Texas Men

by Delilah Devlin

  She didn’t have to wait long. The hand digging into her hair pulled her head back, and he slid his cock from her mouth, stuck his hands beneath her arms, and forced her to her feet.

  His powerful arms enclosed her, and his cock rutted against her belly as his lips slammed into hers.

  Their tongues dueled while he walked her backward until her back met a wall. His hips pulled back, his hand thrust between their bodies and dragged down the tip until he slid between her folds and stroked along her slit.

  She was drenched, her excitement coating him. He dipped, and suddenly his cock was at her entrance and driving upward.

  Logan grabbed her hands, laced his fingers through hers, and pressed them to the wall while he began to fuck in and out of her, each stroke ending with a grinding motion that rubbed his pubic bone into her clitoris.

  Their gazes met, her head tilting only slightly. His mouth was curved into a feral smile that fanned the fire building in her core into a gusting, flaring flame.

  Amy wanted to wrap her arms and legs around him, wanted to feel his arms squeeze the breath from her, but he rutted into her, banging her body into the wall.

  Her frustration built, and she began to writhe against him, shoving her hips against him to meet his fierce strokes despite the uncomfortable pull on the device still lodged in her ass.

  Gradually the violent, desperate nature of his passion overwhelmed her, and she stood on her tiptoes, pressing hard against the wall to curve her belly upward to receive his thrusts.

  He dropped her hands and gripped her hips, sliding her up the wall, off her toes, curling his torso and resting his head against her shoulder while he hammered her.

  Amy left her legs dangling, but her arms encircled him, fingers pulling at his hair, digging into his skin, inciting him to greater urgency that caused them both to grunt like animals as they mated.

  When her orgasm exploded through her, she drew up her knees, flattening her heels on the wall, and trusted him to hold her.

  He came a second before she did, flooding her with cum. His shout, guttural and triumphant, was followed with her own keening cry. When he slumped against her, she wrapped her body around him, and they both sank clumsily to the floor.

  Amy was gasping for air, her body still convulsing, when his hands cupped her face; his lips trailed her cheek and jaw, and, at last, closed over her mouth.

  She bit his bottom lip, released it, and then stroked her tongue into his mouth.

  When his lips left hers, she opened her eyes. His laugh, a deep, rumbling gust, jerked the chest still smashed against hers.

  His face was reddened and sweating. His eyes narrowed. “Who mastered whom?” he asked, the corners of his lips curling in a smug smile.

  “I think I need a few more lessons,” she said, her voice every bit as ragged as her breaths while she struggled to calm her erratic heartbeats. “I haven’t quite grasped the concept of submission.”

  His dark lashes flickered over coffee eyes. “It’ll be my pleasure to teach you.”

  She smiled and nuzzled his skin with her nose, breathing in the scent of sex and his heavy, male musk.

  “Amy…”

  Her eyelids scraped lazily upward. His expression made her breath catch.

  His large, rugged palms bracketed her face as a hint of some dark emotion swept away his usual swagger. “I want more.”

  Her lips parted. She sensed what he wanted to say but understood he couldn’t quite put his feelings to words. How she knew, she couldn’t have said, but that warm, melting heat that seemed to accompany every thought she’d ever had of him built inside her.

  She could be brave and stalwart for them both. “I love you, Logan Ross.”

  His lips slammed into hers, and she had his answer in the shudder that racked his large, powerful frame.

  Amy gripped his shoulders and pushed him to his back. Her pussy clasped around him, her inner muscles sucking at his cock, drawing him deeper until slowly he grew, nudging along her channel, filling her body as his desperate hands climbed her back and brought her down against his chest.

  She snuggled her face into the corner of his neck and sighed as his lips pressed fevered kisses to her cheek and ear. She had never felt so cherished, so feminine.

  As Amy shoved off his chest and began to rock gracefully, relentlessly on his thickening cock, she didn’t think she’d have to wait very long for him to find the words.

  For now, she basked in the approval in his glittering gaze and the tenderness of the calloused hands that molded her small breasts.

  Logan was hers—her lover, her other half, her heart’s master.

  Turn the page

  for a tantalizing preview

  of HITTIN’ IT

  by Amie Stuart!

  On sale now!

  1

  “Hey! What’s your name?”

  To his friends and family, he was Will; to everyone else, he was God, as in “Please God, don’t kill me.”

  To his ex-girlfriend, he was, “You impotent bastard.”

  Whatever.

  His driver’s license said he was William Tanner Collier of Oklahoma City. But to this man, he was, “Roy…Roy Rogers.”

  “Hey, Roy.” Not surprisingly, the man didn’t even blink at Will’s fake name. Never mind that Roy Rogers was an American legend. Most people saw and heard what they wanted—no more; no less.

  Instead, he smiled, a red, wet-lipped smile that might have scared a lesser man than Will. “Buy me a drink?”

  Under that few day’s growth of beard, Will’s new friend looked like he could stand to skip a few drinks.

  “Sorry.” Will shrugged and turned away, signaling his lack of interest and silently praying the man would move on. He was blocking Will’s view.

  Instead of leaving, the other man settled on the stool and lit a cigarette, adding to the cloud of smoke that hung thick as LA smog over the bar. Will narrowed his burning eyes and sighed, hoping like hell he wouldn’t have to move. The only other good vantage point was across the bar where a guy who looked big and intimidating enough to be one of Tommy “Lupo” Brown’s thugs raised a beer to Will. He lowered his eyes, focusing on the glass of Guinness in front of him as the thump of the bass vibrated his eardrums. He wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to sit next to a gay man who might actually stand a chance of beating him up.

  Not that he would beat Will up, but if he tried, Will would have to shoot him. He really didn’t need that sort of attention. And besides, hiding a body that big would take a lot of work.

  He much preferred the precision and perfect execution of a well-thought-out job to a random kill. The unpredictable was destined to be messy and could land his ass in places he didn’t want to be.

  Like prison.

  He’d had a few close calls. When you killed people for a living, they came with the territory. He brushed it off, trying to focus on the job at hand.

  Derek Frost: Dark blond hair, 5’10”, 180 lbs, brown eyes, pierced nipples (not that anyone but Will’s current employer and Derek’s lovers knew that), heavy drinker, and a predilection for gay bars even though he swears up and down he likes women better than men—but not by much.

  For reasons that were of no interest to Will, Derek’s business partner wanted him dead. Which explained why Will was currently sitting in a rundown gay bar in Phoenix, Arizona. Derek was quite the social butterfly, though he had abysmal taste in bars—gay or otherwise.

  Will’s new friend finally gave up and left, and now Will had a bird’s-eye view of Derek and Loverboy ensconced in a booth about ten feet away. Satisfied they weren’t going anywhere for a while, he turned away before someone, anyone, noticed him staring at the couple. Once again he caught the eye of the man across the bar—the big one. Despite the dive status of the Oil Spout, flirty seemed as out of place as Will felt. He shrugged, hoping the other man wouldn’t take it as an invitation, and took a deep drink of his beer, letting the cool, dark brew slide across his tongue, savoring the
thick, yeasty flavor while he turned his attention elsewhere. Like the two girly men there in the corner, having a bitch-fest complete with claws and pouty, scowling faces. Will waited to see if someone would throw a punch, rolling his eyes when all that happened was a slap.

  So much for entertainment.

  He took another small sip of his beer, not wanting his head clouded for the job in front of him. For the most part, Will could have passed any of these men on the street and they never would’ve known he’d spent the better part of his life as a professional hit man. Not that they probably cared one way or the other. He didn’t bother sparing much brainpower on them either. Will cared about the job, his family, himself. And once upon a time, he’d cared about Tilly Acuna. Until Tilly had informed him he was as warm and passionate as a brick wall and suggested maybe he find a man to snuggle with from now on. He’d packed up his things and moved out, storing his stuff at his parents’ place in Oklahoma City and taking this job. He’d thought that time and distance would help. They had, to a point.

  Sadly, Tilly wasn’t the first woman to point out his failings when it came to the fairer sex, and it wasn’t just in the bedroom.

  It was everything.

  The flowers, the talking, the movies—how did women watch that shit? Anniversaries and her friends and his friends, and friends’ weddings and babies and…in the end he’d decided maybe Tilly was onto something. Maybe he was gay. God knows he’d yet to find a woman he couldn’t live without let alone a woman he could make happy.

  And surely a relationship with a man would be…easier. Much easier. There’d be football and beer, tortilla chips and queso dip, belching and no bitching about missed anniversaries or ditched dinner parties. Across the way, the two queens had devolved into a full-out slap-fest. The bartender opened the lift and stepped through, bat in hand, shouting at the top of his lungs. At that point, Will decided he wanted a real man. Then he accidentally caught the eye of the thug on the other side of the bar. He had a fresh beer. Now that was a man. A real man. Someone you could play softball and football with and…just then, Will’s ass puckered.

  He hadn’t quite worked out the sex issue.

  If given the choice, Will preferred killing from a distance. Times like these, he didn’t always get his wish. Not that he was squeamish, but distance negated problems like fibers, witnesses, and DNA. Unfortunately, his quarry lived in a low-slung, one-story house smack in the middle of one of Scottsdale’s nicer neighborhoods. That combined with Derek’s crazy work schedule made a long-distance kill impossible. Too many unknowns: the neighbor out walking his dog late at night, the couple out for a midnight swim, a sick baby…all of them could bring Will attention he didn’t need. And as close as he was to retirement, he wasn’t about to risk spending the rest of his life in a ten-by-ten cell.

  He slipped out of the bar shortly after Derek and Loverboy and followed them at a discreet distance in the black, ’76 Monte Carlo he’d picked up in Flagstaff for a song. He’d chosen the older model car because it was heavy and fairly non-descript. If Derek ran true to form, and Will was counting on him to, he’d spend approximately ninety minutes with his new friend, then leave for home, stopping once to get cigarettes and a Dr. Pepper. Will followed them into the condo complex, cruising past as Derek and his companion stepped into a nondescript condo. He circled around to make sure Derek’s car was still there, then pulled into a fast-food place across the road to eat—and kill some time.

  As meticulous as he was, he could only plan things up to a certain point. The rest was left to the foibles of his fellow man, and if there was one thing he’d learned, man could fuck things up royally.

  Luckily, tonight was not one of those nights. Eighty-seven minutes later, Derek’s car pulled out onto the deserted streets. Will leisurely wadded up the burger he’d barely touched, and threw it into the trash before starting the car. It roared to life as only a 405 could—with a predatory growl that would have scared off the fiercest jungle cats—and he backed out, his power steering squealing slightly as he turned hard on the wheel. He was in no hurry; he knew exactly where his quarry was going.

  Home.

  He followed at a leisurely pace, letting Derek get far enough ahead that he’d never dream he was being followed. After a while, the city lights disappeared and the darkness was occasionally punctuated by a porch light. Will slowed down as he came around a curve only ten minutes from Derek’s home. The other man’s elegant Cadillac was sitting on the side of the road thanks to an “untimely” flat tire. The car was an older model, pre-OnStar, and out here, cell-phone reception was spotty, thanks to the hills.

  Derek was too drunk to change the tire, and yes, so drunk he shouldn’t even have been driving in the first place. And he was far too drunk to do something as simple as call AAA, when he could walk the quarter mile home.

  Will rolled down the windows, slowing the car to a crawl and killing the lights. The late-night air was cool and damp as if weighted down by the quiet. He eased to a stop at the top of the hill, watching Derek get out of the car and slowly weave his way down the asphalt. Thanks to Will’s slightly clammy hands, the steering wheel was a little slippery in his grip as he checked the rearview mirror for headlights. His oh-so-familiar case of nerves didn’t come from a fear of getting caught so much as a fear of pesky human variables.

  This was where weeks and sometimes months of planning and patience came in handy. Once he worked the execution of the job out in his head, Will didn’t think too much about the actual person. He’d learned a long time ago it was better (read easier) if he kept things all nice and businesslike. His job wasn’t just about killing. Any fool could kill. But a pro could make it look good, look like an accident, fate, the luck of the draw, not murder. And Will was a pro.

  Will’s pulse picked up pace, his heart beating a rough tattoo in his chest as he glanced in the rearview one more time. Inky blackness greeted him.

  And he had to get to Derek before he got much closer to the turnoff for his subdivision. The houses nearest the corner were quiet and dark as was everything for as far as Will could see. He sucked in a deep breath, blew it out, and pressed down on the gas, steadily accelerating, weaving down the two-lane road like a roller coaster picking up speed. The engine sang under the hood as he careened toward Derek, who didn’t even realize he’d seen his last sunset.

  And his last sunrise.

  Will never slowed down as the car ate the road between them, never slowed down as the bumper kissed Derek, plowing him down, and the car rolled over him. He didn’t slam on the brakes afterward, but slowed gradually so as to not alert anyone. The car finally rocked to a stop and he backed up, parking short of where Derek’s body was.

  Will snapped on some gloves, climbed out, and jogged to where the other man’s body lay. His rubber-soled shoes were whisper quiet on the asphalt. His quarry didn’t move; the moonlight glimmered off the dark pool growing around his head. Careful to avoid the rapidly growing puddle of blood, Will reached down, checked for a pulse, then smiled in satisfaction when he found none. He stood for a moment longer, waiting to see if the man’s chest would rise or fall, but it remained still.

  Around him the night was so quiet not even a cricket dared to chirp.

  Washing a car at two in the morning was out of the question, so Will parked (far far away from the body) and wiped down the bumper and hood with some bleach water and paper towels. Crude maybe, but his cleanup job should, at the least, fool a cop in the dark. Back in the car, Will buckled up and pulled out a disposable cell phone. He sent a quick text message, slipped the SIM card out, and pulled back onto the highway. Once he felt safe enough, he tossed the card out the window, anxious to get to Tucson.

  By tomorrow night he’d receive the last half of his fee, putting him that much closer to his retirement goal of ten million dollars (give or take, thanks to the costs associated with shuffling and hiding the money from Uncle Sam).

  He was so tired that, by the time he hit the outskirts o
f Tucson, he could barely see straight, but his work was far from done. He turned off the highway and drove deep into the desert, heading for an old abandoned gas station he’d found while doing recon. He’d left a second car there—a beat-up Ford Escort. A flashlight clutched between his teeth, Will once again went to work scrubbing minute traces of evidence off the Monte Carlo’s grill, then wiped down the inside of the car. He was counting on Mother Nature to obliterate his tire tracks as he headed toward Tucson in the Escort.

  He parked the poor battered Ford workhorse on the top level of the parking garage attached to the hotel he’d checked into a week ago. He grabbed the black bag containing his favorite gun and a pair of gloves and crossed to the elevator just as the purple sky was growing streaked with sherbet orange.

  Once Will dropped his bag in the Tahoe he’d left parked a few stories down, he headed for the hotel and a well-deserved rest.

  He scrubbed at his face, his hands heavy with fatigue. A nice hot shower and couple hours sleep and he’d be back on the road.

  Will had just veered south onto the home stretch to El Paso when he spotted the ugly yellow van sitting on the side of the road ahead. At first he thought it was a trick of the sunlight, a figment of his fatigued brain, but as his Tahoe clicked off each tenth of a mile, he realized there was a woman standing next to the van, her skirt blowing in the breeze. He took his foot off the gas, tapping the brake and slowing to sixty.

  He didn’t trust anyone, not even a woman who appeared to be alone, but the manners his mom had instilled in him from a very early age made him pull off the road and back up. He jotted down the plate number, stowed the pen and paper under the arm rest, then shoved a Glock into the back of his pants.

  Climbing out, he adjusted his shirt over the gun and assessed the situation. “Need some help?”

  With her long skirt and the scarf wrapped around a mass of curly, dark brown hair, she looked like one of those Traveling Irish: modern-day gypsies. They didn’t usually travel alone, so he took another long, hard look at the landscape, wondering if it was a trick. Nothing but cactus and sand and shimmering heat in every direction for miles and miles.