Into Temptation

by Pam Godwin

  “His body was moved to a funeral home and will remain there until you decide—”

  “How do you know?”

  “Last night at the apartment, after you fell asleep, I called Romero. He took care of it.”

  “How?”

  “Digital records. He hacked into the Coroner’s Office and changed the orders for the body’s final destination.”

  “Oh my God, Cole.” She stared at him, overcome with indebtedness and adoration and…more. So much more.

  Deep inside, beneath the sorrow, something was building, thickening, and growing unstoppable.

  “Thank you.” She framed his gorgeous face with her hands and kissed him. Her pain, devotion, desire—she poured it all into the warm union of lips and tongues.

  He groaned, breaking the kiss, and they stared at each other. They stared as if they were both expecting some form of emotional breakdown from her. When none was forthcoming, he curved his hands around her hips and hauled her impossibly closer.

  “I want you to be happy.” He kissed her slowly. “And naked.”

  His tongue stroked. Her breaths shortened, and his fingers traveled everywhere. Caressing turned into grabbing. Soft nipping into passionate biting. Heartbeats accelerated, pounding harder, growing louder.

  She met him lick for lick. His cock hardened, swelling against her leg as his hands roamed, worshiping, tearing at her shirt. She twisted to tug the garment over her head, exposed and bare.

  He looked at her, panting. She looked back, wanting.

  She needed his body pressed against her. His warmth. His protection. His talented fingers deep inside her. His beautiful dick. His possessiveness. The taste of his kiss. The heat of his mouth. She needed him.

  “I’m addicted to you,” she breathed.

  “I don’t want to be an addiction. I want to be the love of your life.”

  Then he was on her, his mouth attacking her breasts and his hand between her legs, shocking her with three assertive fingers delving into her wetness. There was no warning, no warm-up. The intrusion bowed her back and reverberated to the soles of her feet.

  He bit her nipples and fucked her with his hand. She bit his lips and pulled his hair, trembling, moaning, burning for him alone.

  “I love seeing how much you want me.” He raised his soaked fingers in her periphery.

  She kissed him harder, momentarily shutting him up.

  With a firm grip on her waist, he pulled her tight against his erection, withdrawing only to yank her back again in a slow, teasing grind. She whimpered, needing him, wanting him to fuck her, her fingers gripping the striated lines of his muscled back, her breasts aching fiercely.

  “I’m going to put you on your back with your knees against your shoulders, and you’re going to take it.” He rocked beneath her, hips circling, grinding her on his lap. “I’m going to be so deep inside you you’ll feel me from your cunt to your throat.”

  She couldn’t wait.

  Rolling her to her back, he looked into her eyes and sank into her body, inch by inch, stroking, panting, working himself in. He groaned loudly, and she nearly choked on her own rapture.

  With her body folded in half at the waist and her knees on her shoulders, he fucked into her ruthlessly, tirelessly, his eyes fevered and breaths heavy. The pressure on her muscles created a tightness in her pelvis, increasing the sensations with each delicious thrust he delivered.

  His tendons and sinews contracted and stretched as he dug into her, deeper, harder, lunging, spearing, putting his magnificent body to work. The position gave her hands access to his ass, and God help her, she couldn’t stop groping him, her palms molding to the rock-hard shape, basking in the movement of those round sculpted muscles.

  He was a high-performing, wild animal with endless endurance. She dissolved beneath his potency, her legs losing strength in the restraints of his hands.

  Once he thoroughly pounded the deepest parts of her, he eased up and gave her a break from the stretch. Adjusting her here and there, he straddled one of her legs and hooked the other over his shoulder, scissoring her in a side-straddle.

  Her arms lay boneless above her head, putting the upthrust of her chest into his ravenous reach. His hands kneaded her breasts, his fingers punishing the nipples, and his intense gaze never leaving hers as he gave her the most sublime pleasure with the thick, long strokes of his dick.

  He had full control of her body in this position, and he took it, impaling her in fluid, possessing thrusts. Her breaths came faster, his caresses rough and greedy. His hips snapped in a fury.

  He rode her with a single-minded focus, parting that jaw, staring into her eyes, and chasing her urgent sounds with growly, winded grunts. Then he drove her into a back-arching, body-shaking, screaming orgasm so powerful that she damn near blacked out.

  As she fell apart beneath him, he threw his head back and braced himself on outstretched arms, stiffening, shuddering in the throes of his release.

  His roaring, volcanic pleasure was such a glorious sight to witness. She could spend the rest of her life doing nothing else but watching him come.

  His dark bedroom eyes looked dazed, lust-drunk, and terrifyingly, thrillingly in love as he stared at her and bucked, jerked, and thrust his way through ejaculation. His lips parted. His neck corded, and his gaze clung. He seemed helpless to hold the smallest part of himself back as he spent himself in an endless climax within her.

  She was melting. Slipping. Falling like a feather on the wind. As long as she was in his arms, she never wanted to touch the ground.

  “Touch the ground.” Danni rudely snapped her fingers, setting Lydia’s teeth on edge. “When you shimmy down, go all the way down. Fingertips to the floor. None of this halfway bullshit. And loosen those hips! Start again from the top.”

  After five days of dance instruction, Lydia wanted to wring the woman’s neck. The sweet little blonde from the first night had vanished the moment she donned a leotard. Danni Savoy was a goddamn Dance Nazi.

  Every time Lydia tripped, forgot a step, or copped an attitude, she was met with Danni’s withering glare. If her spine bent incorrectly, it earned her a stinging pinch from Danni’s hand. If she did a butt-wiggle instead of a figure-eight-sway, she got a scolding swat on the ass.

  Her feet ached in the heels. Her muscles protested every brutal, repetitive movement, and her heart fought it all, because more than anything, it just wanted to heal.

  The days and nights swirled into a fugue of sweating and swaying and tapping and sliding. She was naturally uncoordinated, stiff through the hips, and not always receptive to Danni’s criticism.

  But she was making progress. Huge progress.

  Watching herself in the mirror, she focused on transforming her feelings into movements. Music had the power to connect the soul with the senses, and for the past five days, Danni had been teaching her how to achieve that.

  “Let your body loose. Like this.” Danni gripped her hips from behind, moving her, demonstrating for the thousandth time how to catch the rhythm. “A stiff frame can’t move. Surrender your joints, your muscles, your breaths. Allow the music to control your movements all the way to the floor. See?”

  Despite Danni’s pregnancy, she had no trouble sweating it out on the dance floor for twelve hours every day. Lydia studied Danni’s reflection in the mirror, mimicking the descending, rippling silhouette of Danni’s cute body as they undulated together, down, down, down to the ground and back up.

  Techno music thumped from the speakers. Just one of the many dance genres she’d learned how to groove to. Different nightclubs offered different kinds of music, and she needed to adapt to each style as the music changed.

  And so it went. Hour after hour, day after day, Lydia practiced no less than fifty dance moves and transition techniques.

  At her request, Cole stayed away during the lessons. He was too distracting, his gaze too invasive and penetrating. She couldn’t work with him stalking the perimeter of the room, consuming her se
nses, demanding her attention.

  But they always reconnected at night amid tangled sheets. With each possessive thrust, it was no longer enough just to hear him roaring her name as they finished together.

  She wanted more.

  Lovers had come and gone throughout her life. She remembered none of them, never pursued anything more than a five-second fling.

  Cole wasn’t a lover. He was an unprecedented, decadent experience. His perseverance, dedication, and loyalty was unlike any man she’d ever been with. And let’s be honest. There was no one as insanely, unreasonably gorgeous as Cole Hartman.

  Whether they were sharing conversation, food, or body fluids, she didn’t want it to end. She often caught herself thinking about her life after this mission, and she always circled back to one undeniable truth. She wanted a future with Cole.

  Mike would’ve wanted that for her. On Christmas Eve, he let Cole into their home, into their life, because he knew.

  Cole belonged to her. He was the one. If she didn’t believe Cole’s words, she only had to look into his unyielding brown eyes. She would have to cut off his legs if she ever tried to run from him. Until his last breath, he would chase her to the ends of the earth.

  He wouldn’t need to, for he already caught her, heart and soul.

  “Wow. Look at you.” Danni danced around her, smiling and snapping her fingers to the music. “You got your groove, girl. Damn, you’re on fire!”

  She observed her form in the mirror, letting the repetitive electronic beat lift and drop her hips as she slid through the box step.

  With each booty shake, she felt less restrained. More confident. With the subtle kicks of her pelvis, her movements glided like oil, more relaxed, freer, sexier. If her feet still ached in the heels, she didn’t notice. She only felt the tune, the percussion, and the music.

  She was so lost in the zone she didn’t notice Danni had drifted away until the song ended.

  “You’re almost ready.” Danni leaned a shoulder against the wall of windows, her attention fixed on something outside.

  “What’s left? I swear I’ve learned every dance move in existence.”

  “You’ve mastered all the techniques and steps you’ll need.” Danni touched her throat, her cheeks flushing as her gaze remained glued on the window. “What’s left is the fun part. I’ll teach you how to flirt and…fuck.”

  “Sorry?” She wiped the perspiration from her forehead and treaded toward the window. “Are you blushing? What are you looking at out…? Oh, shit.”

  Outside, dormant grass stretched from the rear terrace to the surrounding tree line. At the center of the lawn, Cole and Trace rolled across the ground, grappling, sparring, shirtless and sweaty. So goddamn sexy.

  Her mouth watered. Her skin caught fire. Her stupid knees went weak.

  “Oh, shit,” she repeated, entranced by the display of muscle and ferocious power.

  They weren’t alone. Cole’s friends stood on the sidelines, bent forward, shouting, laughing, and cheering on the sparring match. Tiago, Matias, and Tate were shirtless, their workout pants clinging to their muscled physiques.

  Lucia and Camila wore exercise clothes, too, with their black hair pulled into ponytails. The sisters looked so similar it was hard to tell them apart.

  Kate sat off to the side with a textbook on her lap, cramming for an upcoming exam.

  “Trace missed his sparring partner.” Danni touched the glass, her expression somber. “I ruined a beautiful friendship.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything. Their relationship took a beating and evolved through the hardship. They’re still friends. I mean, they still call each other when they’re in trouble.”

  “You’re right.” Danni nodded. Then she grinned, her eyes glowing with sudden mischief. “Let’s take a break.”

  They shared a smile and slipped off their heels. Then they raced out of the dance room, through the house, grabbing coats and sneakers before heading outside into the chill of January.

  The overcast sky draped the yard in a wintry gray. The shirtless guys seemed unaffected by the cold, their grunts and shouts bursting in clouds of steam. Those who stood on the sideline looked just as tousled and sweaty as Cole and Trace. They must’ve been taking turns sparring.

  As she and Danni joined the group, the atmosphere buzzed with energy. Over the past five days, she’d spent more time with Danni than anyone else. But during meals and evening lulls, she got to know the entire group.

  Hearing their histories firsthand had given her a whole new respect for this vigilante family. Their experiences in Van Quiso’s attic hadn’t destroyed them. It made them stronger, closer, and those unbreakable bonds had formed a team of survivors willing to take the law into their own hands to decimate the most depraved criminals in the world.

  They were the personification of justice.

  She never had a plan beyond Vincent Barrington’s arrest and incarceration. Never let herself imagine what she would do next.

  Until now.

  The sounds of seething breaths charged the air. A few feet away, Cole held the dominant position over Trace, where they lay on the grass, chest to chest, wrestling for a chokehold.

  With Cole on top, he had the advantage, throwing his body weight behind the forearm that pressed against Trace’s throat.

  Then he looked up, his molten brown eyes homing in on her, softening, heating, then widening as a fist skidded across his jaw and slammed his head backward.

  Oops. She winced.

  Trace laughed in triumph. Cole scrambled back, flinging a sloppy kick to ward off Trace. They staggered to their feet and circled each other, catching their breaths. Then, with their glares narrowed in determination, they dove back together in a blur of limbs.

  “I’ve never seen that guy get distracted.” Tate stood beside her, his crystal blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s nice to see him with a distraction. Especially one that puts a goofy smile on his face.”

  “I hope he doesn’t get distracted next week. Did you guys iron out the itinerary?”

  “Yep. We narrowed down your list of nightclubs, using Romero’s facial recognition software to identify patterns. There are a handful of clubs between Italy and Romania that are frequented by the same group of men. According to Romero, this group was present on the nights that you spotted Easter eggs.”

  “Is PaulVer one of these people?”

  “We don’t think so. We’ve investigated all of them. They’re nobodies. Wealthy, bored nobodies who like to party. No I/T training or apparent computer skills. They’re probably just his friends, people who know his schedule and show up to party with him. I doubt they even know he’s a hacker. Most of these hackers are in the closet, hiding behind their keyboards, committing federal crimes, and telling no one.”

  “So these friends…if you know their identities, Romero should be able to track where they are, right? We’ll know which city and nightclub they’re at?”

  “Exactly. Assuming PaulVer goes where they go, it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. We’ll show up where they are. All you have to do is lure PaulVer out of the shadows. Once he puts an egg in your hand, we’ll have him.”

  “Yeah, and while I’m doing that, I’ll be luring Vincent’s men, too.”

  “That’s why we’re here. Cole called us in to protect you while you’re dancing.” Tate bumped his shoulder against hers, winking. “We’re really good at killing bad guys.”

  “I know, and I’m grateful.” She turned toward him. “I mean it, Tate. I don’t know how I’m going to repay you.”

  “We would do this job even if you hadn’t lost your family. Vincent Barrington cannot become President. Period. And when we take him down, there will be more evil fucks to pursue. This is what we do, and you’re part of it now.” He smiled, flashing his teeth. “Welcome to the family.”

  Blood hummed in her veins, circulating a depth of joy that she didn’t think she’d feel again without Mike.

  A pained grunt
drew her attention back to the sparring match. Trace doubled over, and Cole went in for the attack. With both hands, he grasped Trace’s head and brought a kneecap to Trace’s nose, followed by a kick to the solar plexus. Trace stumbled backward, but there was no blood. No apparent bruising. They were sparring, holding back their punches, not trying to kill each other.

  Trace regained his footing, but it was too late. Cole took him to the ground and twisted him into an arm lock, forcing Trace to tap out.

  In a blink, Cole was on his feet again, prowling toward her with an impish glint in his eyes. When he reached her, she stepped back, evading the aggressive grab of his hand.

  “You want me? Come and get me.” She retreated faster, dodging another swipe. “Is that all you got?”

  He growled, throwing himself at her. She feigned right, compelling him to move with her, then changed direction at the last minute and broke free.

  She took off at a sprint, delighting in the sound of his chasing footsteps.

  River-rock streams and mulched footpaths trailed off into the woods. Other paths led to the terrace and exterior doors of the house. She followed the cobblestone sidewalk that curved around the wing of the estate.

  The chilly breeze nipped at her cheeks, but the coat kept her warm. She glanced back, and her pulse ignited. Holy shit, he was right there in arm’s reach, shirtless, his expression so intensely hungry her heart tripped…right along with her feet.

  She staggered, and his arm swung out, grabbing for her hair. With a yelp, she bolted forward, the strands slipping from his fingers. She picked up her pace, leaping over rocks, laughing, and trembling with desire.

  Halfway around the side of the estate, he caught her by the neck and hauled her back, crushing her mouth against his. The kiss split open in a sweep of tongues and searing heat. Her back hit the side of the house, and he moved in, syncing their hips and grinding with the rhythm of their rushing breaths.

  He tore her coat open, popping the buttons. Then he shoved her tank top and bra to her neck and pressed his bare chest against hers, burning her skin.