by Pippa Grant
And he’ll know it’s me, and I won’t give two shits, because I’ll dye my hair, quit wearing glasses—I don’t need them, they’re just really cool and add to my image—change my wardrobe, and go live off the grid in Iceland or somewhere that SEALs aren’t usually called in to clean up shit.
Unless I’m in jail.
But if that’s what it takes to keep Davey safe, then I’ll just go to jail until I can Shawshank Redemption my way out.
What? You think I’m gonna rot in prison when I can be out righting social injustices? I have more trolls to troll and more assholes to break.
But I’m not going to jail, because I trust Rhett.
Which puts me back to terrified. And not of the guys with the leg warmers and the knives.
I grab the door handle on the pod and crash into the tiny space. Rhett’s on the bed on his back, arms tucked under his head, eyes closed, breathing steady.
He doesn’t move when I come in.
Like either he’s dead, or he’s resigned to being barged in on.
“I reallocated ten million dollars from Dirk Lemonson’s accounts,” I announce. “He’s running at least two sham operations under at least two different names, a leg warmer production company that steals people’s designs through a horrible contest agreement, and also a life coach operation where his best advice is to breathe deeply and feel the universe wanting to make you happy.”
“Reallocated where?” His lips barely move, which is also fucking sexy.
“The less you know, the better.”
“Eloise…”
“Non-profits, okay? And that’s not code for my bank account. They’re legit, registered non-profits that help people who need help. But the point is, his banking address is in Kansas, his post office box is in Oregon, his LLC is registered in Delaware through a shell corporation, and his phone number has a Florida area code. And until he hacked me back, I thought he was a three-man operation, tops.” And I didn’t care where he actually was, because all my hero work—I refuse to call it dirty work—is virtual.
“You doxxed him on his own forums.”
Be still my heart, he knows the word dox. I could seriously fall for this guy. “I don’t like fuckwits who prey on people’s insecurities.”
“You pissed off an entire legion of leg warmer aficionados. Any one of them could be out for your blood.”
“Did you just say aficionados? And in respect to leg warmers?”
He cracks a half grin, and my heart stutters and swoons even more, because is there anything hotter than an overprotective ape showing his smart, funny side?
“Can you physically locate him?” he asks me.
“Why?”
“Just want to talk to him.”
“That’s the hottest lie anyone has ever told me in my entire life.”
His gaze settles squarely on mine, his eyes sleepy and tempting and promising.
I am in so much trouble I can’t even count that high.
“You like thinking about me kicking a dude’s ass for you?”
Oh, fuck, yes. “I was more thinking you’d sprinkle female cow pheromones on him and toss him in a pen with a bull and then record it so I could digitally enhance his image with devil horns and a spiked tail, but sure, we can go with the ass-kicking. That’s kinda hot too. If you’re into having a guy toss a fuckturd for you. Which I might be.”
He crooks a finger at me.
I take a half-step closer to the bed.
He crooks his finger again, I imagine him doing that bendy-finger thing inside my muffin, and I take one full step.
I’m not yet within arm’s reach of him, but he could hook me with his foot and probably lift me halfway off the ground, spin me like we’re in Cirque du Soleil, flip me in the air, unzip his pants, and let me land on his tree branch.
Or probably not, but that fantasy is really doing it for me, even if that would hurt hard, but I’d have bragging rights for decades.
Except there’s this small part of me that knows that sex isn’t going to fix my problem.
I mean, not my leg warmer mafia problem.
My hot-in-the-pocket problem, yeah, but so will some good porn and a hearty Ahoy, mate!
Maybe.
Okay, probably not. Not after three Ass of Glory-gasms.
My real problem is that I’m falling hard for him.
“Tell me more,” he commands.
“You really do have a big dick. It’s hard to ignore. And when I say hard—”
“About this Lemonson prick.”
“Oh.” I glance at his pants, just to make certain, and yeah, he’s concentrating through a world-class hard-on. His control is stupidly arousing too. I shake my head and try to concentrate. “I thought he was running a shop out of Utah somewhere, but when I traced the address his supplier has on file, I got an empty warehouse in South Carolina. Which means he beat me at the where are you game, which means he’s smart enough that he doesn’t have to be a jackass to make his money. He could just be doing what I’m doing and stealing from other people, except keeping it, because I’m not actually stealing, mind you, I’m reallocating, but he’s not. He’s taking money and lying to people. He’s a sociopathic shithead who gets off on being a dick.”
“You’re really hot when you get spun up about assholes and dickheads.”
“You’re really hot naked. Take your clothes off.” I’m getting used to the idea that he finds me attractive, and I’m starting to like it.
“More information first.”
“I think better after orgasms.”
“You turn into a worthless puddle of satisfied marmalade after orgasms.”
“Okay, fine, but only when you make me come.” I inch closer and stroke a hand down the buttery soft denim covering his rock-hard thigh. “Do you think better after orgasms?”
His jaw ticks. He didn’t shave today, and that stubble is getting thicker. “I don’t remember.”
The admission is low and growly, and he doesn’t break eye contact when he confesses. If this is psychological warfare designed to convince me to wrestle his anaconda with my tongue, it’s working.
I trail my hand higher, over the massive bulge jutting up along his right thigh. His eyes drift closed while he hisses out a long breath.
He’s not stopping me, so I pull his shirt out of his jeans and push it out of the way so I can bend over and lick his abs.
“Fuck,” he grunts. His slick skin quivers under my tongue, and I push his shirt higher to explore more. The script along his ribs tells me The only easy day was yesterday.
That’s fucking hot too.
His fingers clench around the blanket beneath him while I blow on the tat. I don’t actually know what I’m doing—my seduction skills are generally limited to thrusting my hips and making obscene gestures with my tongue—but he’s not objecting.
And I’m digging the coconut oil. It’s not as coconutty as it should be, but Rhett’s skin is delicious all on its own. Like a bourbon chaser after a filet and cottage cheese.
Don’t mock it till you try it.
But you can’t try Rhett.
He’s mine. For the moment.
“This isn’t finding the asswipe,” he grunts when I swirl a finger around his belly button.
“You can’t die not remembering the last time you had your dick sucked,” I point out.
“I’m not going to die.”
“Shut up and take the blow job, moron.”
He huffs out a laugh, and if I thought his ass was glorious, that’s nothing compared to the power of his smile.
I could tell you it could cause enough spontaneous ovulations to knock the world off its axis, but I’m a bad judge of traditionally hot.
All I know is, his smile’s making me want to kiss him again. And cuff him to the bed. And do some Independence Day/Armageddon, the-world-is-ending type of making out.
I feel like Liv Tyler, but with smaller lips and shorter hair and a dude way hotter than Ben Affleck. No offense
to Ben Affleck. He’s just no Rhett Elliott.
I press a kiss to his stomach, because I want to. He cups my neck and closes his eyes, not pushing me toward the monster cock, but not keeping me away from it either. Just rubbing little circles over my skin that make me feel like some kind of powerful sex hero. When I pop the button on his jeans, he sucks in a breath through his nose, and his abs do a little dance.
“I have muscles too,” I tell him. “You should feel my biceps.”
“Peanut butter has bigger biceps than you do.”
I shut him up by sticking my hand down his pants. And when I grip his hot rod, the silk of his skin and the heat of his body and the hiss of his breath make me tight and tingly in the poodle. I stroke down the length of him, and his ass tightens enough to lift his hips.
“Do you have trouble getting through doors when you’re turned on?” I ask. “Because this seems like it would get in the way.”
“No.” He puffs higher, though puff isn’t exactly what happens. More like his shaft turns to iron and grows another inch.
He likes it when I compliment him.
I’ll keep that in mind.
“Does it feel good when I squeeze?”
“Does it feel good when I suck your clit?”
Hello, little throbby pleasure between my thighs. “So that’s a yes?”
“Squeeze harder.”
I can feel his pulse in his cock, and he’s not telling me to suck on it so that I can’t talk.
“I’m freakishly strong. I might break it off.”
“Go on and try it, Spikes.”
“I can’t get a good grip on it while it’s in your pants. I’m gonna have to double-fist this baby.”
He’s sweating.
Rhett Elliott, the Ass of Glory, is sweating, and I don’t think it’s because he’s afraid he’s gonna lose his meatballs.
I think he’s actually so turned on he’s sweating.
“Do you ever date normal women?” I ask him while I work his magic johnson out of his jeans.
“Eloise, you have my dick in your hands. We’re not talking about other women.”
“I’ll lick you if you tell me how many normal women you’ve dated.”
“You’ll lick me just because you want to.”
“Fine. That too.” The whole thing emerges, and hello, my sweet overgrown love puppy. I grip it in both hands and still don’t have it all covered. His head is engorged, the veins along his shaft visibly throbbing, and there’s a drop of moisture glistening at the tip. I bend over and lick it.
And then I can’t help myself.
I swirl my tongue around his head while he grunts and tenses beneath me. I scrape my stud over the rim, and he groans. When I suck his whole tip into my mouth, his hips buck. “Christ, Eloise.”
I pull back and study him. “That bad? You seem like you’d like it if I suck harder.”
His wonder sausage throbs in my hand. “Fucketti and meatballs,” he mutters.
So that’s a yes to sucking harder. I remember that when I bend over and take him in my mouth again, pulling him in deeper, gripping him at the base and stroking him where my mouth can’t reach.
I need more YouTube videos on how to give good head.
Not that Rhett’s complaining.
Every time I suck and swirl my tongue, he makes those noises in the back of his throat and goes tense like he’s trying not to explode down my throat.
And when I tease him with my stud, he makes inarticulate attempts at words that are both super studly and also weirdly adorable.
He’s cute when he’s losing control because of my mouth.
I like this.
It’s like power and pleasure and mutual satisfaction, which is rarely what I find in sex. Generally, I’m just chasing my own O.
I’m legitimately close to exploding myself—sucking on Rhett is this heady elixir of erotic pleasure in my mouth—but it’s weird to be here because I’m getting off on getting him off while he’s not even touching me.
Except that thing he’s doing with stroking my neck.
I suck harder and test how deep I can take him, because he’s oddly delicious. Like a salty popsicle of pleasure.
Before I get even halfway down his joystick, he suddenly pulls me off. “Not like this,” he grunts.
“Then wha—”
He’s off the table and pulling me to the floor before I can finish my sentence. There’s a flash of foil, a rip, and then he’s rolling on a condom. “Clothes off,” he orders.
I’m so hot in the clam, I don’t argue. My jeans get shucked—miraculously without racking him in the family jewels—and he’s suddenly settling between my legs and thrusting his stem into my lady flower like he’s desperate to get home.
He stretches me and fills me so full that my breath catches, and when he pulls out and slams back into me, every nerve ending in my body ignites like tinder in the desert.
I’m panting and gasping while he drives into me, our bodies slick and clashing while he takes my pussy for a trip on the magic seesaw to wonderland. Everything’s getting tight—my skin, my veins, my muscles, my aura—everything. And that thick, heavy pressure deep inside me that he’s coaxing with each stroke is getting tighter too. Tighter and hotter and wetter. Everything’s twisting and coiling and charging.
“So…damn…sexy,” he grunts.
He punctuates his statement by searing his mouth to mine, and I’m done.
Falling apart, but not because he’s worked me into such a frenzy that falling apart is the only thing I can do, but because he thinks I’m sexy.
Because he likes me.
Because he kisses me like I’m the woman he’s been looking for his entire life.
My climax crashes into me hard, warring with the swelling in my chest, and it’s like I’m double exploding. Physically and emotionally.
He releases my lips and drops his head into the crook of my shoulder and groans as his release overtakes him, coming with me on the fairy wheel of delight, except I’m pretty sure his heart isn’t spinning on the merry go round of terror.
I don’t have room in my life to fall for a guy. Especially a military guy.
Especially my friend’s brother.
Especially when one or both of us will have to leave someday. Me probably sooner than him.
This is the most confusing orgasm I’ve ever had, and I once—never mind.
Not important.
“So fucking hot,” he whispers while his body relaxes against mine.
He’s not crushing me exactly, but I can’t tell you the last time I did anything remotely close to snuggling with someone.
It’s…nice.
Or possibly nicer than nice, but nice is all I’m willing to commit to.
He presses his lips to my neck in a soft kiss.
And I melt into a big ol’ puddle of soft, gooey emotional instability.
Forget L-words. A-words terrify me. Affection. Addiction. Abandonment.
“Nice banging.” I poke him despite my body demanding that we stay here warm and cozy and safe until he’s ready for round two. “Now get up and get me a computer. I need to track an asshole.”
He doesn’t object, but instead rolls off me and rises to his feet like a big, burly ballerina.
A fucking hot big, burly ballerina who’s making my heart try some fancy hip-hop dance when I never even mastered the dab.
Forget the leg warmer mafia.
I’m in trouble with Rhett Elliott.
27
Rhett
I’ve barely buttoned my pants and stepped out of the pod when a contingent of shrieking hummingbirds swarms the employee break room.
“Where’s Eloise?” Sia demands.
“Is she okay?” Parker asks.
They both stop and tilt their heads at me. Parker has a couple inches on Sia, with a longer face and a redder tint to her hair, but somehow they look identical with twin did you just have sex in our nap room? questions radiating out of both of th
eir skulls.
Knox and Chase stop behind them, and there’s no manly way to go, dude.
They both pretend they don’t know what’s going on, and they also pretend it’s not because I was with Eloise.
I don’t have enough middle fingers for this.
She might not be conventional, and she might have secrets—more secrets than I can begin to guess—but she’s still fucking hot, and she’s still human.
“You got a computer?” I ask Parker, because losing my shit won’t get any of us closer to safety or the bad guys closer to justice.
Sia rolls her eyes. “My top IT specialist is already on her way.”
Dave pokes his head out of the far pod. Princess Sparkle Butt slips out while he frowns at everyone in the narrow room. “Hi,” he says, then slams the door back shut.
“Was that—” Sia starts.
“Eloise’s brother?” Parker finishes.
I snag the cat while they both gape at Dave’s pod. Knox and Chase are gaping too.
“You’ve never met Dave?” I say to them.
“She said he was a monk in Nevada who took a vow of silence,” Parker says.
Sia gives her a what the hell? look. “She told me he was wanted in three states and Canada for something to do with a goose and a vacuum and a bottle of baby oil.”
“You’ve known her how long?” I ask. I don’t add and you believe her crazy shit, because here I am, hiding out in the employee break room of an organic grocery store, waiting on a computer so the hacktivist I just banged can locate a guy who’s after her because of leg warmers.
Possibly I shouldn’t talk.
They stare at each other a beat, then yell in sync, “ELOISE!”
The pod opens, and she steps out adjusting her boobs in her bra, and hell if the sight of her doesn’t make my pants tight in the crotch again.
“Dudes. I’m in the room, not up in the International Space Station.”
“Your brother isn’t a monk!” Parker shrieks.
“Who the fuck says having an extra chromosome disqualifies you from being a monk?” she retorts.
“Or a criminal in multiple states?” Sia says dryly.
“Hello, Philadelphia,” Eloise replies with a smirk.
“Okay, she has you there,” Parker says.
