by Zoe Dawson
Much more than a handful in many ways, this man had the power to turn her into putty.
A strangled sound erupted from his throat and he reached down and covered her hand, pressing his hips hard and driving his erection into her palm, his eyes closing as her hand cupped him.
“Your smart mouth is getting you into all sorts of trouble, sweetheart.”
She taunted softly, “Promises, prom—”
He took her mouth and made good on all that sensual promise. It was a repeat of the deep, soul-slamming ecstasy the other two times he’d kissed her with the passion this man was capable of giving her.
She arched her back, the water in the tub sloshing as she cupped his strong, bristly jaw in her hand. The connection of their mouths deepened as he leaned more into her. Their tongues touched and slid together and wound around each other with slow, sweeping strokes. He devoured her mouth. He made her all the weaker with wanting him. Excited with anticipation of finally having this man pushing deeply inside her, her hips moved beneath the hot, bubbly water.
When he pulled back, the words were on her lips to protest, but he was quick in slipping his hands under her armpits and lifting her in one powerful motion out of the tub. He muscled her all slick and wet into his arms with a gasp of motion and flying legs which he caught against him.
“As a SEAL, I would love to play with you in the water, darlin’, but I’m much too impatient right now and it’ll just get in my way.”
She bit her bottom lip and giggled like an idiot. He left the bathroom and entered her room.
“It’s great in water,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck.
“Yeah, but when I go down on you, I can’t breathe underwater. I’m good, but not that good.”
Her lungs compressed at his words, her response barely audible. “Oh, you are fallible? What a disappointment.”
He chuckled. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I might be quick and flexible in water, but I’m much better on land. I guarantee you’ll be more than wet enough.”
All the teasing ended when he reached her bed.
He made direct eye contact with her. “Give me your dark side, sugar. I don’t scare easily,” he whispered. “I have a feeling your madness looks like mine.” She breathed in his delicious scent. “Don’t hide your shadows from me.”
It was a knee-jerk reaction to goad Scarecrow in order to protect herself and to show him that she was unaffected by him and his remarks. But what she hadn’t expected was for him to turn the tables on her and draw her into a web of sensuality so powerful she felt helpless to resist him. That was her specialty. But drawn in now, she didn’t want to curb her desires when she wanted him so badly.
When he swung her down, she grabbed onto his biceps to steady herself, loving the feel of his skin, toned muscles, and the heat radiating off him. He cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples between his fingers. Moaning deep in her throat, she rolled her hips against his, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything. She wanted to be taken, right here, right now.
“I don’t have any condoms,” he rasped. Fuck… She didn’t either. But she didn’t really need them.
If it was the one thing, the last thing, that was keeping him from fulfilling her wish, she had that covered. “I’m on the Pill.” She tugged on his T-shirt, and it came off in one pull with his help. Her hands went to the waistband of his pants, unbuckling and unsnapping until she had him freed. “You’re not off the hook by a long shot, Yank.”
His erection jutted out from his body. Unable to help herself, she automatically reached out to touch him. He closed his eyes when she slid her hand over him, the beauty of his pleasure making her ache for him even more.
She loved the strong column of his throat and noticed a scar there that looked like a bullet graze. She kissed him, licked the line of the destruction that could have taken his life and was so grateful that he was here, breathing hard, almost hers.
“Scarecrow…” she murmured, and he opened his eyes. “Arlo,” her voice rasped. And with his name on her lips, he consumed her naked body with his gaze from her breasts to the crux of her thighs.
He lowered his lips to the side of her neck, near her ear. “You are so beautiful, Scarlett.”
Her heart squeezed tight in her chest, a distinct warning that she was so dangerously close to falling for Arlo Porter in ways that she’d never allowed herself to give to another man.
He pushed her back onto the bed and once again, his hands slipped under her armpits and he slid her fully on as he knelt over her. The way he braced himself above her so that only his mouth was touching her skin along with the occasional brush of his hair and the rasp of his stubble on his jaw drove her crazy. It was the most erotic sensation, knowing just how close the heat of his body was, yet only feeling the warmth of his breath and the damp softness of his lips as they nuzzled her throat.
His mouth dipped down again, scattering her thoughts into the night as he once again trailed his lips along her throat and down to her breasts where he gave his sweet attention to each nipple. Then he skimmed his lips along her rib cage, and the hot slide of his tongue moved across her stomach.
“Please,” she whispered hoarsely, desperately.
He shifted between her spread legs, settling in so that his broad shoulders kept her knees apart. Her body jerked as his mouth touched her inner thigh, his fingers stroking over her throbbing sex.
She moaned long and low at the feel of his hot breath against her, his hands reaching on either side to cup her hips and hold her captive, forcing her to give him free access.
It was so incredibly easy to do, because she trusted him with her body. Maybe even more.
Then that frightening thought fled as his mouth covered her and his tongue swirled over her swollen flesh before suckling on her in the most breath-stealing way. Time seemed to stand still as he tasted and teased and worked her over. The force and intensity tumbled her into the longest, most powerful orgasm she’d ever experienced.
The shudders within her seemed to go on and on, and before the last tremors subsided, Scarecrow was moving up and over her. He covered her body with his own, all hard, lean muscles and barely suppressed hunger. In one long, smooth thrust, he slid into her, and she lifted her knees high against his waist to give him the deepest access possible. Once he was buried to the hilt, he closed his eyes and groaned as her inner muscles clasped him tight.
He had to be aching for his own release, yet he went still, as if relishing the moment, the warmth and softness of being inside her.
His lashes drifted back open, and his darkened gaze locked with hers. He began to move, rolling his hips hard against hers, then plunging deeply. Again and again. Long, slow agonizing strokes designed to make the pleasure last. For her, or for himself, she didn’t know, but it felt wonderful just the same.
He lowered his head and kissed her, the soft, sensual glide of his tongue matching the rhythm of his lazy thrusts. Eventually, the heat and friction and fire caught up to him, finally shattering his control.
She felt the change in him as his pace quickened, his breathing grew ragged, and he pumped harder, faster, toward his own completion. She dug her fingers into the rippling muscles of his damp back, arched high and hard into his thrusts, and felt him stiffen as his climax peaked. He dragged his lips from hers, surged into her a final time, and on a ragged, fierce growl he spilled himself into her.
Breathing hard, he buried his face against her throat, and she cupped his head, his short hair silky against her palm, the tenderness in her filling up her chest.
A few minutes passed before he finally lifted his head from the curve of her neck. In the dim light, his features were shadowed, but there was no mistaking the softness in his eyes as he stared down at her.
And in that moment, she felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable, because she knew he’d touched her in a way no man ever had—physically and emotionally.
Her emotional defenses automatically kicked in, and she instead
turned the moment into a lighthearted one by issuing him a playful challenge. “Hmmm, you did promise to fuck me for a long time. That was good, but how quick are your restorative powers? I’m binding you to that statement.”
Holding her gaze, he slid a hand between their still joined bodies, across her belly and down to her groin. His thumb pressed against her still sensitive flesh and she was shocked to feel her body come alive again.
He stroked slowly, wringing a soft gasp from her, his talented touch proving he’d learned her body’s responses and needs very well.
He arched a soft brown brow, amusement and renewed desire mingling in his smoky green eyes. “Are you now, darlin’?” he drawled in that sexy as hell bedroom voice.
She felt him harden inside her again, felt her own body clutch his shaft.
He grinned wickedly, the smile full of alpha male bravado. “What’s that? Speechless? How about I make you breathless all night long?”
“All night,” she said, strangled for air.
“I told you I was better on land.”
9
Tank and Hollywood slammed through Wicked’s door with him hanging between them. He was sloshed, so drunk off his ass his bruises and contusions barely stung. He licked his lips, the cut there still bleeding. The rest of them were just as worse for wear. Between the alcohol and the fights between them, which he started when he’d coldcocked Hollywood, there would be a need for ice.
A shitload of ice.
“Son of a bitch,” Tank groused. “That hurt my fucking shoulder.” After dragging Wicked across the floor of his apartment, they dumped him on his couch.
“I’m already on ice duty,” Cowboy drawled.
The room wasn’t spinning, so Wicked was sure he could go a few more rounds. Maybe then everything he was feeling would go away. Just…release and he would be free.
He heard noises and turned his head. All of his teammates were setting ice against their faces or knuckles. All of them were glaring at Hollywood.
“What the fuck was that about?” Tank yelled.
“We could have been arrested, then Ruckus would have our asses in a sling,” Cowboy groused, a black eye forming.
“Don’t you know better than to piss him off?” Kid asked, leaning against the wall, ice pressed to his jaw. “My God, Hollywood. Who ties your shoelaces for you?”
“I don’t think there will be enough coffee or middle fingers for this goat fuck,” Blue said.
Hollywood set his hands on his hips. He looked at Tank. “I have no idea.” Cowboy was standing next to him and Hollywood patted his shoulder. “We didn’t get arrested and Ruckus doesn’t have to know a thing. We can talk about that sling later.” Then he winked. “So many things piss him off, I can’t keep track. He’s the grumpiest bastard I know. I use Velcro, Kid. Easy in. Easy out. No tying needed.” He sat down at Wicked’s dining table. “Coffee is overrated, and one middle finger is enough. But I guess the double bird will do,” he said, then showed them.
There was complete and utter silence.
“How about I make us all a nice cup of tea?”
There was a rush of laughter. Cowboy shook his head. “Hollywood, you are a tool, man.”
“Tea it is,” he said, rising.
Wicked watched him cross the room towards the kitchen. When Hollywood saw he was awake, he crouched down. If Wicked could have swung his fist, he would have.
“What’s up, you drunk fuck? I hope you got whatever it is out of your system. Going a few rounds with your teammates usually does the trick.”
“You planned this?”
“Of course I did. We’re a team. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but man, you need to get your shit together. We’re happy to be your punching bags.” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “Give me an opportunity to kick the shit out of you with plenty of back up to tag team. But you need to use your words, my friend. Fists only go skin deep.”
“Now you’re a fucking philosopher.”
Hollywood smiled that self-satisfied, knowing smile that made Wicked want to wipe the floor with him. “I guess I fucking am. Aristotle and Socrates have nothing on me.” With that smile still on his face, he asked, “Want some tea?”
Wicked swung out and just barely missed the knucklehead as he dodged back. He was fast on his feet. Probably learned that from being a huge smart ass.
“Oh, yeah. He wants some nice soothing chamomile tea.”
“Are you pissing him off again?” Blue said
“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”
Wicked growled from the couch, then pushed himself into a sitting position.
“Wicked, man. You got any food in this place?” Tank asked.
Kid called from the kitchen. “His fridge is stocked. Hey, there are tiny eclairs in here. I love any sized eclairs.”
There was a stampede to the kitchen, and Wicked leaned back, his head throbbing with the noise of the five guys currently trying to get to the food in his fridge.
“Hey, Wicked. What’s this pasta stuff? It smells great.”
“Jesus, don’t your women feed your pieholes?” he groused as he got up from the couch and grabbed up one of the ice bags that had fallen when the hungry hippos had made a beeline to his fridge. He placed it against his face. As he came into the kitchen, five asses were stuck out as they rummaged through his leftovers.
“Do you want cold leftovers or a hot meal?” Wicked asked.
All five heads popped up complete with black eyes and bruises. Jesus, he loved these guys. He wished Scarecrow was here.
“Ah, hell,” Kid said. “He’s going to put us to work.”
Hollywood chuckled. “Nothing in life is free, Kid.”
“What are you making?” Blue asked. “I ate, but I could eat again.” He slapped at Kid’s hands. “Hey, don’t bogart the eclairs, man.”
“Pasta Arrabbiata.”
Hollywood burst out laughing. “You would.”
“What’s so funny about pasta?” Kid asked.
“Pasta Arrabbiata means angry pasta. You’re supposed to be furious when you make it.”
“That fits,” Tank said. “Get to cooking, big man. You owe us and you better fucking have some beer in here.”
“Beer and mad pasta.” Cowboy hiked up his pants and sniffed. “We’re men.”
Wicked set a big pot of water on the stove and called for penne pasta. It was like a bucket brigade as they passed the two requested boxes.
“Hey, son, this is some stocked pantry. Reminds me of my nana’s,” Cowboy drawled.
“Yeah, nana on steroids,” Kid said sotto voce.
“Tomatoes,” Wicked said. “Canned in pantry, cherry in fridge.”
He whipped out a knife and all five guys leaned back. Wicked grinned. “Don’t worry. I don’t want any blood on my floor.” He offered it handle first to Kid. “Deseed and chop, boy.”
Kid saluted and started on the cherry tomatoes. He got Tank on the onions, then went to his balcony to get the fresh basil and got Blue chopping that.
“Who knew our knife skills would come in handy,” Kid said with a grin.
He crushed the tomatoes with his hands, still feeling the heat from his encounter with Kat. They were pulverized when he was done. In a heated skillet with hot olive oil, he cooked the onions and added in the red pepper flakes. Then when it was ready he raised the temperature and added in the tomatoes. Once the water was boiling, he dumped in the pasta.
After about twenty minutes it was all done. He plated six generous portions, added fresh Parmesan cheese and some homemade garlic bread he threw together.
Tank passed out the beer and they all chowed down.
After he’d eaten about half on his plate, he rose while his teammates were “discussing” desserts. He had plenty left over from the gallery opening. It was a smorgasbord of tasty tidbits.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket and pressed Scarecrow’s number.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey,
” Scarecrow said softly as if he was trying to be quiet. The telltale sound of a rasp that told Wicked he’d been sleeping.
“Is this a bad time?”
“No.” Scarecrow sounded…satisfied. Sated, in fact. Hmm, what was going on down there? “Give me a minute.”
He heard the rustle of bedsheets.
“Scarecrow,” the husky voice of a female. That was damn interesting.
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”
Wicked heard the sound of a door closing. The chorus of the night was loud in the background.
“What’s up?” Scarecrow asked.
“Nothing. Just checking in.”
“Nothing? By the cant to your voice, I’d say it was more than nothing.”
“Can’t a guy check on another guy for the hell of it?”
“Oh, it’s one of those moods. Who spit in your cereal?”
“You’re not going to join the CIA, are you? Kat’s just blowing smoke.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and Wicked’s gut clenched. He liked the team just like it was. Losing Scarecrow wasn’t an option. “You’d be fucking miserable and alone in the CIA. No one to rely on. You’re a SEAL through and through. Don’t let her get into your head.”
“She’s damn good at it. I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind. I’ve been wondering lately if that’s where I belong, handling the monsters alone.”
“It’s not.”
Scarecrow sighed. “I’m dealing with some shit here.”
“Yeah, well, it’s understandable. How is your mom?”
“She’s having difficulty remembering things. I’m worried about her. I’ve decided to clean out the house and move her to San Diego.”
“How did that go over?”
“Not well. She was upset.”
He could tell that Scarecrow was torn up about that and about his mom’s welfare.
“I don’t want to uproot her, but I can’t leave her alone here anymore. It wouldn’t be responsible. I have to do the hard shit.”
