by Skye Warren
“Yeah.” He pushed her into an empty room, leaving the light off. It was so wrong like this, rushed and dirty in a study room where they didn’t even belong, but the frantic hands and panting breaths were just right. She needed to know he was as crazy about her as she was about him. She needed to know that the King of the Slackers was a facade but this—this was real.
She tried to buck against him but only succeeded in knocking against the door.
“Shh, someone will hear,” he muttered and then tugged her jeans down her legs. And then pushed two blunt fingers into her wet heat and searched and probed until he found the sensitive bundle of nerves.
She moaned, and she couldn’t keep quiet.
He latched his mouth over hers and stumbled, taking her with them. He fell back on the couch, catching the brunt of their fall together. With his hands on her hips, he centered her over him, settling the ridge of his cock against her wet, pulsing sex. She gasped at the contact of his rough jeans on her sensitive clit. It was too much; she needed to get away. Except when he held her down with both hands and thrust upward with his hips—more pressure and ahhh, just right.
And still, she pulled away from the pleasure.
It scared her, how much she craved it. How much she needed it.
“What’s wrong, gorgeous?” he murmured, lids low with arousal.
“I don’t…” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.” Make me, make me.
His lips firmed. “Oh, gorgeous. There’s so much pain inside you.”
All the pain centered at her core, where she had been violated, lost. Where she had been found again. Her knees barely brushed against the rough fabric of the sofa. She was suspended on top of him, riding the waves and helpless against its whims.
“You don’t need me to hurt you,” he said roughly.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Do it.”
Her past always crept up on her in these moments, strangling her pain, tainting her pleasure. Her brother had given his life for her, but she’d never really be free. Nate was a hero, but even he couldn’t save her.
He did the opposite of what she wanted, letting his hands fall back. “You hurt enough already. More than you ever should have. Give it to me. Hurt me instead. Dig your nails into me. Mark me, gorgeous. Fucking scar me.”
Impossibly she found herself obeying him, reaching for him. Her hands and mouth were touching him, grasping him, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to feel every part of him, to feel the core of him, and he was seated just perfectly.
She palmed his heat through his jeans, clumsy and harsh. He loved it, groaning against her lips. With a few flicks of the zipper, she pulled him into her palm, stroking the velvety shaft and swirling her thumb through the wetness at the tip. Hard, like he wanted. Rough, like she wanted.
He bucked against her with an urgency that made her hot. It was a warning: soon, no time left. This had to be more than a handjob—she owed him that—so she sank down to the floor between his knees.
“Fuck.” His words came in staccato bursts of breath as he hauled her back up. “Need to be inside you. That gorgeous little pussy is all wet for me, isn’t it? So fucking hungry.”
He paused with the tip of his cock nudging at her entrance, her legs spread over his thighs.
His eyes were glazed with lust. “Sofia?”
She sank down around him, her eyes falling shut. “Yeah,” she breathed. Though she didn’t really understand the question, she knew the answer. Whatever he wanted—yes. Could she please him, keep him this time? God, she would try.
Her body slackened by the pleasure of being filled, she set up a languorous pace, a roll of her hips combined with a swivel down. It was the last part that made his breath catch, and in a matter of minutes, his thighs were trembling beneath hers.
His cock was always so impossibly hot. The first time she had touched him, she’d thought he felt feverish. But it was a sex fever, the sweetest delirium that made him call out her name. He let her rock over him until he reached his breaking point; then he grasped her hips and thrust up to meet her.
Her mouth opened on a gasp and caught there, frozen with the sharp sensation. He reached someplace inside her that twinged as the soft head of his cock breached it. She shuddered every time, unable to tell the difference between good or bad, pleasure or pain—there was only Nate. His cock filling her up. His mouth enclosing her nipple.
Her body was entwined with his, and they moved in a rhythm too intimate to name. It was a language for bodies alone, the rasp of his tongue against her pebbled nipple, the slippery scratch of his hair against her thick clit, the clenching and pulsing inside her as she came and then he did. She rode out the final notes before collapsing on him. He stretched out the orgasm, pumping again once, twice into her before his cock slipped out of her and she felt a final spurt of hot liquid against her thigh.
Sated, she remained over him in a sensual sprawl. A soft thunk shuddered through his body as his head hit the wall behind him.
“You’re going to kill me.” His low baritone had been run through a shredder, sliced apart and missing pieces.
Sex, he meant. Or maybe their relationship.
That was what he meant, but still she shivered at his words, as if they were a premonition. She could really kill him. His involvement in this mess would only lead to him being injured or worse, and Jesus, now she understood why he’d gotten so damn upset when she’d talked about dying. It made her crazy to think of him at risk. She had always wanted him to care more, like he must have in Special Forces, except that job was rife with danger. A private investigator was one of the safest jobs he could have. She understood, suddenly, the appeal of the laid-back attitude. Don’t care; don’t bother. Don’t get hurt; don’t watch your loved ones get hurt.
Lifting her head, she took in his lowered lids, his flushed lips.
“You can go,” she said quietly. “I mean it. This isn’t a guilt trip or some kind of trick. This isn’t your fight.”
Despite his disheveled state, his voice was even. Steady as a rock. “It is my fight. I should have stayed and fought for you. Not just now at the library. Back then, when you wanted me to get off my ass and do something with my life.”
Guilt turned her stomach. “It wasn’t my place.”
“No.” He put a finger over her lips. “You need to do this. I understand that.”
Her throat tightened. She had wanted him to step up, and he had. “You’ll let me go see Moreland?”
His expression became grim. “With me, Sofia. Always with me.”
“But—”
“You have to do this, and I have to stand beside you. You have to trust me to do that.”
She nodded, knowing that protection was part of him. He was a hero, whether he admitted it or not. She wondered how long that promise extended. Only while she was in danger? Only while Moreland was a threat? He’d let her walk away once before. She wasn’t sure she wanted to leave again.
Chapter Fifteen
Matt slung himself into the small chair, spinning a few times before settling his elbows on the desk. So that was Sofia Mendoza. She looked younger than he’d thought. Prettier too. The pulled-back hair and small smile in her staff photo painted a different picture—more ambitious, less kind.
It had been weird working for a person he hadn’t met, but those were the dues to be paid. A campus interview with a tired recruiter confirmed he had a brain between his ears. Then a quick tour of the Daily’s offices to sign the internship paperwork, but Sofia had been out on an assignment. So he’d put his hours in at night when he wasn’t at school or working in the library or at the university newspaper, hoping to get noticed.
Not like this, though.
His mom had freaked when she saw the news. The cell phone towers in Austin were jammed for hours the afternoon of the explosion. She was in tears by the time his phone actually rang. It had taken thirty minutes to calm her down and another hour to convince her he wasn’t going to drop out midsemester and fly ho
me.
Then Sofia showing up at his work…it had thrown him. He still felt bad for lying to her. He glanced at the alarm clock. Eight o’clock. She would be at the speech right now. He had time to catch her and confess, but how well would that go over? I think my girlfriend might have been the one to doctor up those files. Oh, and she’s not really my girlfriend. I’m just kind of in love, but I don’t even know how to find her.
He’d broken his confidentiality agreement and his credibility as a reporter for what? All so he could get laid. He really hadn’t meant it that way, but he had to admit, that’s what he’d wanted. Though the sex hadn’t happened.
Maybe she hadn’t been the one to tell. He couldn’t imagine why she had.
If she had information, why not just tell him?
Something stirred behind the door. He turned to see something small and brown dart across the floor.
“Goddamn it, Jimmy.”
He followed the gerbil into the closet, but the rodent was safely hidden under the mountain of dirty laundry. The girls in a room next door kept the gerbil in a cage, even though they weren’t supposed to. Matt privately agreed with the rule for precisely this reason.
Whenever the gerbil got loose, which it inevitably did, it took days to catch him. One time he’d found Jimmy when he’d been tidying up. The days-old Cheetos bag on the floor had been heavier than it should—and wriggly. He still had nightmares about that.
“Hey.”
The low voice came from behind him, and he whirled. “Shit. You scared me.”
There she was, her blonde hair in a braid, her hands shoved into her jeans pockets. She smiled uncertainly, the effect less brilliant than usual but somehow more poignant. He knew he’d been stupid as to show her his work and share details, but damn. When she looked at him that way, like the whole world was in front of her, he felt something open up inside him.
He loosened, and the freedom in that was almost better than sex.
Almost, because he still really wanted to have sex with her.
“I worried about you,” she said.
For a minute he wasn’t sure what she meant. Of course she knew about his job at the Daily because he’d told her about it. Bragged, actually. “Oh, the newspaper. Yeah, I wasn’t there. It’s really tragic though. I’ve been watching it on TV.”
She made this strange little shrug, almost fatalistic, stepping over the shambles of the room to the thin, clear window. Something was off about her. Every day she looked brand-new—different clothes, different hair. The same soul-tugging eyes. But today the change was more palpable. Melancholy shrouded her. He wanted to rip it away and find out what would make her smile, laugh. Did she ever laugh?
He took one step toward her. “I need to talk to you about that. Did you… That day you looked at those articles and pictures. Did you change them? Add something to them?”
She turned back sharply. The look in her eyes was soft, though. “Why would I do that?”
“There was some information on them, in back of the documents. I didn’t add them so I thought maybe…maybe you did.”
A sigh. “That was a mistake.”
“So you did change the files?” He shook his head, mystified. This was like some kind of conspiracy-theory level shit. It was almost exciting to be a part of it, but he didn’t understand. “Why?”
She looked away. “I wanted to help her. But I can’t.”
More puzzles. “Why didn’t you send them to the Daily yourself?”
“He’d know it was me,” she said flatly. “I guess he already did.”
“Who?”
“I have to go.”
“Wait, we need to find Sofia. We have to tell her—”
Her gaze sharpened. “Sofia is alive?”
The skin on his neck prickled. Had he told her his boss’s name? Was it listed on some org chart on the Daily’s website? Obviously she knew more than she was telling him. She must have sought him out because of his internship at the Daily. That stung his ego, but then he’d always known she was too good for him.
“She came by earlier,” he said.
“Where is she?”
“Probably long gone by now.” A lie, but he couldn’t be sure she was on Sofia’s side.
“Oh.” She seemed to lose interest then, glancing instead to his rumpled bed.
Of course he knew it was a distraction. She’d never had sex with him before. Hinted, yes. Made him lust after her, dream about her. But she’d never touched him.
Stepping forward, she reached her arms around his neck.
What if he was imagining things? Maybe she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Or maybe he was just thinking with his dick.
He let his hands fall on her waist, eager to feel her slender form, comforted by her warmth. He’d been chilled ever since hearing the news, but her mouth on his and her knowing hands on his body was just the balm he needed.
They fell back onto the bed, her body small beneath his. She paused, blinking up at him. Tragic eyes, he thought, and then mocked himself. He should have been a poet, not a reporter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered.
He froze, because this was their thing. The first thing she’d ever said to him was I didn’t mean to hurt you as she’d dropped a book on his head in the library.
She hadn’t hurt him this time.
In fact, he couldn’t really feel anything.
Only when he looked sideways did he realize why. The needle in her hand. He’d been too fucking horny to even register the prick.
His gaze found her face again. Tragic eyes. Regretful, guilty eyes.
He found his voice, hoarse and thready. “Why?”
She pressed her lips to his, soft and chaste. “They want me to kill you, but I won’t do that. I’ll keep you safe.”
He fell onto his side, and the world went black.
Chapter Sixteen
Anticipation and a packed auditorium raised the temperature backstage. From the shadows, Nate watched the sound and lighting people check and recheck the systems. They had already scoped out the shitty little greenroom where Moreland should be.
His heart rate was steady, breathing even and deep. His body recognized this as a mission. He was one man instead of a team, but he took this as seriously as any mandated operation, because Sofia was here.
“You ready?” he murmured.
Her hand shook slightly as she curled her hair behind her ear. “I’m good.”
She wasn’t good, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. He had one job, and one job only—to make sure that she stayed alive. The thought of her hurt made him rip and bulge into some sort of Hulk, but that wasn’t safe. No, safest for her was the analytical intellect, the strategist, the soldier.
The exits were mapped—in his head anyway. His not-exactly-legal concealed handgun was in one boot, his KA-BAR in the other. There were plenty of unknowns, but they all factored into the equation that only had one possible outcome: they’d both get out safely.
Except whatever weapons came at them, Sofia had that hardest fight. She had to get that slimey politician to give up a secret, a lead—something. And she was nervous. He could feel her worry shimmer in the air around them.
Older, more experienced reporters had tried to penetrate the Moreland wall. They had failed. But he believed in her. “You’ll get him.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “How can you sound so sure?”
“Because this is what you were born to do.”
To push, to fight. To put herself in danger, if that meant protecting someone else. It was what he loved and hated about her. It was the reason he’d let her walk away that first time, but he didn’t think he could do it again.
* * *
Sofia’s eyes scanned the crowds. “Where is he?”
Moreland still hadn’t shown up and the speech was scheduled to start in minutes.
“He’ll come.” Nate sounded sure, but what if the whole explosion and resultan
t press storm had him spooked? He might blow off the speech.
“He could be halfway to Mexico right now on another shady aide mission.”
“That’s the thing about egomaniacal assholes,” Nate murmured. “They think they’re above the law. He won’t get spooked. He’ll come.”
Even the event organizers were starting to sweat as the minute hand leaned into the twelve. A sudden clatter from the hallway behind the stage sharpened her attention.
With three minutes to spare, Moreland arrived. Flanked on both sides by suited men, bodyguards and advisors both, he radiated geniality and confidence.
Her stomach turned over.
“And I said to him, ‘Governor, how can we expect these kids to be on time to class if I don’t make it to my own speech?’”
Nervous laughter met his question.
They couldn’t be falling for this self-aggrandizing, name-dropping bastard, could they? But they were. Everyone backstage had frozen in place, wax statues of awe and admiration, as a female aide powdered his nose and straightened his tie.
His salt-and-pepper hair and grave brown eyes were striking, that was for sure. Sofia could see how they might be handsome if she had passed him on the street, without knowing about the invisible blood staining his hands. Blood of her colleagues. Blood of her friends.
Nate’s hands were on her upper arms, restraining her. Confused, she glanced back.
His face was dark. “Not like this.”
A whimper escaped her, part fear, part frustration. She fought him—stubbornness and determination filling her with a strength equal to his. And then his hands tightened on her arms, almost bruising. His brown eyes sparked with heat.
Then his hold didn’t feel confining as much as protective.
She let her body fall against him, and he caught her in a tight embrace.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “You’ll get your interview.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Reporters, always angling for the interview.”
His eyes filled with something almost soft. Affection? Love? He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Not you, Sofia. You were always in it for the right reasons, always willing to fight for people who needed it. I didn’t stand a chance around you.”
