Midnight Heist (Outlaws Book 1)

by Katherine McIntyre

  “Heaven and hell, you’re fucking sexy,” Greg panted as he yanked on Dan’s hair. “But I’d rather come inside you.”

  Greg stepped back to draw his cock out of Dan’s mouth. Dan’s tongue traced his lips before he could help himself. Greg reached down and offered a hand up, and Dan rose on shaky legs. His cock throbbed with a deafening demand, need squeezing him tighter and tighter.

  Greg toed off his boots, and a second later, his jeans hit the floor. Dan reached out to tug at the hem of his shirt. The man winked before he slung the flimsy fabric up and over. It hit the floor a moment later, leaving all six foot four of this massive man bare. Dan couldn’t help but gape. This wasn’t the body of your average office worker, or even a guy who hit the gym every day. Ridges of cut muscle, the raised skin of countless scars, and the readiness to his frame brought his mind to bare-knuckle boxers or underground fighters.

  “Your turn,” Greg purred in his ear as his fingers worked the buttons on his shirt.

  Dan’s cock strained the fabric of his jeans. He was so hard right now, his erection might punch right through the seams. Greg’s fingers moved fast, but Dan couldn’t look away from that intense gaze. The man saw all of him without even trying, like he could peer past to peek at his inner thoughts, his fears, his worries. Even fully clothed, he felt utterly stripped down.

  Greg undid the final button of his shirt, and Dan shrugged it off his shoulders. Dan’s palms skated the surface of Greg’s muscular arms, running across the ridges and firm lines.

  Any other time he’d tried the one-night stand thing, his insecurities had risen to the surface—how he wished he packed on more muscle, how he hated the way the part in his hair fell, even his bony ankles—but Greg’s appreciative gaze melted all the concerns away.

  Greg grabbed Dan’s belt and gave a hard yank. Dan stumbled from the tug, and by the time Greg’s mouth crashed against his again, his belt had hit the floor with a clank. Greg shoved his jeans down with enough force to send him careening into his arms. The man caught him with no effort, those strong arms bracing him. His chest pressed against the firm wall of Greg Locksley, but the moment their cocks brushed against each other, his mind near blanked. The silken feel of Greg’s against his was too much euphoria too fast.

  Greg kissed him, the rough stubble scraping against his chin again, and then the man wrapped a hand around his cock and began to pump. Fuck, that felt so good he might blow on the spot. Dan let out a low moan, his hands gripping defined hips that trailed in a V toward Greg’s heavy, thick cock. Their legs tangled together, and he continued to kiss him back, surrendering to the volcanic force of this man.

  “God, I need you inside me now,” he breathed, the ache unbearable with the way Greg stroked up and down his shaft. Dan reached up to skim his hands through the flaxen hair of the guy who towered over him like some Michelangelo. Something tender flashed in that sultry gaze, and Dan’s heart sped a little faster.

  “And to think, I didn’t even have to ask you to beg,” Greg murmured against his lips. “I want to ride you so fucking hard. I came prepared.”

  Three magic words. This had been a done deal the moment he slipped his number into Greg’s hand. Dan could have melted in those arms as Greg wrapped them around his waist. Greg leaned down to grab something from his jeans pocket before he guided them away from the wall and into the living room. They stepped toward his coffee table, and his palms broke into a sweat in anticipation.

  “Bend over, sweetheart.” Greg’s voice held a command he didn’t dare defy, but the silky way he said the words was the smooth glide of butter over toast. Dan leaned against his polished mahogany table and braced his palms against the surface. Greg’s hands settled around his hips, and Dan thrust his ass back, not giving a damn how needy he seemed. He wanted that cock buried in him so badly, he couldn’t see straight.

  Greg’s palm glided over the slope of his ass, and Dan sucked in a sharp breath in anticipation. The cap snapped, and a moment later, the travel-sized lube clattered onto the coffee table. Greg’s thumb brushed over his asshole, and Dan’s knees almost buckled on the spot. Greg teased around the hole with small, maddening circles before sliding a cool, slick finger inside. He pumped one in, and then followed with a second. Dan’s breaths came out hard as his cock throbbed from how damn good that felt.

  Dan glanced over his shoulder, a pert grin rising to his lips. “Thought I said I wanted your fucking cock,” he snarked.

  Greg’s palm cracked down on his ass a second later as he thrust his fingers in harder. “Brat.”

  Something coiled tight inside him. Whether it was the hunger reaching a roar he couldn’t deny or the ease he’d felt around Greg from the second they met, he’d been searching for this feeling for far too long. The rip of the foil packet followed. Greg nudged the head of his cock against Dan’s entrance, and all other thoughts vanished from his mind. He eased in, inch by thick inch, taking his time as he alternated between forward motion and retreat until desperate words leapt to Dan’s lips.

  Then Greg sank his full length inside him, causing the breath to leave his throat.

  Dan saw sparks, and a curse slipped past his lips. The man filled him utterly, his large, smooth length perfect inside. Greg began to rock behind him, and all Dan could do was grip the table, his palms growing slicker by the moment. Greg’s hands wrapped tight around his hips, bracing him there. He couldn’t explain why he trusted that touch implicitly, or how he knew that for all the snarl and power behind those movements, the man wouldn’t dare hurt him.

  Greg began at a slow roll, each glide inward making his cock stiffer. Fuck, he wouldn’t last long. When he started ramming in harder, that was when need pounded through his entire body, more intensely than a steamy shower after an exhausting day. Greg leaned over, pinning him to the table. His taut nipples grazed against Dan’s back, and his hands pressed onto the table beside his. Greg thrust with enough force to radiate through Dan’s whole body.

  “You feel so fucking good, gorgeous,” Greg purred in his ear, the throaty sound of his deep voice so hot. His cock throbbed, and then Greg’s hand wrapped around it. He continued to thrust inside him, but those strokes of Greg’s palm against his cock sent him tumbling over the edge. Dan swore as his vision blanked. His hands curled onto the table as heat spurted from inside him. He emptied out, cum splattering on the smooth mahogany surface.

  Dan let out a ragged breath, the force of the orgasm still radiating through him. It pulsed in waves, each one threatening to drag him under all over again. Greg hadn’t stopped thrusting. His grip tightened on his hips, and his nails bit into Dan’s skin with a delicious sting that brought him back down to earth. Sweat pricked on Dan’s forehead, and his knees threatened to buckle. Greg’s hold on his hips alone kept him upright.

  Greg glided all the way in again, hard enough that Dan almost slid forward on the table. His cock stiffened inside him, and a moment later, Dan could feel the pulse of his orgasm as he came. Greg leaned over him, their sweat-slicked skin glued together as the cycle of their heavy breaths cut through the loaded quiet of his condo. When Greg finally went limp inside him, he pulled out and took a seat on the edge of his coffee table, the massive man testing the weight of his expensive furniture.

  Though, after the way he’d just come, Greg could break anything he liked.

  Dan’s chest heaved as he took a seat on the other side, not trusting his legs to hold him upright. Sweat beaded his forehead, slicked his backside, and several droplets glided down his chest. Greg glanced at him, inches away, and reached forward to sweep his fingers across Dan’s thigh. In the moment, the tender touch meant everything.

  The man was breathtaking, the ice in his eyes melting and the shadows suffusing the defined edges of his features. With his golden strands mussed and his shoulders rising with his breaths, Greg no longer seemed remote, but tangible in a way that enhanced his sexiness. The effects of the orgasm radiated through him, traveling down his legs, and his skin grew tender w
here Greg’s stubble had raked across it.

  Dan’s lips quirked as he shot Greg a glance. “You don’t mess around, do you? I haven’t had sex like that in forever.”

  Greg crooked an eyebrow at him. “What gave you the impression this was finished?” Those fingers gripped tight along his thigh with a possessive hold. “We’ve got all night.”

  Seven

  Grif’s eyes snapped open.

  A glacial sweat coated his skin, an aftereffect of the nightmares that always haunted his sleep. He glanced up—strange ceiling, not his. He was rolling up and onto his feet by the time he realized he’d never left Dan’s condo. To his relief, the inky hues of night coated all the pristine surfaces of this place. The moon cast her steady beams through the windows, spilling silver like it didn’t cost a cent.

  Dan slept on his side. The soft light of the early hours turned his dark lashes even darker and accentuated the curve of those plush lips. Like this, the guy radiated innocence, even after the filthy things they’d gotten up to. Grif had taken plenty of guys to bed before, but few of them were as responsive and intuitive as Dan. The chemistry between them was rare, something that couldn’t be concocted in a lab.

  Except, he hadn’t just arrived for an unforgettable night. The Outlaws would take turns gouging him with the contents of their armory if he didn’t root around for some extra intel—and that’s if he didn’t flay himself first. Grif ignored the lurch inside his chest and snagged his clothes from the bedroom floor where he’d dragged them before he and Dan had passed out. Another rule broken, but he hadn’t been able to resist when Dan tugged him into that inviting bed and offered a sweet-as-sin smile.

  Grif ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to clear his head. He needed to forget the delicious ache in his muscles from all the exertion they’d gotten up to last night and the nail indents in his thighs from when Dan got enthusiastic. Intel. Right. What he really needed to do was start rummaging through the guy’s stuff before the daylight hours hit.

  He skimmed his fingers along the smooth surface of Dan’s desk on the opposite side of the room. Everything from binders tucked in the side shelf to the pens in their proper holder was precise, neat. His skin prickled—he’d been stealing for a long time, but rarely did he feel like a thief.

  Grif tugged open the drawers, slowly, so they didn’t make a squeak. Folders stacked up inside the top drawer, and he plucked them out to skim, one by one. With the minimal lighting, he couldn’t decipher many of the words, but he’d worked in trickier conditions. He couldn’t risk busting out his phone and waking up Dan. Figures and equations dominated the pages he stared at—not financials, business reports, or anything he’d expect from Torres Industries.

  Stacks and stacks of blueprints filled the manila folders. Of course. Dan Torres had been in grad studies for mechanical engineering before his father plucked him out and shoved him into the CEO role at Torres Industries. The guilt that wrenched his stomach was a new something he didn’t like. If the meeting had been with the garden variety of old rich asshole with a not-so-secret god complex, Grif would’ve been pumped and primed to smite him down.

  He knelt to reach the bottom drawers, but more of the same filled them—stacks of grad school papers and an array of drawing tools and rulers. His skin itched with awareness. At any moment, Dan could stir, and he’d get caught. Grif might be able to silver tongue his way out of this or brush off his rummaging as curiosity, but heaven and hell, he didn’t want to.

  The drawers weren’t of any use to him, nor was anything in the bedroom. Even still, the elegant gray lamps, the evenly spaced jade carvings, and the way the files were all marked and categorized reminded Grif of Danilo Torres. The man’s mark was all over this condo, a mixture of sleek and geek that charmed him without even trying.

  He strode over to the doorway, patting himself down for his keys and wallet.

  Grif paused to chance one more look in Dan’s direction. The man slept soundly, his shoulders rising and falling with even regularity. A couple of strands of his thick black hair drifted over his forehead, and Grif’s fingers itched to brush them out of the way. Dan was all smooth features, a rounded nose, those velvet lips, and an ass he could spend hours worshipping. The covers lay halfway off him, exposing the delicious tan skin he’d tasted all last night. Grif’s heart stumbled, and the rising warmth in his chest was something he needed to splash cold water over pronto.

  He turned away and took the first steps toward the living room. Last night, they’d been so busy fucking against the coffee table, he hadn’t been able to scope out the place much. Most of the condo looked pristine, from the not-a-crumb couches to the books on the shelves suspended against the wall, an array of thrillers and non-fiction—textbooks on mechanical engineering. However, Grif wasn’t searching for those. His gaze snared on the lone briefcase leaning against the far wall.

  Bingo.

  He crouched on the cream rug and scanned over the three-dial lock on the top of the briefcase. Those locks were easier to pop than a balloon. He wiped his hands on his pants to reduce the oil and then pressed his thumb against the side latch. With his other hand, he rolled through the combinations. The numbers scrolled through under his careful motions, one after another at increasing speed. The slight tick-tick-tick sound echoed in the hushed silence of night that stained this room.

  His skin prickled with the cinnamon sweep of awareness and a smattering of guilt. The combination clicked, and the side latch gave way. Grif opened the case, careful to not disrupt the contents as he peered inside. More folders—except he could guarantee this wasn’t any engineering research. Grif tugged out the nearest manila folder and began to skim the contents. Financial figures. This. He’d been searching for this.

  He snapped a couple of pictures of the sheets, one after another. They came out dark, but he’d be able to tweak the brightness at the penthouse. More than paranoia, guilt sat him down and reamed him out as he placed everything back into order and clipped the case shut again. Except, guilt wouldn’t pay off Nevarra, and hell, he couldn’t even afford distractions. He’d sworn his life to taking down corrupt corporations like this one, like so many others. Like the one that got his parents killed.

  Grif sucked in a deep breath.

  I’ve got some news for you. Take a seat, Griffin.

  His muscles tensed on instinct at the memory of the soft scrape of his aunt Helen’s voice. The sensation of falling, falling, falling had stretched from that moment until the day he’d started the Outlaws and they’d moved into their penthouse. Ever since then, he’d begun placing one tile after another beneath his feet until he found himself on solid ground once more.

  Time to get out of this place before those tiles cracked and his foundation got snatched from beneath him. Dan Torres had a fucking gorgeous body, a winsome face, and a honeysuckle sweetness to him, but if Grif didn’t chew him up and spit him out, it was only a matter of time before the industry would.

  Grif moved the briefcase back in place and rose to his feet. He’d gotten what he came for.

  Grif hadn’t even chewed through his first piece of bacon when the rage parade, i.e. Alanna, descended.

  “So, while we dangled from stories up to get you the access points of the Aon Center, you were busy sticking your dick in the enemy?” Alanna marched in, her eyes flashing and her ponytail swinging with the tick-tock of a pendulum. Sounded like John and Scarlet had broken the news.

  Grif swallowed the piece of bacon and lifted his coffee to his lips, taking a scorching sip before responding. The pause infuriated her more, like he’d known it would.

  “What’s to say I wasn’t on a recon mission myself?” he responded, keeping his tone level as he plucked his phone from his pocket. After he’d left Dan Torres’s condo, he’d gone for a three-in-the-morning jog to clear his head, the brisk Chicago wind the bracing punishment he needed to combat the warm and fuzzies. Instead of catching another couple of hours of shut-eye, Grif had set to prepping breakfast,
since it was his turn anyway.

  “Because you’re a grade A hoe, boss,” Tuck muttered, slumping into the seat beside him like spilled Jell-O.

  Scarlet sauntered into the room with his laptop in tow, delivering an arch look Grif probably deserved. As much as he might’ve gotten some intel plucked from the CEO’s personal briefcase, he was lying to them and himself in his proclamations of a loftier reason. Truth was, Dan Torres had a stunning face, a muscular ass, and for a few brief moments, his moans had sounded like salvation.

  “Well, this grade A hoe got himself some photos of the Torres Industries financials Dan stowed away in his briefcase.”

  “So, a thief too,” John rumbled behind him. The big man strode over to the coffee maker and began to pour. Grif snorted in response. Like that couldn’t describe all of them.

  “Don’t think that makes your bump and grind with our mark all aces, Grif,” Alanna growled as she stomped over to the counter and loaded up on bacon and eggs. Pieces of egg sailed through the air with her erratic movements. “You could’ve spilled some trivial detail to tip him over into thinking we’re not who we say we are.”

  “Trust me, there wasn’t a lot of talk going on,” Grif responded, unable to resist the grin that quirked his mouth. The tip of his tongue traveled over his canine. He might’ve regretted the talk they had—jobs were far easier when the mark remained a blank journal, and their time together had already filled several pages. But the way they’d come together offered the pulse-pounding relief he’d been reaching for ever since the Sunset Ruby heist went tits up.

  Scarlet shook his head and settled into the seat at the opposite end of the table, his laptop precariously balanced in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He wasn’t much of a breakfast person, at most having a piece of toast with his first of about fifteen coffees for the day. “Send those snaps over to me, boss. We’ll see what we can do with them.”