by Amy Jarecki
All the while, she stole glimpses at Mike, studying his profile. His primal masculinity, the thick hair, closely cropped on the sides but wild and wavy on top. His nose was prominent but not too big for his face. He kept his dark-auburn beard trimmed short, but it wasn’t prickly. Her tongue tapped the corner of her lips while she reached up and smoothed her fingers along his jaw—oh yes, smooth as velvet.
He glanced her way and grinned, crinkling the corner of his eye.
A flutter spread through her stomach.
“Envious of me whiskers, are you, lassie?” God, he was sexy when he poured on the brogue.
She shrugged. “Just surprised at how soft they are. Your beard’s not wiry at all.”
“Glad it passed your inspection.” He cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the monitor. “I dunna like the location. There are too many crevices for perps to hide.”
She zoomed out the satellite image, broadening the view of the marketplace. “There’s a two-story building here. Maybe I should set up a rifle on the roof to cover your back.”
“Aye, that would solve all our problems. Pick off the ISIS members one by one.”
“You don’t like it?” she asked.
He shrugged with a wink. “Unless they’re waving an ISIS flag, it’ll be difficult to peg them.”
“You’re right. And I’m the last person who needs to have innocent blood on her hands.”
He straightened and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’m sorry about Fadli. He really messed with your life—but remember, he’s the one with innocent blood on his hands, not you.”
A lump swelled in her throat. “I know.”
Straightening, he gave her arm a pat. “Why don’t I go fetch us something to eat?”
“Sounds great.” She scooted away a little, swallowing down the damned lump. “I’m starving.”
She watched him saunter out the door with an aura of wildness about him. It could have been the way his muscular physique filled out his jeans, or the way his shoulders stretched his t-shirt so it clung to his back, tapering to a tight waist. Whatever the reason, Mike Rose was way too sweet on the eyes.
But still off limits.
Henri let out a long sigh. After the cold shower this morning, she was ready to bathe in luxury. She pulled her toiletries out of her bag and a pair of bike shorts and a shirt to change in to, then headed for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
At least she thought the door was shut.
***
They could have ordered room service but, aside from needing a breather, he wanted to buy a couple of bottles of good wine. Hali had also told him where to find the best fried chicken in town. The guide might live in Kenya, but his mother was from Tanzania, and Hali was familiar with just about everything in eastern Africa. He earned a good living as an African mercenary and hired trustworthy men who had military backgrounds. Having been a spy for nearly a decade, Mike had colleagues like Hali all over the world. Men and women who could be trusted to help him quickly work through the maze of local neighborhoods and customs.
Once he found the wine and the restaurant, it didn’t take him long to order take away and head back to the hotel and up to their suite.
He could hear the shower running as he unlocked the door, stepped inside and put the food on the table. Henri had to be the cleanest Native American in Africa. The outer door closed behind him with a whoosh.
What he didn’t expect was the door to the WC to swing open right behind it.
Mike stood stunned. There he was, a big Scot, trained to kill with his bare hands and his tongue went completely dry. His heart raced and blood rushed to the place where blood always rushed when a man gazed upon a stunningly beautiful, naked woman. Just not this particular stunning woman.
Lord save him, Henri’s body surpassed all his imaginings. With her back to him, her black hair cascaded down to her hips, tapering to a point right above a pair of heart-shaped buttocks. They weren’t just any buttocks. Honed by muscle, they had dimples on the sides and curved into the shapeliest, longest legs he’d ever seen. Slender legs he’d dreamed about having wrapped around him more than once.
Henri reached for the shampoo—no it had to be conditioner because she ran it through her hair and fingered it into the ends.
If only Mike could strip bare and step into the shower stall with her. Cup those delectable bum cheeks in his palms and squeeze. The mere thought made him so hard, the torture was about to drive him to the brink of insanity. He braced his hand on the door knob as Henri turned around.
“Ack!” she squealed, but not before he caught a glimpse of a goddess from heaven through the clear glass of the shower. Breasts like hers should never be covered. No. Breasts like that should be covered unless they were alone with him. His fingers flexed. He’d wanted to fill his palms with her shapely bum cheeks? Christ, he’d pay an entire month’s salary just to fondle those breasts, to smooth his fingers across them and tease those rosy nipples into hard pebbles he could suckle while he slid between her shapely thighs.
With his next blink, Henri crossed her legs and arms and crouched. “What the hell are you doing? Close the fucking door!”
Thrown off balance, Mike squeezed the knob. “Why the hell did you leave it open if you’re so goddamned modest? If you hadna noticed, there are two people staying in this room,” he barked. Closing the door, he shook himself. Jesus, what just happened?
He’d walked in, set the food down and, when he turned around, he saw her. Any red-blooded man who’d ever walked the face of the earth would have looked. Aye, women would have looked, children, dogs, cats. Hell, civilization would have erected a monument to the glory of goddess Henrietta Anderson and her shapely buttocks.
The shower shut off.
Still annoyed, Mike faced the WC door. Being a spy, someone who was keenly trained to notice everything, he retraced his steps. When he had entered the room, he’d gone straight to the sideboard and set down the bags. But first he had to walk past the bathroom door. If it had been ajar, he would have noticed for certain. He was a true-blue homing beacon when it came to spotting wet, naked women. So, the slight vacuum created by the whoosh from the closing of the outer door must have been enough to make the other one swing open.
But now, Henri thought he was a bloody perv. He snorted. Just as well, because he was still hard. If she so much as raked her gaze down his body, she’d be on her back before she could utter a word.
If only.
By the time she came out wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that looked like they had been painted on, Mike had the food laid out. He’d used two hotel tumbler glasses for the wine. They’d do in a pinch.
“Sorry,” he said. Before he passed away, his father once told him life was a lot easier if a man apologized first. No use making excuses when there’s a misunderstanding, just ask for forgiveness and move on. “It was the vacuum from the outer door closing.”
“Whatever.” She pushed her wet hair behind her back, which only made matters worse because there was a wet spot right over her boob.
Mike swiped a hand across his eyes. “You dunna believe me?”
She sat and reached for a chicken leg. “Sure.”
Groaning, he crossed the floor, opened the outer door and let it slam just as he’d done when he’d entered. The bathroom door opened, thank God for small mercies.
Henri gaped. “Holy shit.”
“I might have opted for something a little deeper, like, gee-whiz, Mike, I’m sorry I didna believe you.”
She coughed out a chuckle and washed her bite down with a sip of wine. “Gee-whiz? Do people still say that in Scotland?”
He returned to his seat. “Not really.”
“Well, then, gee-whiz, the door really did pop open on its own.”
“Thank you.”
“But you were ogling me.”
He grinned and raised his glass. “I won’t deny it, lass. You should be proud. There was plenty to ogle. In fact, I doubt I w
ill soon forget the exquisite beauty I beheld this evening.”
Her face turned bright red. Letting out a nervous laugh, she drank more wine. “You’re full of shit.”
Mike opted to not respond and focused on eating. Just as Hali had said, the food was good—a little on the greasy side, but delicious. The difficult part about not talking? Henri’s t-shirt. Aside from being skin-tight and wet over one boob, it had a scooped neck and showed off her cleavage. If he wasn’t already walking on thin ice with the woman, he might ask what prompted her to wear it.
But the food did its trick. Tension in the air ebbed—at least Mike felt better. Henri appeared to relax a bit as well, until she grimaced and rubbed her neck. Then she moaned and rolled her head.
“You have a sore back?” he asked.
“Mm. Compliments of last night’s saggy bed.”
Mike glanced to the king-sized bed to his right. It looked plush like it was top shelf. He hadn’t tested it yet, but this hotel had been full of pleasant surprises thus far. “You want a massage?”
Henri’s gaze flickered to the bed and back as her lips parted. “Ah...”
Making a grand gesture, he stood. “Go on. We havena much else to do until we meet with Mr. Kisongo in the morning.”
He could tell she was tempted by the way she licked her lips. “We shouldn’t.”
“It’s up to you, but if I canna rub your shoulders, maybe we should rethink training together, too. I mean, what are people going to think when you have me in a leg lock?”
“That’s different.” She shifted her gaze to the bed again. “All right. If you do me, then I do you. It’s only fair.”
Mike liked that even better. “Good food, good wine and a massage. Sounds like a recipe for a relaxing evening.”
Except it wasn’t relaxing.
“Turn away,” she said over her shoulder.
Gulping, he did as she asked.
Clothing rustled. The bed creaked.
“Okay.”
Mike turned back to find her face down on the bed, her bra and shirt on the nightstand.
If he didn’t have an erection while he tried not to look at her boobs, he had one now. And as soon as he made the mistake of straddling her, his balls tightened to the point of agony. Bloody Christmas, if he didn’t get laid soon, he’d have to resort to a hand job in the shower. Jesus, Mike didn’t know how Logan Rodgers did it. His partner, Olivia, was almost as beautiful as Henri—though she didn’t have Soaring-Eagle’s voluptuous hips.
***
As soon as Mike sank his powerful fingers into her shoulders and began to rub, Henri floated into bliss. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given her a decent rubdown. All she knew was it had been years and she’d never allow so much time to pass before she signed up for another.
When it came to massages, the big Scot certainly was gifted. Maybe he’d even missed his calling. Every time he found a knot, he worked it with long, languid strokes until it eased enough for him to work deep.
God, the man could dig deep and manipulate each strand of sinew with those talented fingers. Drill deep and brutalize those knots until they had no choice but to release every iota of tension.
She moaned out loud when got down and dirty between her shoulder blades.
And he didn’t stop there. Those magic hands continued along her spine, kneading, brushing, swirling. Henri could lie there and take this kind of magical torture forever. His fingers got a little frisky, brushing the outside of her breasts when his palms spread across her back—not too bold and easy to ignore on the promise of more deep tissue massage. Mm hmm—those strong, colossal hands.
Her breath caught when those same hands sank into her butt, demanding she go limp for him. The problem? She felt so good, she was on fire. Relaxed and hotter than a filly having her first season. As soon as he touched her ass, her legs slipped open a little wider as if they’d grown minds of their own.
When he swirled his thumbs in the muscles just below her crotch, Henri released a languid sigh. It was as if her sound gave Mike a cue to delve deeper as his fingers pushed up her short legs and lightly brushed over sensitive skin—the one place where she desperately needed to be touched.
Ah, hell.
She arched her back and gasped with a shudder while his finger teased. Then he slid it inside—where it shouldn’t be—where it felt too damned good. Henri’s dug her knuckles into the pillow, forcing the warning lights in her head at bay until the only thing her mind focused on was how good her body felt. In and out, Mike’s fingers moved inside her slick core, ratcheting up her desire.
Dear Lord, she shouldn’t have agreed to the massage, but now he’d rendered her powerless, swirling her hips with his wicked caresses.
He chuckled, his shirt hitting the floor...followed by his pants.
Jesus.
“Ah...” Her mind was too awash with desire to form words.
Before she could summon her willpower, warm kisses trailed up her spine. “I canna resist you.” His deep burr sounded way too sexy, way too alluring.
Henri closed her eyes and hugged the pillow. How could she resist him? Mr. Hotshot. Hell on wheels? The bad boy spy?
When his lips touched her ear, he enticed her with a swirl of warm breath. “You had the shot at ICE, yes?”
“Yes.” All female operatives were given a birth control shot to prevent any unwanted pregnancies should they be captured and...
“Then let me make love to you.”
Unable to refuse, she nodded.
Mike moved to her back again, his mouth making her tingle all over. Her hips rocked with his motion. God, she needed this. It had been so freaking long since a man had touched her intimately.
When he reached the small of her back, his fingers gripped her bike shorts and tugged.
Henri rose up just enough for him to pull them off. Cool air whooshed around her tingling skin taking her anticipation higher.
He adjusted his knees between her legs and spread them wide. She could come right there, vulnerable and prone to him.
Dying to see him naked, she glanced back. Henri’s breath caught in her throat. Oh yeah, if there was a heaven, this had to be it. His long cock was standing at attention with a bead of cum dripping from its tip. She licked her lips. “I want it.”
Chuckling, he rubbed himself between her legs while his hand slipped around her front and teased her clit. Henri bucked against him, rising to her knees and arching her back. “Now, damn you.”
Mike’s voice rumbled with a deep chuckle while he smoothed his hands over her ass. “You’re like a prized thoroughbred, born for pleasure.” Ever so slowly, he slipped inside, the walls of her vagina stretching like never before.
Again, she gasped.
He froze. “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She wouldn’t admit that he was. Good Lord, it had been so long, she felt as small as a virgin. Hot, driving need trumped the pain of stretching and she pushed back, forcing herself to take the length of him all the way.
Behind her, Mike growled as his fingers continued their treachery.
“Thrust,” she demanded, her peak on the ragged edge. “Faster!”
“You’re so freaking tight,” he moaned, his hips giving her everything she’d asked for.
Henri could take no more. With a deep inhale, she shattered, the power of her orgasm making stars fill her vision. Behind her, Mike rode her like a bronc, bellowing with his release. Together, they collapsed to the mattress. “Good God, you’ve got to be the hottest woman alive.”
Chapter Twenty
Henri awoke naked and curled against Mike’s powerful frame. Last night had been mind-blowing, though the new day brought the hollowness of guilt spreading through her chest like a giant chasm. She glanced over her shoulder while she scraped her teeth across her bottom lip. They’d made love five times in five different positions as if their sexual hunger was insatiable. No denying it, the night had been the most erotic of her life.
But stupid.
She had to work with Mike and see this op through. And she couldn’t let feelings get in the way. How could she have been so stupid to let a night of hot passion ruin things? Now what was she going to do? Pretend it never happened? From now on, every time she looked at him she’d remember...way too much.
Rolling away, she pulled the sheet around her body, picked up her bag and headed to the bathroom.
Mike moved, but she didn’t look at him. “Gonna work out?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Those words were all they said from there to the workout room. After all, what should they talk about? Last night was awesome, but it could never happen again. Henri had been adamant about not kissing and look how effective her insistence had been. She wasn’t a weakling. The Army saw to it “hard as nails” was her middle name. She’d just been too long without a man. Now that she’d gotten sex out of her system, she’d be fine. Heck, for anyone who’d gone over two years without a good toss in the hay, one night of hot passion ought to last a helluva long time.
Mike pumped the free weights while Henri worked the all-around. When he moved to the stair stepper, Henri cranked up the gym’s sound system and hit the treadmill. She caught him stealing glances, not that she wasn’t watching him out of the corner of her eye.
Yeah, this is going to be as awkward as fuck.
And it continued. No talking. Steamy glances. And sweaty bodies.
Fortunately, by the time they had breakfast and coffee, they’d moved on to talking about the op without a word mentioned about the blistering night of intense passion. Thank God. Right now, the op was all that mattered. Henri’s focus homed in on finding Melvut Amri and the thief would lead her to Omar Fadli’s door. Now she had all that pent-up sexual desire out of her system, she’d strap on her weapons and concentrate on the job.
Hooah.
She wore the big, orange hat with her transition sunglass lenses. Indoors, they didn’t clear all the way and in the upper right corner was a camera that sent a live feed to ICE. Mike wore his ball cap and had applied another temporary color to his beard. He looked mysteriously sexy with dark brown stubble on his face, though Henri preferred the auburn.
