by James Tate
"Just checking." He shrugs. "I'm in for both types. Colt is too, aren't ya?" He whacks his best friend in the chest, and Colt nods eagerly at me.
"I think that it would be safer to send her to the nunnery," Mace rumbles with a deep scowl setting his features, "but we can't force her to go. So, I vote in favor of keeping her here. Besides, she'd make a terrible nun. Girl likes being naked too much."
I turn my attention back to Arsen, and raise my brows. "Well? For or against? You know this needs to be a unanimous decision."
It really does need to be unanimous; it's the way of our team. We're in deep cover and therefore have no contact whatsoever with our superiors until the job is done. Everything we do has to be agreed upon as a team.
"Hell, you'll hear no complaints from me about keeping her here," Arsen purrs, like he's already picturing Natalia stretched out naked on the church altar. "But I make no promises to keep my dick out of her if she begs for it." He gives me a smug smile. “And she will. Beg. I can guarantee that.”
My jaw tightens, but I bite back my anger. Sometimes arguing with Arsen is as effective as arguing with a brick wall.
"Good. We're all in agreement then: she stays and gets trained." I really don't intend to put so much emphasis on that word, knowing full well where my team's sexual proclivities lay, but it just slips out.
I'm saved any further dirty innuendos from the boys by the sound of bare feet on stone floor approaching the vestry we're all sitting in. Typically, this room would have been used by the resident priests as an office, or a room to meet with parishioners in. We've converted it into our armory.
A soft knock precedes Natalia before she pokes her head around the door, looking frightened and sad. Not nearly as terrified as she'd been when she turned up in our church last night, soaked through from the rain, splattered with blood that I doubt she even realized was on her, and stinking of smoke.
Something awful must have happened to this beautiful creature to send her fleeing into the night in search of a nunnery … and that something could possibly be crucial to our case.
But how do we make her trust us?
"Hi, sorry to interrupt," she whispers in a meek-sounding voice, but her eye contact is strong and confident. "I was just trying to make coffee, and I can't figure out the machine?"
A clatter of sound echoes through the badly insulated room as all four of my men, including Arsen, push back their chairs and offer to help her.
"Arsen," I snap with steel in my voice, "sit the fuck back down. Colt, you go help Natalia."
"Thanks." She beams at me, like a ray of goddamn sunshine, and as the door swings open further to reveal the rest of her form, my mouth goes dry. Her party dress was crusted with blood, so we told her it’d been thrown out and that she could borrow some robes until new clothes could be purchased.
But I can safely say, I've never seen a saggy black nun's habit look so downright pornographic.
It hangs from her rail-thin frame, exposing one shoulder entirely, as well as the tops of her lush breasts. It must have been too long for her, too, as she's tied the side of it up in a knot, showing off a long expanse of bare leg.
It takes me a second to realize she's asking me something.
"Sorry, I missed that," I admit, and hear Weston snicker a laugh at my expense. Bastard.
"I said: would you like me to bring coffee up here for you all as well?" She smiles brightly at me and I swear, my heart stops for a second. Fuck she's stunning.
"That'd be lovely, thank you," I accept politely, and sit the hell back down behind the desk before she can see the growing bulge in my pants.
What is it about this chick that stirs my cock in ways no woman has since Portia?
My hand drops to my crotch as I hold eye contact with her. I take my time rearranging my pants, picturing Natalia’s slim, pale fingers in place of mine. Unaware of my thoughts, she bobs her head in acknowledgement, and I’m helpless not to stare after her as Colt leads her back to the kitchen.
"If she's to be an asset," Arsen says slowly, in a voice that tells me he's plotting something, "she’ll need to trust us implicitly. Every damn one of us. Otherwise, why the hell would she spill the beans on dear old dad? More to the point, why would we trust what she says? Unless she’s totally committed to our team, anything she says could be a trap."
"What are you saying, Pyro?" Mace demands, calling Arsen by the nickname he despises even if it is well-deserved. He did a fair stint in juvie as a kid for starting fires.
Arsen gives Mace a somewhat unhinged, piranha-like grin. "I'm saying, we gotta make her fall in love with us all. Everyone knows a woman will do anything for a man she loves."
The silence in the room is absolute as Arsen's words sink in. We need to make Natalia fall in love? Then when the job is over, and her family has been decimated … she gets tossed aside like all our case specific assets always do. That would be a new low, even for us.
"Shit." Weston is the one who eventually breaks the quiet. "We've done some fucked-up shit to get ahead in the past, but making a girl fall in love? That's next level."
"Scared you can't do it?" Arsen taunts and Weston bristles.
"Not only can I do it, I can do it faster than you, crazy dick." Weston pushes back from his chair and jabs a finger in Arsen's face. "Game on, bruh."
The sound of Arsen's laughter follows Weston as he leaves the room, and I rub at my forehead again. I am definitely developing a migraine. After this job, I’m taking a fucking vacation.
"This is going to bite us in the ass, boss," Mace rumbles, frowning in the direction Natalia went.
A heavy sigh gusts out of me, and I eye up Arsen again. "I know. But it's what needs to be done."
“Knew you’d see things my way,” Arsen smirks. “Shall we add a wager on top of it? First guy to get her to spill the beans on Daddy’s unsavory business practices gets five-hundred K from the rest of you assholes.”
“Don’t act like you’ve already won,” Mace grumbles, eyes narrowing. I can see his big hands curling into fists, and I have a feeling that if Arsen gets in his way, he’s going to get bulldozed. What a fight that would be. I’d wager five-hundred thousand on Arsen though. Crazy bastard.
Too tired to engage with the unstable fuck any further, I dismiss both him and Mace, so that I can be alone a few moments.
With them gone, I carefully and methodically place the guns we were cleaning back in their lockers and secure them. All the while, I try not to let my mind wander to the opportunity that’s been presented itself to us in the form of a lithe, chestnut-haired goddess named Natalia.
Make her fall in love? My conscience knows full well this will end badly, but the adrenaline junkie in me is gagging for the challenge.
Hell yes. This is going to be fun while it lasts.
Chapter 4
NATALIA
Colt's presence looms behind me, distracting me as I try to work out this fucking coffee machine. I was too embarrassed to admit I'd actually never made my own coffee before, because it looked simple enough. Just put the jug thing under the other thing and press some buttons and pronto! Right?
"Okay, I give up," I announce with a frustrated sigh, spinning to face Colt with the jug clutched tight in my hand. "This thing is broken or something."
The blond-haired, surfer looking "priest" grins at me, seeing right through my shit as he gently detaches the glass pot from my fingers. "Never used one of these machines before, huh?"
"No," I admit grudgingly, folding my arms under my breasts in a sulk. The consequence of that action propping them up to show more cleavage from the gaping neckline, or immediately drawing Colt's eyes is a pure coincidence, I swear to God.
Oops. Probably should stop swearing to God on lies, even inside my own head.
"Sit down and let me make it for you," Colt suggests, and I gratefully accept. I badly, badly need some coffee to help with the hangover and come-down I'm experiencing. Not to be dramatic, but this is probably the longest
I’ve gone without alcohol or drugs in years.
Hell, I was even racking up lines on the bathroom sink during high school, so yeah. Years.
Just thinking about my borderline addictions is giving me the shakes, and I sit on my hands to hide them from view. Priests or secret agents, either way, I doubt these guys are into the whole party girl scene. Although it'd be hot as hell if they were. My money would be on Weston or Colt for drugs … probably Hawke for booze. He has that look about him that suggests he has a flask of whiskey stashed nearby.
I call them my borderline addictions, because I've seen true addiction plenty of times in my life. I don't have it. I just use the substances as a way to escape my own miserable existence.
“So, do you guys, like, work for the FBI or something?" I ask, tucking loose strands of hair behind one ear and trying not to admire Colt's ass. “And why are you all posing as priests? Like, couldn’t you just close the doors and say you’re renovating?” Even through the voluminous black priest robes, his ass is pretty fucking nice. In fact, his whole body is a treat. The ugly garment he's wearing can't hide the breadth of his shoulders or the smooth, easy way he moves. Like a predator. I've seen men like that before and they were nothing but bad news.
Unfortunately, I'm attracted to the worst of the worst.
That's why I ended up letting a rival mobster fuck me against a bathroom wall.
I close my eyes to block out the images of my terrible judgement and take a deep breath.
"Here." Colt hands me the cup of coffee, his spring green eyes taking me in with a single sweep. "It's pretty shitty coffee, but it'll do the trick." The edge of his mouth quirks up in a cocksure grin. I get the feeling he's a bit of a troublemaker. "Hawke insists that when we're camping a place, we keep costs down. Normally, there's this pricey Australian shit that I—"
"Wow, are you seriously talking the girl's ears off?" Weston asks, running his fingers through emerald green hair, his face still full of the piercings he was supposedly going to take off earlier. "Not every woman wants to see your dick: sometimes they prefer mine. Hell, what am I saying? They usually prefer mine."
"Right," I say, trying to hold back a laugh. This kind of stupid behavior isn't supposed to be cute and funny. And yet, I always fall for the wrong guys. Always. "Anyway, thanks for the coffee …" I trail off because I'm not exactly sure what the hell is going on here. I decide to just ask. There are certain things a girl learns growing up with a father who's the head of the Russian mob, and I strongly suspect they would want to know those things. "Am I allowed to leave? I wasn’t totally clear on what you all decided, but kind of got the feeling you’re not going to kill me today?”
"Eh," Colt says, exchanging a long look with Weston. "Not exactly."
My brows shoot up. “Not exactly going to kill me? That’s comforting.”
A grin pulls at his lips, and he shakes his head. “I meant, no you can’t leave.”
"So I'm a prisoner?" I continue, a hell of a lot calmer about this than most people would be. I mean, I'm wearing nothing but robes. I’ve got no panties, and I’m completely at the mercy of five giant, muscular men with knives and guns who know exactly who my dad is. My chances of getting out of here are not good. So why’s my heart pounding with excitement and my stomach knotting with the thrill of it all?
Then again, Hawke distinctly gives off that 'good guy' vibe, so maybe they won’t take advantage of my predicament.
And yet the guy you tried to fuck—Arsen—had his colleagues whipped into a frenzy because they thought he might kill you in the bathroom.
"Aaaaaand," Colt starts, making this elaborate gesture with his hands that ends with him pointing a finger at me. "Also not exactly."
"You're sort of … a guest, whether you like it or not?" Weston muses, slouching in his chair and pushing up his sleeves slightly to reveal both arms covered to the wrist in ink. I have no idea what these guys think of the priesthood, but the way they walk around makes me wonder if they're as clueless about religion as I am. As I watch, he reaches up and removes both lip studs, his eyebrow piercing, and also the silver ring pierced through the center of his nose. As he moves, his priestly robes slide up his arms and reveal more of that beautiful color and strongly corded muscles hiding underneath.
"That's promising," I say with a sigh as Weston notices his bare arms showing and curses under his breath.
"This gig sucks total ass,” he grumbles, tugging the sleeves back down. “Pretending to be pimps last year was a hell of a lot more fun."
Both my brows go up at that, but Weston doesn’t seem to notice, and Colt is staring at me with his beautiful green eyes glittering.
"All he means is that he preferred cutting lines of coke in the bathroom with half-naked women to dressing up as a sober, celibate man. And also," Colt continues as Weston pulls his robes over his head and flashes a muscular body in a black tank that's so goddamn beautiful I have to look away. “I don’t fucking blame him. This disguise is starting to give me tennis elbow from all the jacking off I’ve had to do. The parishioners of this church are less loose-legged than I’d hoped.” His green gaze sparkles with mischief as he looks me over in a way that makes his invitation clear.
I shift in my chair, feeling wet heat collect between my thighs. I've never been good at saying no. Fuck, I've never had to. Any man I want, I can have. Because I'm pretty, because I'm rich, because my dad will fucking kill any man who makes his princess cry …
"That I can understand," I choke out, flicking my eyes from Colt's face back to Weston's. He tears the tank top over his head and then grabs a long-sleeved black shirt from a duffel bag that's sitting on the floor near the stairs. He drags it over his head, the fabric stretching over taut, lean muscles and ink. The sleeves go all the way to his wrists, effectively hiding all of that gorgeous artwork.
As soon as he's got his robes back on, Weston takes a hideous fucking black wig from the same bag and shoves it over his head, tucking away strands of green-streaked hair while he's at it. The shaggy black thing looks ridiculous on his head, like a toupee or something, but shit, maybe that adds authenticity to his look?
"Better?" he asks with a roll of his dark eyes. They're such a rich brown, they're nearly black.
"Close enough," Colt says skeptically and then the two of them give each other a stupid little high five. "Have fun in mass, West," he says as his friend flips him off and heads out the door into the church.
"Wow, you guys sort of suck at being priests," I murmur, lifting the coffee to my lips and taking a deep, long swig. The caffeine hits the spot, but holy crap, Colt was right: this stuff is total shit. Even though it's against my very nature, I reach over and grab some cream and sugar that's sitting at the edge of the small table. There are cards all over it. Somebody's been playing poker.
"Yeah, you see, it's not our usual thing. Besides, you know we’re faking it now, so why keep up pretenses?" Colt whispers, standing up straight and reaching over his shoulder to grab a handful of the fabric. He whips it over his head and tosses it aside, totally and completely shirtless underneath.
Jesus H. Christ.
Wait. Am I allowed to say or think that?
Who gives a fuck?
"What is your usual thing?" I ask, and somehow, my voice comes out husky when I wasn't intending it to.
"Well," Colt says, sauntering over to the table and putting his palms flat on the surface. He doesn't seem to have any tattoos at all from what I can see, but holy hell, he makes up for it with such an intense stare that I find myself shifting in my seat again, my cunt swollen and throbbing. God. I suck at denying myself anything that I want: coffee, drugs, alcohol, men.
And look where that's gotten you, running for your own life from your father.
Okay, so I don't think he'd ever really kill me. No, I'm his precious jewel. But like any shiny bauble, he'd lock me up and never let me go. If he catches up to me now, I'll be a bird living in a gilded cage.
"Our usual missions are dark
, fucked-up, and dangerous. Not boring as all get-out surveillance crap. But if you meant, what's my usual thing …" Colt trails off at the same time he leans in close to me, palms sliding across the table. When he's close enough to touch my arms, he squats down and pulls his hands back, folding them on the table’s surface and propping his chin up. "My usual thing is beautiful girls with their long legs wrapped tight around me. My hard cock sinking into their perfect, wet pussy as they moan my name."
His voice is low and husky, sending goose bumps along my heated flesh. When he rises to his feet, snatches a shirt from Weston's bag and slings it over his shoulder, my eyes follow him like they're glued.
"I'll be upstairs if you need me," Colt says with a shrug of his muscular shoulders and a quick glance back at me. He even winks.
If that's not the most blatant booty call I've ever seen in my life …
I tip back the rest of my coffee and swallow the disgusting grainy mix with a grimace. Even with hazelnut creamer and loads of sugar, it's foul. Next, I stand up and tell myself I am not going anywhere near this Colt guy's bedroom.
And yet my feet make their way over to the stairs and up without my conscious consent. I have poor impulse control; everything I crave, I take. Colt's cocky attitude resonates with me because it reminds me of myself. That, and at this point, I'll do anything to forget last night. Sex is good at that, wiping clear old memories. Good sex is even better, and I’m pretty confident Colt knows what he’s doing in that department.
At the top of the stairs, I pause. I have no way of knowing which one is Colt’s room. Maybe that’s a sign that I should scurry my panty-less ass back downstairs and make another horrible coffee.
But I don’t.
Moving down the hall, I start testing doors, peeping inside as I look for the sandy-haired secret agent/priest pretender. I only get past three of them before he's stepping out of the next one down and grabbing my wrist. He pulls me into the room and slams the door, pushing my back up against it and penning me in with his big hands.
