grin, marveling at the
staggering man before me. How the hell did I ever snag him, even for a night or
two? I’ve been next to invisible all my life, content with the bottom of the
manly barrel. This whole eye-catching thing is going to take some getting used
to.

I run my hands down his cut chest, my fingertips brushing
against the MC patches he wears so proudly. Women like me are not supposed to
fall for bad boy bikers. And we’re
certainly
not supposed to hook up with in the shadows of strip clubs. But he makes me
want to be bold, brave. To ask for what I want and refuse to apologize. And
that’s
the kind of woman
I’ve always wanted to be.

As my nimble fingers undo his belt, he shakes in head in
captivated wonder.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he asks.

You have
no idea
, I think to myself, brushing my lips against his neck to dodge
his question. He’s more than happy to let the matter drop as I run my
fingertips down the muscular v of his hips. How long before one of those
surprises comes out into the open? When will he discover the scope of my
deception?

Not
tonight
, I remind myself,
Your
secret is safe for tonight
.

And as I slip my fingers beneath the band of his briefs,
seeking out that throbbing length I crave, I realize that “not tonight” is good
enough for me.

A misshapen package of Hostess Cupcakes lands on my desk
with an unappetizing
thump
.
My head jerks up from where it’s been resting on my palm, and I blink up at the
fluorescent light in a daze. I’ve been staring at endless pages of code on my
computer screen, and the rest of the world outside of my cubicle has begun to
feel like a faraway land. I finally manage to focus on the heavily-lined face
looming over me, and remind myself to act like a normal, socialized human
being. Even if it is a bit of a stretch.

“To what do I owe this thoughtful gift, Chuck?” I ask,
prodding the packaged sweets with the end of my pencil.

The man standing beside my desk shrugs his burly shoulders,
smiling wryly. “No room in the budget for a real cake, I’m afraid. This’ll have
to do.”

I cock my head at my prickly mentor. “Are we...celebrating
something?”

“Quinn Collins,” he replies, his bushy white eyebrows raised
in mock surprise, “have you forgotten our anniversary?”

“I’ll be damned,” I laugh, shaking my head, “has it been two
years already?”

“Already?” Chuck scoffs, crossing his arms across his barrel
chest. “I’m glad the time flew for you, newbie. Training you damn near killed
me.”

“Oh, please,” I say, waving away his disdain. “You didn’t
train me, you tolerated me. There’s no way you could wrap your head around what
I do in cyber.”

“Well excuse me,” he drawls, “I didn’t realize that your Web
surfing was more useful to the Bureau than, I don’t know, my thirty years of
experience.”

“Let’s not make this into a pissing contest,” I cut him off.
“Last time I checked, you had the advantage there.”

“Damn straight,” he grins, turning away. “And don’t you
forget it, Agent Collins.”

“Thanks for the anniversary gift, old man,” I pipe after
him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Don’t let it go to your head,
kid.”

I roll my eyes as my mentor stalks back to his office. It’s
hard to believe that I’ve been taking his brand of good-natured shit for two
years already. It feels like just yesterday I arrived here in LA, fresh out of
the FBI Academy in Quantico. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, I had just
chosen an entirely new career, moved across the country, and started my whole
life over from scratch.

Talk about a quarter-life crisis.

I try to drag my attention back to the task at hand, but my
eyes just don’t want to focus on a screen for another second. The moment I
arrived here at the San Bernardino resident agency, I was immediately assigned
to the cyber division of the FBI. My background in computer science made me a perfect
candidate for Web-based surveillance operations. And while I’ve been part of my
fair share of interesting cases, most of my days are spent plumbing the seedy
underbelly of the internet for obscene material. Not the most glamorous job, to
be sure, but it’s what I signed up for.

Snatching up my crumpled anniversary cupcakes, I head
outside to enjoy the few blissful moments of my lunch break. No one looks up as
I head for the exit, but that’s nothing new. I get along well with my fellow
FBI agents and support staff, but they’re not the most talkative bunch. At
least not with me. Most of the people I work with are men in their thirties and
forties. Not exactly an ideal group of peers.

A sigh escapes my lips as I step out into the bright
afternoon. One glance at my reflection in the glass door confirms my suspicion:
I’m looking a little short of a million bucks today. Despite having spent two
years in the Golden State, my ivory skin refuses to absorb any of the sun’s
glow. Not that I have many hours to spend frolicking in the Pacific. A
smattering of freckles across the bridge of my button nose is the only evidence
that I spend any time at all away from my computer.

I straighten my pale blue button-up and gray woolen slacks.
Unfortunately, the stereotypical suit-and-tie uniform of an FBI agent doesn’t
translate well to a petite but curvy frame like mine. I’d totally rock a suit if
I didn’t think I’d get laughed out of the office. Even my long red locks—or
“man bait” as they’ve been called—have to be gathered into a boring low
ponytail. I’m all for being professional, but the “office drab” look doesn’t do
much for a lady’s self-esteem.

Sinking onto a creaky wooden bench overlooking the parking
lot, I resign myself to a lunch of processed pastries. At least
someone
remembered my
two-year work anniversary. Agent Chuck Jones, the gruff fifty-something cupcake
distributor, was tasked with looking out for me when I first got assigned here.
He’s been a pretty decent mentor, whether he’d admit it or not. While he can’t offer
much practical guidance about my work in the cyber division, his no-nonsense
tough love has strengthened my spine and taught me to trust my gut. As a female
agent, I constantly have to fight to keep from getting shouted down around
here. It’s exhausting, but I’m getting better at it. I think.

I’m just about to lift the first squished cupcake to my lips
when a shadow falls across my little patch of sunshine. Peeved at having my
daily dose of Vitamin D cut short, I glance up sharply, ready to snap at whoever
has come to bother me. But instead, I bite my tongue as I feel my breath catch
in my chest. Peering down at me is a stoic, impeccably composed man I’ve never
seen before. I wouldn’t call him handsome, exactly, but his carved features are
certainly striking. And rather intimidating. His spotless black suit almost
shines in the afternoon sun, and his forty-something face is totally
unreadable.

“Agent Quinn Collins, I presume?” he says, his voice smooth
and even.

“Um, yeah. That’s me,” I stammer dumbly. “How did you know
my—”

“I know all about you, Collins,” he cuts me off lightly.
“But please, don’t let me interrupt your, uh...lunch.”

I blush furiously, imagining how I must look in this man’s
eyes. A pretty little girl, playing FBI agent, eating her cupcakes in the
sunshine. What a
darling
first impression.

“Oh. This isn’t—these were my mentor’s idea of a joke,” I
laugh shortly, chucking my treats in the nearest garbage can. “Agent Jones has
a...unique sense of humor. I’m sorry,” I go on, holding out my hand to him, “I
didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t offer it,” he chuckles, shaking my
hand firmly. “I’m Special Agent Max Mitchell. I run things over at the Las
Vegas field office.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m—Oh. Never mind. You already know,” I
mutter, making a mental note to kick myself later. I can’t help but be
flustered by this guy. Why would a senior agent have any idea who I am?

“I do know, indeed,” Mitchell replies. “You’re the whole
reason I’m here in Los Angeles, after all.”

“I am?” I reply, taken aback. “Is something, uh, wrong? Did
I—?”

“I’m not here to discipline you, Agent Collins,” Mitchell
assures me. “Quite the contrary. But perhaps we can discuss this somewhere a
bit less public?”

“Of course,” I say quickly, rise and moving toward the front
door, “I only have a cubicle, but—”

“It’s alright. Agent Jones’ office will do just fine,” he
replies. “I’ve already confirmed as much with him.”

“Chuck knew you were coming?” I ask, trailing Mitchell
inside.

“Sure,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “didn’t he mention it
to you?”

“Like I said, unique sense of humor,” I grumble.

Plenty of heads turn my way now that a high-ranking agent
accompanies me. Looks of suspicion and jealousy cloud the faces of my mostly
male coworkers. Many of them still haven’t gotten used to my presence in the
office, especially since I found my sea legs and started doing well. For all
its diversity initiatives, the FBI is still something of a boys’ club. But I’m
not going to let their insecurities bother me today. It would seem I’ve got
more important things to worry about.

Chuck appears in the doorway of his office, beckoning us in
to join him. “Get in here, Mitchell,” he barks good-naturally. “Good to see you
again, sir.”

“And you, Jones,” Mitchell replies, clapping Chuck on the
shoulder.

“Thanks for the heads up, Jones,” I mutter, closing the door
behind me.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Chuck grins, winking
theatrically at me.

“Have a seat, Quinn,” Mitchell says, as he and Chuck settle
into their places. I perch on the edge of the unforgiving foam chair, anxious
to know what’s behind this surprise meeting. “First of all,” he begins, lacing
his fingers over his knee, “let me congratulate you on completing your first
two years here at the Bureau. From what I understand, it’s been a very
successful time, indeed.”