Hotshot (13 page)

“Bad idea? I know. I don’t care.”

He’d turned her away before. The toughest thing he’d ever done. “You’re the one who said we should pretend that mind-blowing kiss never happened. If we finish this, do you think
that
’s something we can ignore?”

“Quit thinking. Quit talking. After a day like this, even I can’t deny what I’m feeling.” She let go of his shirt. “So I’ll say it again. If you want me, come get me.”

All right then. He cupped her head and powered them back toward the closed door. He’d done his gentlemanly best to make sure he wasn’t taking advantage. He wanted her and intended to have her. Now. And again later on that big bed. Beyond that, he had no idea.

But one thing he did know for certain. She wouldn’t be able to ignore the detailed attention he planned to devote to pleasuring every inch of her body.

TWELVE

Shay felt the hard press of the hotel door against her back, the even harder length of Vince against her front. He anchored her in much the same way he’d pressed her against her car earlier.

Her car.

The bomb.

The dead guard.

Oh God, that could have been her. Or worse yet, Vince.

She dealt with death on a regular basis on the suicide hotline, even with these kids so hell-bent on killing each other. Maybe that’s why she felt this connected to Vince, because they both dealt with life and death as a routine part of their jobs.

And she really didn’t want to think about that now. She inhaled the musky scent of Vince and some kind of rosy air freshener, desperate to erase the tinge of smoke still stinging her nose and memory.

She ached to sink into sensation, tingles prickling over her like a sunburn, slightly painful, her skin tight and overheated. In need of relief. A relief that couldn’t come close to being satisfied by the gusts from the air conditioner vent.

Vince nuzzled her ear, his light beard rasping her tender cheek. “I thought we were pretending the kiss never happened.”

“We are.” She slid her hands over his chest, the king-size bed just visible over his shoulder.

She liked the door just fine. Shay slipped her hand lower to caress him.

He swayed for a second before planting a palm on the door by her head to steady himself. “Consider my mouth closed.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” She traced his lips. “Your mouth can do some amazing things. I’m already imaging all the possibilities with your category one beard.”

His eyes widened with shock, then totally wicked intent.

She grappled with his belt buckle, the metal biker emblem warm from his body. Her fingers started to shake as she worked the top button free, then the zipper.

His eyes met hers, his face shadowy with only the dim glow of the bedside lamp, but the gleam in his eyes shone brightly. Watching him watching her, she tucked her hand inside his boxers and molded her palm to him, thick and hot and throbbing in her hand. She slid her fingers down his shaft, lingering at the base to massage farther, deeper, until he went even unbelievably harder beneath her touch.

She cupped the back of his neck to taste and swallow his groan. She tapped her way down his chest until she could torment him two-handed, massaging the base while caressing up and down. Her thumb glided over the bulbous head, smoothing nature’s lubricant until he growled.

He gripped her wrists just above her wide watchband. “Stop.”

“No.”

His smile caressed her kissed-sensitive lips. “I didn’t mean permanently.”

Oh. Good. Tackling him might have been problematic, given his size. And my, the man had some size on him in all the right places. “Condoms?”

“Wallet. Back pocket.” His hand slipped from her, and she gripped his wrist to stop him.

“I’ll take care of it.” She dipped her fingers into his pocket with slow deliberation, his buttocks taut to the touch even through denim. She wanted to explore him leisurely, in the light. But time would invite reality, and light would bring questions. She would be satisfied with this, and, oh my, how she had the feeling he had the ability to satisfy her so very much.

She filched his wallet and passed it over. He plucked a small square wrapper free, which she promptly stole from him.

Vince yanked her shirt up and off, sweeping aside her bra before her senses could unscramble enough to catch up with his hands. Cool air teased over her bare chest, tightening her already puckered nipples to near-painful buds.

She wanted his touch, his mouth, but wondered if he would find her smaller breasts enough. And God, she hated that shallow thought, but how could a woman avoid it in a world obsessed with glorifying boob jobs?

He cupped her breasts in bold, callused palms. “Perfect.”

Her BS-ometer detected only total honesty. Vince’s compliment soothed lingering insecurities leftover from long-ago rejections as sensually as his hands sketching along her hypersensitized skin.

He ducked to take one nipple in his mouth, working her gently with his teeth while he stroked the other just enough to keep her from screaming for him to pay equal time . . . and he did . . . until his talented mouth had her head thunk ing back against the door.

She tugged at his shirt, bunched it in her fingers until it floated free. She flattened her hands to his chest and soaked in the molten hard feel of him, sagging, starting to slide down the door but unable to stop.

“Shay,” he rasped his bristly new beard against her ear. “We need to ditch those pants of yours.”

They both reached at the same time, sweeping her jeans and panties down. She kicked them aside.

“Much better,” he growled.

He hooked his fingers behind her knees, lifting her, bringing her flush against him until her legs locked around his waist. The aching damp core of her pressed fully against his erection, his open zipper rasping a delicious friction against the vee of her thighs.

He flattened his palms up the length of her thighs, settling behind to cup her buttocks in a securing grip. “Your legs are the things fantasies are made of.”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll think you’re trying to get into my pants.”

“Considering your pants are already on the floor, I must be doing something right.” He nudged against her, his hardened penis working tantalizingly against the heated nub of nerves. “I need to hear exactly what you want and make it happen.”

“Yes, it’s working. In fact if you keep that up, I’m going to finish . . . here . . . and now.” She shivered. She gasped. She totally
wanted
. “Can we please shut up?”

“Never. I intend to let you know with each and every stroke just how fucking amazing you feel inside, around me . . . your hands on me and mine on you. There aren’t enough ways to feel every bit of you at once.”

He slipped a thick finger back and forth along her slit, slickening, tormenting, until she wriggled herself into position for him to sink inside her with one, then two.

Finally, finally he positioned his erection against her and plunged deep. He filled her, stretched her, sent ripples of pleasure through her. She desperately wanted to harness it before she flew apart too soon. She’d waited too long for this with him to have it end so fast.

Then he moved. And moved again until she couldn’t think about restraint or the past or anything but milking the most out of this moment as he thrust inside her. Deeper, harder, faster, everything she demanded and more, all the while giving him the words he wanted.

Arching to get closer, deeper, she skimmed her hands over his shaved head, the smooth texture so different from anything she found on a man before. But then he wasn’t like any other man.

More than anything, she wanted this moment. Sure, she would likely deny it tomorrow. Without question, she wasn’t ready to bare all to him, of her body, her scars, her soul. All of which were scary-as-hell things she didn’t want to think about. She didn’t want to think at all.

She writhed against him, clawed at his shoulders, couldn’t get close enough because nothing would be enough until she found release. She buried her face into the curve of his neck, his raspy whiskers lightly grating against her forehead in sweet pain. Hot breaths puffed over her, faster, riding words of how much she pleased him, turned him on and inside out.

Ecstasy that far outstripped any street drug swelled inside, building, bigger, until she felt ready to shed her skin and burst into the wash of pulsing sensation. Ripple after ripple rolled through her, throbbing along all her over-revved nerves from a day fraught with an adrenaline dousing.

Slowly, her body cooled and went boneless in the after-math of explosive sex at the end of an intensely explosive day. She felt hollowed out inside, exhausted.

And a little scared.

She sagged against him, her legs sliding to the floor, her limp arms around his neck doing less to hold her upright than his hands molding her to the door. Over his shoulder in the dim light she saw her shirt and his scattered over the carpet by her bra. They hadn’t even made it to the bed or turned on more than the one dim light.

A blessing as far as she was concerned. Because here in this dark room, her body and privacy still shielded in all the ways that mattered, she could hold on to her secrets for a little while longer.

Creaking back in his desk chair, Lewis had major deals in the works, and he wouldn’t let any piece-of-trash kid risk that.

He saw a weakness in that boy, the one in love with the pregnant slut Amber. He’d been ordered to make sure Shay Bassett didn’t survive, whether it be through car bomb or drive-by. But again, the kid had missed.

Of course little did Webber know the deeper implications of his role. Hit or miss, he’d still managed to steer attention away from Lewis’s real goal, the true money-maker.

Lewis fired up his computer while fishing another of his disposable cell phones from the bottom drawer. He might be new in his career field, but he could handle these teens, understood how to maneuver them with the right carrot. He was just starting to gain some power, and he refused to lose it. The people he worked with could give him everything he wanted. More money and clout than his picayune junior position now.

One day he would be at the head.

Yes, he had a major deal in the works. Getting rid of Shay Bassett was merely a fortunate sidebar. She had proven herself to be an annoying hindrance.

The last thing he needed was for her policies to gain support and momentum and effect. He depended on the international freedom of movement these gangs enjoyed. If Congress started pouring money into crackdowns the way they had into security against terrorism, his business dealings would shut down altogether.

Meanwhile, he needed to put Webber to the test, make sure he had the stuff to see this through. He had too much invested in the kid to simply scrap him altogether. Convincing a kid to do what Webber ultimately had to do . . . that took time.

Webber just needed a little toughening up, along with a reminder of how badly things could go for the people around him.

Paulina hip bumped the door of her Mercedes convertible closed, basket of food in both hands. Okay, so it was lame bringing her “boyfriend” food in the middle of the night, but as the mission coordinator in D.C., she knew they had about an hour’s downtime before things revved up. Food at the site would be pathetic pickings and mostly forgotten in the rush to get things done.

She worried about him.

Don looked like hell these days, handsome in a refined way but haggard. At least she could make sure he ate.

Even her best investigative skills likely wouldn’t stand a chance at finding out what was bothering him, other than the obvious with Shay. But Don had been wearing this gaunt look long before bombs started exploding in his daughter’s car. As much as he tried to hide it, the longer she spent with him, the more she realized he felt things. Deeply.

That knowledge teased her with possibilities. Maybe he was more committed than she realized. If he could pour half that drive and determination he showed at work into being a parent, he would be the perfect father for her child.

Paulina elbowed the doorbell, longer and harder than she intended. Her balance wobbled between her teetering heels and the awkward basket packed with her ham and mushroom soufflé and a fruit cocktail Jell-O mold.

Don’s footsteps pounded down the hall, louder. She started to announce herself.

He yanked the door open. “Damn it, Jayne.” His hair wet, he jerked his bathrobe tie tight. “I already told you I’m sorry for—” He looked up. His eyes went wide. “Shit.”

Jayne?

Jayne!

“Jayne?” Paulina pushed inside, her steps and voice far more controlled than her churning stomach. “Your ex-wife was here.”

He held up his hands. “Hey, calm down. She was waiting on my doorstep when I got home. She saw about the explosion on the news and wanted to know why I hadn’t told her what was going on with Shay.”

Perfectly reasonable. But she hadn’t gotten this far in the FBI by accepting half the story as the whole truth.