Guts & Glory: Mercy (In the Shadows Security Book 1)

by Jeanne St. James

“You only want me to shut up because I’ve pegged you perfectly.”

  “Not into pegging.”

  She blinked at that unexpected response, then snorted. “You’ve tried it, then?”

  Mercy, with hands on his hips, dropped his head, shaking it. Probably in an effort not to strangle her. But even from where she stood, she could see his jaw tight, the muscles working. Ah, maybe he wasn’t so cold and detached after all.

  And maybe his breaking point wasn’t as high as she originally thought.

  Interesting.

  He was beginning to fascinate her.

  She took another sip of her wine before grabbing the bottle in her other hand and lifting it. “Well, if you’re not joining me, I’m getting drunk as fuck since I have a guard dog.”

  “You need to eat.”

  She stepped up to him and snagged the last four fries from the container he held in his big paw. She smiled as she shoved them into her mouth.

  She had to admit, those were damn good fries and paired well with her one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle of chardonnay.

  Chapter Four

  Mercy tilted his head and listened carefully. Silence. Lots of peaceful fucking silence. After Rissa had taken her wine into the living room, he had hauled their bags upstairs. He remained up there, catching up on emails, the news and anything else that kept his mind off strangling her.

  He didn’t appreciate her analyzing him like she was some sort of therapist.

  Fuck that shit.

  She could have her wine and get totally fucking smashed. As long as she didn’t leave the house and left him alone, he was fine with it.

  Two of the three bedrooms were fully furnished. He snagged the master bedroom since it had its own bathroom and he gave her the bedroom at the opposite end of the hall.

  Luckily, the second furnished bedroom was as far away from him as possible. Which wasn’t far enough. Because he didn’t want to just strangle her until she was quiet, he wanted to fuck her until she had no energy left to think, let alone talk.

  The first one was more likely to happen than the second. Especially after running her information and finding out what she did for a living.

  Which was not fucking rich guys. Though that might be a hobby of hers, who fucking knew. But instead, her job was taking rich guys’ money because they couldn’t fuck. Or some such shit like that.

  She was a damn sex therapist.

  A sex therapist.

  It wasn’t the first part that bothered him as much as the second. Though he wondered what kind of man needed a sex therapist.

  Not him.

  No fucking way.

  He had no problem getting it up and getting the job done.

  Her website, professionally done, listed all the issues she dealt with in her one-woman practice.

  Parris Gregory

  Board Certified Counselor, Sex & Relationship Therapist

  Specializing in, but not limited to: relationship and sexual issues, life transitions, and LGBTQ therapy for both individuals and couples.

  Her contact page included a very sexy profile picture of her. Her long light brown hair was pulled up at the top of her head, but a few strands remained loose, framing her face, and she wore glasses. He wondered if she really needed them or only wore them for the picture, so she looked more professional.

  Professional or not, that picture made him want to do a little sexual therapy of his own by jacking off to it.

  He didn’t. But might consider it later. Because now, as he entered the living room, he was finding things weren’t so quiet and it wasn’t because Rissa was talking.

  Fuck no.

  She reclined on the couch, her head hanging over the arm, her loose hair almost reaching the carpet. She was either sleeping or passed out. Looking at the empty wine bottle on the side table, he would guess it could go either way.

  He moved closer to the source of the noise. Rissa’s mouth was hanging open and she was snoring. Not very feminine-like, either. No, like a seventy-year-old truck driver who just drank a case of beer.

  He squatted next to the couch and pried the empty wine glass from her fingers, putting it on the side table.

  The dark circles under her eyes were telling, as was the lipstick that had been gnawed off her bottom lip. She was more afraid of the circumstances that landed her in this house in Shadow Valley than she let on. He would just bet that it was eating her from the inside out.

  But he was impressed at how well she’d kept it hidden. She could have been freaking out, crying and wailing. Instead, she had handled what she saw and what it meant for her like a pro.

  It was easy to see now, though, it had taken an effort. And drinking a whole bottle of wine proved reality was beginning to set in. However, he appreciated her keeping the dramatics at nil since he couldn’t deal with hysterical women.

  No matter how hot they were.

  While she could rest assured she would be safe while he was on the job, she probably didn’t like the fact her life wasn’t currently in her control. And she seemed the type who didn’t like to rely on anyone else.

  Except for Paranzino.

  He reached out and carefully lifted the large diamond solitaire from between her tits, which were rising and falling softly with each cut of the log she was sawing.

  His thumb brushed over the large stone. He hated that people bought into the bullshit that diamonds were needed to prove someone’s love.

  They weren’t.

  People only believed that bullshit due to effective marketing. Commercial brainwashing. There were so many better ways to prove or show love or loyalty. An expensive chunk of carbon wasn’t it.

  He set the diamond back in place, sat back on his heels and assessed the situation. He could leave her on the couch for the rest of the night, but she’d probably wake up with a crick in her neck, drool dried to her chin, and have sore muscles come morning. Or he could put her to bed, let her sleep off the bottle of wine on a mattress that probably cost more than a used car.

  Either Paranzino loved her enough that he wanted to make sure she was pampered during her time in protective custody or he just didn’t have a good grasp on reality. His woman didn’t need to live the life of luxury for a short stint.

  If she couldn’t sleep on a three-hundred-dollar mattress set for a couple days, then...

  A muscle in his jaw popped, and with a growl, he shoved his arms under her shoulders and knees. He squat-pressed her until he was standing with her in his arms.

  Yep. Fucking passed out. Neither one of her eyelids lifted as he’d picked her up.

  His nostrils flared in annoyance, but he immediately realized his mistake. He not only smelled the fruity scent of wine on her breath but that perfume or whatever she wore.

  “Goddamn it,” he grumbled under his breath. He steeled himself against the lure of the scent he was beginning to recognize as hers, the bounce of her tits practically in his face, and the fact that his fingers found not one bony spot on her body as he carried her up the steps.

  He hated bony. Instead, he liked what he was touching. He liked it a lot.

  Womanly curves he could grip. Flesh he could suck. Tits and ass he could lose himself in.

  “Christ,” he growled through gritted teeth as he hauled her up the steps and forced himself to hook a right instead of a left. By the time he nudged the door open with his foot, his dick was urging him to turn around and head back to his room with her.

  But she was not only a job, which made him responsible for her and her safety, she was smashed.

  And that wasn’t going to happen.

  Ever.

  He flipped the light switch with his elbow and stalked to the bed. With a groan—because she wasn’t petite and willowy like Jazz was when she first came back to Shadow Valley—he placed her on the bed. Okay, truth was, he let her drop. But not from his arms, maybe from just a few inches from the mattress. Just to make sure she wasn’t faking it.

  She wasn’t.

 
Her shoes had been removed hours before and she didn’t wear stockings, thank fuck. But the dress she was wearing...

  No. Fuck no. She could sleep in it. She could afford a new one if it got ruined.

  He unfastened the chain holding the diamond from around her neck, removed the matching diamond earrings and tossed them on the nightstand. Then he stared down at her. At least she had stopped that horrible snoring.

  With a moan, she shifted and nuzzled deeper into the comforter. Should he cover her up?

  No. He wasn’t a nursemaid. He wasn’t a butler. He was a fucking former Sergeant Major and Delta Force operator, goddamn it. He didn’t bust his ass to stay alive and in one piece all those years to be a babysitter to a drunk, rich woman.

  He bit off a curse and, carefully rolling her to her left, then to her right, he yanked the comforter free and covered her. On second thought, made sure her pillow was positioned properly.

  Goddamn it!

  He strode away from the bed, turned off the light and slammed the door shut.

  He hesitated just outside the entrance to the kitchen, mentally bracing himself. As he stepped through the entryway, the early morning sun beaming through the glass sliders to the right of the kitchen lit up the room.

  Two things hit him at once.

  The first was the smell of fresh brewed coffee. And fuck if that didn’t smell good.

  The second was Rissa standing at the stove with her back to him as she was doing something. Most likely making breakfast.

  She was wearing pink-striped pajama bottoms that hugged her ass in a way that should be illegal.

  He adjusted himself in his tracksuit pants to hide his reaction before he cleared his throat.

  She turned with a spatula in her hand.

  He blinked, then forced himself to take a breath.

  She had zero makeup on her face, her hair was gathered messily on the top of her head with loose tendrils falling about her face and neck, and she looked freshly showered.

  Even better, she wore glasses.

  Which meant she needed them, she probably just wore contacts normally.

  He unstuck his feet and headed over to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water. Cracking the top, he guzzled about a third of it down before lowering it. He also considered grabbing some ice cubes out of the ice maker and shoving them down his pants.

  Because not only did those pajama bottoms turn him the fuck on, her camisole top hardly contained her tits and looked like it was going to explode at any second like one of those Pillsbury biscuit cans.

  It might be a good morning for sausage and biscuits.

  Jesus fuck. “Got a sweater or something you can put on?”

  “Why? I’m not cold.”

  “Your nipples state otherwise.”

  She actually glanced down to look at her own tits. “They’re not cold, they’re just having a perky morning, unlike me.” She turned back to the stove and he almost shed a tear at the loss of that glorious sight. “I think I overdid it last night.”

  “You think?”

  “Thank you for putting me to bed. That was kind of you.”

  If you only knew my thoughts while I did it, you wouldn’t be thanking me.

  She continued, because, of course, the woman liked to hear herself talk. “Do you normally sleep in? I figured you’d be up at zero-dark thirty.”

  He was late coming down for breakfast because, while he resisted relieving himself last night, this morning’s wood wouldn’t go away until he took action. So he pulled up her photos on her Facebook page—he needed to tell her about the dangers of putting her life out there on social media—and took care of business.

  Once his clogged pipes were clear and he could think a little straighter, he then dug deeper into her online presence. After that, he texted Hunter and got him to hack her social media accounts, instructing him to change all her public posts to private instead. When this current situation was over, he didn’t give a shit what she put out there for the world to see, but while she was in Shadow Valley, he did.

  His job. His rules.

  His bonus on the line.

  But he didn’t tell her any of that.

  Instead, he muttered, “Jet lag,” and took another swig of water.

  She approached him carrying a mug, then offered it to him. Black coffee. When he didn’t take it, she put in on the counter near his hip and moved back to the stove. He had no idea what she was doing over there, because he was too busy watching her round ass cheeks wiggle back and forth under the soft cotton of those PJ’s.

  Then, not a minute later, she sauntered back over to him and shoved a plate into his chest, which he had no choice but to accept.

  Egg whites and two slices of what looked like dry whole wheat toast.

  “The cook made you breakfast.” She smiled up at him and then moved away once again to her own mug of coffee. She picked it up and turned to face him, lifting the coffee to her lips. He watched her delicate throat undulate as she swallowed some down.

  Putting his water bottle on the counter next to the ignored coffee, he went over to the nearby trash can, stepped on the foot lever to lift the lid and dumped the contents of the plate into the garbage.

  “Going for a run. Not leaving the compound, but you do not leave this house, you do not unlock or open the door for anyone. Tell me you heard that and will follow those instructions.”

  Her blue eyes lifted from the now closed trash can and hit his. She pursed her lips and it took her a few long moments before she said, “Got it.”

  He turned away and dumped the empty plate into the sink. “No, say it.”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He waited. Finally, she muttered, most likely through gritted teeth, “I heard you and promise to follow instructions.”

  That had to be painful for her. He nodded in satisfaction. “Four pancakes with butter and maple syrup, along with six strips of bacon when I get back in forty-five.”

  Without waiting for her to respond, he walked out of the kitchen, his lips twitching as he went.

  “Asshole wants pancakes. Four. With butter and maple syrup. Bacon. Not two pieces but six. If I ate like that I’d look like Humpty Dumpty. He eats that, he looks like freaking Adonis. Eats two burgers and almost two orders of French fries. Again, I’d be looking like the Goodyear Blimp.” Parris puffed her cheeks out like a chipmunk and flipped another pancake. It was done perfectly, of course, so she threw it on the stack of awaiting pancakes. “His ass better appreciate the hard work I’m putting in making him this breakfast after I already made him one earlier. If he doesn’t, he’s getting this spatula shoved up his ass.”

  She froze, her head snapped up and her nostrils flared as she picked up the smell of a man. Not just any man. A hot, sweaty, slightly musky one. Who was very, very, very close.

  Her heart flipped, then began to beat like one of those wind-up toy monkeys playing drums.

  Maybe if she ignored him, he’d move away.

  How did he get so close without her hearing him, anyway? The man was, like, huge. How could he be so quiet?

  She turned and glanced down to see what shoes he was wearing that made him so stealthy. However, on her travels south, she got sidetracked and saliva went down the wrong pipe, making her cough. As soon as she could breathe somewhat normally again, she waved the spatula in a circle, indicating a certain area of his body, asking, “Um, what happened to your pants? You seemed to have lost them.”

  “Went running.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s obvious since you said you were. And you’re sweaty.” His drool-worthy chest glistened since he apparently lost his shirt, too. “But you’re... almost naked.” Yes, he was! “Did your pants just break free and run in a different direction? You’re now wearing...” Her gaze raked over whatever he was wearing. Which wasn’t much. And definitely didn’t leave much to the imagination. Um, hello there! “Panties or something,” she finished a little breathlessly, much to her chagrin.

  “
Ranger panties.”

  Did he just say... Ranger panties? Did he say he was wearing panties? Was she right? She blinked. “Say what?”

  “Running shorts.”

  “Okay.” They were certainly okay. Like very okay. Extremely okay. Any male with his physique should be required to wear them when working out. Hell, twenty-four hours a day. “They... um...” Emphasized a lot. A lot. Holy shit. A lot. “You don’t worry about... things breaking loose in them? Escaping? Scaring women and children with...” That monster?

  And didn’t his hand slide down there to cup himself? He certainly did. And now she knew he was more than a handful. One of his hands, too. Which was not small. “It’s under control.”

  That was too bad. “So, did you have a herd of women chasing you around the compound ripping off your clothes?”

  He almost smiled. She swore the corners of his eyes at least crinkled the slightest bit.

  “Removed my track pants before I walked out the door. Usually take my shirt off midway through my run once it gets soaked.”

  Parris bit her bottom lip, willed her nipples not to ache so badly, and squeezed her thighs together as she turned back to the frying pan to not only gather the bits and pieces of her exploding ovaries, but to remove the pan from the heat. Because things were too freaking hot in the kitchen as it was. She turned off the burner and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. “Well, you’re just in time. Bacon’s in the oven, pancakes are done. Butter and maple syrup are on the table. Your coffee got cold, so I tossed it. Get yourself a fresh cup.”

  She sensed rather than heard him move away. She opened the oven, used tongs to snag six pieces of bacon for him, two for her (because there was no way she was going out running for forty-five freaking minutes so she could eat four extra pieces), and tucked them next to the pancakes. When she turned with the plates in her hand...

  She gasped and her heart stopped. At first, her mind couldn’t make sense of what she saw.

  She put the trembling plates back onto the counter with a clatter before she dropped them and they shattered on the tile floor. With one hand pressed to her mouth, she approached him as he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, most likely unaware of her approach.