Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21)

by Irish Winters

  He looked to his left, then right, scanning the beach. Was he searching for something or someone? Seemed like it.

  “Yes, I’m alone,” she said before he asked. He didn’t need to know she carried. Her tiny bikini was misleading. Let him think what he wanted and let that be her surprise. If he made one wrong move, she’d whip that loaded .380 auto out of the mesh holster tucked at her side, so fast he’d never see it coming.

  “Hotrod’s good enough for now,” he murmured, his sharp eyes scrolling up her legs to her belly and on up to her breasts.

  “Up here, asshole,” she ordered, removing her glasses. “I have eyes, too.”

  “I can see that.” He gave her a curt affirmative nod of his head, which wasn’t square nor much larger than hers. Which was unfortunate. True alpha males, the kind she preferred, had bigger, wider skulls than women. Of course, sometimes, that also made them bigger assholes. But more often than not, it made them cavemen in the bedroom.

  Persia set her glasses in the bottle holder carved into her chair’s armrest. She had no illusions about who she was. The men in her life had to be stronger than she was, for her to like them, and so far, she hadn’t met any who were. Not even her new boss. He was tough all right, but he was too damned old.

  She let a breath go on a disappointed sigh, not sure what she’d expected from this chance encounter. But this guy wasn’t it. Even as ripped as he was, Hotrod was nothing special. To prove her point, she spread her knees and let her sandals hit the ground at the upright legs of the chair.

  As expected, his eyes lowered straight to the juncture of her thighs. See? How utterly, predictably boring. She was wrong. He wasn’t spec ops. If anything, he belonged in a nice clean gym, not out risking his life. He wasn’t the same caliber as her, and he’d probably never seen the ugly side of life, not like she had. Want to bet he lived in his parents' basement with a boatload of athletic gear they’d paid for? That his mommy still did his laundry? Yeah. This guy was just plain ordinary from head to toe. Or. Din. Ary.

  “Why the fuck are you here?” snapped out of her. She had better things to do than waste time on a one-night stand. They weren’t her specialty, and she hadn’t come this far south looking for a hookup. This was her beach, her vacation, and her time away from the messed-up world. She’d come here to recharge, not deal with beach trash. Hotrod needed to buzz off.

  He rolled his shoulders, which were… Nice.

  “A warm shower’d be good,” he said quietly, even as he cast a gaze down the beach again. “Don’t suppose there’s one handy? I can pay.”

  “I don’t need your money,” she said dismissively. “There’s a hose outside my front door. It’s cold but you can rinse off there. Then leave.”

  His head bobbed like the meek man he was. “Thanks, ma’am. That’ll work.”

  You’re damned right it will. “Okay then.” She cupped her kneecaps and tried to hoist herself out of that chair. Unfortunately, Adirondack chairs turned her into an idiot every time she struggled out of their deep, angled posterior, especially after she’d been drinking. Why she’d ever bought the thing, she’d never know. Except she had. It was the chair’s bright, vivid purple color she liked instead of the overdone, boring, tropical hues this state was known for. Who needed more turquoise, pinks, baby blues, or creamy yellows? Not. Her.

  She’d no more than huffed at the spectacle she was making of herself, when Hotrod stepped up and offered his hand. See? Mama’s boy.

  Persia grabbed hold anyway, amazed at the callused roughness she found there. She’d expected baby soft. Wasn’t what she got.

  By then he also had hold of her elbow, and she was caught. “You okay?” he asked gruffly, looking down at her.

  Her breath caught at the sudden hit of cinnamon in the air. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She needed him to back off, but he’d pulled her to her feet so quickly, her other palm hit the middle of his chest. Oh. My. Hell.

  Women had cleavage between their breasts. It, breasts, and nipples had been created in part for the primitive, animalistic purpose of making men look. Of driving them out of their minds with lust until they did what men did best. Fuck. That was their primary mission, their one good reason for breathing.

  And Hotrod was looking. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her breasts, but then neither could Persia take her eyes off his chest. There was a veritable slice between his breathtaking pectorals. A narrow grand canyon of sinew between two sets of finely-packed, rock-solid muscle. And they were warm. So warm. And solid.

  A woman had needs, damn it. Could she help it if she might possibly be drooling at the snug way her thumb had just slid inside that warm, male crevice where it landed? Hotrod wasn’t just built. He was carved out of deliciously living granite that pulsed and thrummed under her touch.

  Was he as turned on as she was? The edge of her thumb slid deeper between those two slabs of muscle, as if it had found its place in the grand scope of things. Like it wanted to stay there. Which put her fluttering fingertips over his nipple, as if they’d found their new favorite toy.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve gotcha,” he said, his voice husky and heavy with desire.

  He most certainly did have her. Fighting to catch her balance—and her breath—Persia looked him square in the eye. His blue eyes were as pure and breathtaking as the Key West ocean before an afternoon rain. She’d pegged him wrong. This guy wasn’t short, and he wasn’t ordinary, not the way he’d stepped up and taken charge. He had her beat by a good six inches, up close. Maybe more. And he had her hand.

  The man she’d thought forgettable was anything but. Close-up, Hotrod was lethally raw and wickedly potent. His masculinity whipped out and wrapped her in their own private bubble. She really was caught.

  Her nostrils flared at the luscious scents of wind, sand, and sea, combined with the distinctly male musk coming off him. And cinnamon. She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare swallow.

  But she could step back, damn it!

  Flustered like she’d never been before in her life, Persia retreated until her calves bumped the front of her chair. Out of breath at this overwhelming, incredible first contact, she reached down with her free hand and grabbed her towel with its hidden weapon.

  “My bungalow’s behind us. In the... trees,” she told him, pissed that a breathy hesitance had replaced her usual, domineering snark. “You’ll see the… the garden hose attached to the post just outside the door. It has a nozzle to control the flow, and all you have to d-d-do is...”

  And she was stuttering!

  Struggling to gather her wits, Persia jerked her hand back. “It’s actually an outdoor shower with a four-by-four tiled floor. There’s a bench alongside to set your stuff on, and I’ll…” I’ll be damned. I’ve turned into a silly, chatty, feminine idiot, who... Is. Not. Me! “And I’ll get a towel while you shower,” she bit out, in case he thought she was weakening. Which she was not. “Leave it on the b-b-bench when you l-l-leave.” Why couldn’t she talk straight?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Hotrod was so damned polite, she had a feeling he might salute any second now. Her lips were dry, so… she licked the bottom one. Then bit it. Held her lip between her teeth, overcome by—something.

  Of course, he noticed her mouth. Men liked any female orifice. He was suddenly a jungle cat with big, black, glowing eyes. Alert. Poised. Ready to strike. And… And… She wanted to do erotic, carnal things to him. With him. He needed to squirm, and she needed to be the dominant one making him squirm.

  Logic evaporated. Persia didn’t waste time thinking twice, just slammed into that rugged, sexy mouth, needing whatever was simmering between Hotrod the liar and her to boil the hell over. To consume her and him. To get it over and done.

  Just that fast, he was a match to her gasoline. His heavy bag hit the ground with a thud. His warm, capable hands smoothed down her back and cupped her mostly bare ass. Bikinis weren’t made to cover much. This one surely didn’
t.

  Their mouths crashed together, all lips and teeth, growls and tongues. Their bodies followed suit. Breasts to chest. Hip to hip and thigh to thigh. One of her knees landed between his thighs. The rousing sensation of his hair-roughened skin against her bare skin excited the hell out of Persia. It’d been so long. She wanted this stranger more than she’d ever wanted a man before. And that had been damned few times.

  Lust roared like an out of control forest fire between them. It licked up her spine, and Persia couldn’t get her fingers on his head and into his hair fast enough. Delightful. Simply, decadently delightful, holding this man’s skull. Threading through waves of burnished gold. Mapping the curve of his head and his strong neck. Cupping his scruffy jaw, she held him still.

  And he let her. Breathing was hard. But then Hotrod cupped both hands under her jaw, took possession of her mouth, and…

  His breath became her air. Her lifeline.

  Dayum. The man could kiss. His tongue was sweet and slick, demanding, tasting of cinnamon and male passion, determination mingled with brimstone and heat. And she was lost in a maelstrom of willing, dancing flames. The oncoming darkness swirled around them.

  When she opened her eyes, Persia found herself standing under that silly outdoor showerhead. With a snap of his wrist, Hotrod cranked the handle and…

  Br-r-r-r-r. Cold water doused over her head and over him. Not that it slowed her down or cooled her off. Not. At. All. If anything, it cranked her libido higher. He still wore his swim trunks, but that feral, needy glare in his eyes when they skated over her semi-nakedness, was her undoing.

  And God created fire. Burning, aching flames in her gut that Hotrod seemed to know precisely how to cajole into a roaring inferno.

  With one quick snap of his fingertips, the tie to her flimsy top was undone. It fell to the tiled floor between them. Likewise, her skimpy bottoms went next, a soggy number eight on the tile. Persia stood there stark naked, completely exposed where anyone could see her. While he was still semi-dressed. The inherent naughtiness of her being nude out in the open, when he wasn’t, turned her body to liquid flame. What a rush. Erotic anticipation zipped up the insides of her legs.

  As if he knew precisely what she needed, he sank to his knees and…

  Oh, yes, yes, yes, please.

  He caught her breast in one big, warm palm, the other with his mouth, suckling that sensitive mound of needy flesh like a master. Licking it. Nibbling it. Scraping his teeth over the hardened tip, enough that she wanted more. He rolled her other nipple between his fingers. Pinching with just the right amount of pressure and squeeze and…

  “Pleasssse,” she hissed. The tips of her nipples were hard as diamonds. If he kept suckling, licking, and pinching, she’d combust right here, right now.

  “Inside. Sh-shower. Soap,” she informed him before she lost all control. Not like she had much left. Not with the steady buzz in her blood. But behind the closed doors of her tidy, clean bungalow, even if they landed on her kitchen floor instead of in her shower stall, was still safer than continuing this craziness outside.

  His palm slipped down her belly even as his tongue swirled crazy circles around her nipple inside his mouth, and…

  Two wonderful male fingers breached her core, as if he owned her. Which he did at the moment. Persia couldn’t think. Didn’t dare. She could hardly breathe, but she needed this, and whoever this guy really was, she needed him. Just for tonight. Then he could leave, and she’d never think of him again. Okay, that made her a one-night-stand. Well, so what? She had needs, damn it!

  Between the chilly water sluicing over her bare skin, and the roaring, out of control fire he’d started with those gently probing fingers and his skilled mouth…

  Between the stars twinkling down on her, and the fact that she was about to have consensual sex in the open where anyone with a decent pair of binoculars—or eyes—could see…

  The heat in her blood turned into a thrilling zip ride of pleasure. She couldn’t believe how quickly he’d taken her to the edge. Didn’t dare speak it, afraid if she thought too hard, she’d kill the sizzle racing up her core. All she could do was stare wide-eyed at this stranger as a monster shockwave hit her. “I’m… I’m…”

  “Come for me, princess,” Hotrod murmured tenderly, his blue eyes now midnight dark, his lips curled into a proud, ragged, manly smile. His voice had gone masculine deep, so low, it rumbled over her like a security blanket. A strong male security blanket.

  Before she let go, she pulled back far enough to be sure what she was doing, what she was seeing. Still holding his head, she looked straight into the brooding face of loneliness. Need. Hunger.

  How perfect. She wasn’t the only desperate one here. Man, he was good. So were his fingers. But that glimmer in his eyes was pure det cord, and she was Semtex. Her breath caught. Her heart stopped. Lightning struck down deep and low and hot in her belly. Like a freight train, it exploded, an uncorked bottle of champagne. She closed her eyes, savoring the release of a lifetime. What a rush!

  “This! Yessss, thisssss,” she hissed, like he didn’t already know what he was doing to her. Biting her tongue to keep from screaming like a wanton alley cat, she pulled him to her face and ground into his forehead, “M-more, Hotrod. Dammit, more.”

  Kisses. All she had to give him were kisses, so she peppered his handsome, rugged face with her lips and mouth and breath. But she also needed something to hold onto. Her legs had turned to jelly. Her palms skated down his neck, over his collar bones, to his solid shoulders.

  “Wrap your legs around me, sugar.” The man never even grunted when he palmed her ass and lifted off his knees with her in his arms. “Is your door locked?”

  “N-no,” she murmured, weak as a lamb, and as foolish as she’d ever been. She’d never come so quickly nor flown so high. Which was either a testament to his skill as a lover, or her total departure from reality. That had to be it. Her last missions into Brazil had both been brutally difficult. She was suffering a psychotic break. That was all. No doubt post-traumatic stress, too. Nothing serious. Nothing a few months of therapy and enough whiskey couldn’t cure.

  Slanting his body sideways, Hotrod leaned against her door. Somehow, he held onto her while he turned the knob, then shouldered her door open, and maneuvered her through so as not to bump her head. He kicked the door shut, then locked it. Good man. Really good, good man.

  Persia laid her head on his shoulder. Except for the dim light from her bedroom nightlight, her entire house was dark. Hotrod seemed able to see in the dark.

  Still thrumming from her fantastic, once in a lifetime orgasm, she focused on the odd sensation of being held like a child in this strong, hard male hands. Hotrod was one sexy, muscular beast, and that eight-pack wasn’t spray paint. Her fingers told her so, but what’s more… He wasn’t as slim as she’d thought at first glance. Neither was he nothing special. Grand, sprang to mind. Grand and slippery, hard as steel, and ready for action.

  She opened her mouth to tell him—something—but found herself tossed onto the middle of her bed, surrounded by her pillows. Persia flattened her palms to her chest to keep her breasts from bouncing. They were big enough and had plenty of bounce in them, but she found it embarrassing, breasts being mostly fat and all. If anything, her full figure had held her back in college and during her career. Too many men equated full figures with opportunity—for them. Not her. She’d worked damned hard to be who she was today.

  But if Hotrod liked them…

  Her palms hit the mattress as she let him look.

  He came to a full, abrupt stop at her bedside. He was still in his swim trunks while she lay exposed and mussed and completely on display. At his disposal. Those beautiful blues skated over every inch of her bare skin. From head to toes and in between, his sharp gaze lingered. His tongue ran a quick, sensual lap over his lips when his eyes landed on her breasts.

  What have I done? I don’t know this guy. At all. He could b
e Jack the Ripper!

  He must have seen the worry in her eyes. She’d no more than doubted her sanity, when his knees hit the mattress. Not breaking eye contact, he climbed up her legs, pushing her gently over as he dominated the whole damned room. She didn’t know whether to purr or scream. This was her place, not his. She was the dominant, not him. There wasn’t enough air in this room!

  “You’re safe with me, princess,” he reassured quietly, his forearms now alongside her head, and that rugged, ripped, to-die-for body poised directly over hers. Perfectly aligned. Like an addled-brained idiot, her knees had automatically opened wide for him, and there he was. Pressed hard and ready against her core. Waiting on her. Melting her with those gentle blue eyes. Asking permission…

  “I’d never do anything to hurt or scare you. I’m not one of those guys.”

  “Well, yeah, I’m… I’m not one of those women,” she groused, not ready to admit it was highly possible she’d made a huge mistake by throwing herself at him. Not that she’d ever confess to that, because oh, yes, oh yes. She certainly was one of those stupid, needy women.

  What on earth did she really know about this guy? Even Hotrod wasn’t his real name. And okaaaaaaay... So what if he was the hottest male she’d ever—ever—laid eyes on? So what if he was kind and gentlemanly, that he seemed to like her? And okay, yes. He smelled really, really good, and she was fairly sure he liked what he could see of her. Which was everything. Was that all this was about? A good fuck and goodbye?

  “I mean it, sugar,” he growled, his voice a ragged whisper that caressed her skin like sweet Georgia honey on bee stings. “Just say the word and I’ll leave. But just so you know, I put your weapon on your nightstand. If you want, I’ll secure it in your drawer. But if you’d feel more comfortable holding it—”

  “My piece!” she all but screeched. No FBI agent ever lost track of her service weapon. Not like she was with the Bureau anymore. She wasn’t. But what would Alex Stewart say? He’d fire her!