Reaper (Montana Bounty Hunters Book 1)

by Delilah Devlin

  “You know we’re gonna have bears swimming in there,” he murmured. “They’ll eat your fish.”

  “You don’t think the alarm system will scare them off?” she said, eyeing the motion detector he’d flipped off before approaching the pond. When anything crossed the invisible boundary, a loud siren blared.

  “I think they’ll get used to it.”

  After glancing around, she frowned. “Then we’ll have to build a fence. Put some dogs in the yard.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Those going on my Honey-Do List? Hell, building a fence will be easier than constructing that pool.” He grumbled but didn’t really begrudge the effort. They’d shared in the labor, digging the pit, lining it, and filling it with plants. The fact they’d found so many sources for the fish and pond supplies in the area had been eye-opening.

  Carly stood and brushed her hands together. When she turned, her expression was hard to read.

  Reaper held still as she drew closer.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled against his chest. “You do know I was joking about you building a koi pond...”

  He grunted and hugged her, relishing the feel of her body next to his. “I know.”

  She leaned back her head. “Then why do it?”

  One side of his mouth curved up. “Because I knew every time you looked at your pond, you’d smile.”

  “You do know you don’t fool me one bit.” She poked a finger at his chest, just over his heart. “You, Reaper Stenberg, are a sweet, sweet man.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t ever tell a soul.”

  “Think I would?” she said, her voice going husky. “You’re my secret I won’t ever share. There’s plenty of you to go around, but I’m selfish. I’ll keep you all to myself.”

  Reaper bent to kiss her. “Then make it forever, baby. Marry me?”

  Fighting a smile, she rose up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thought you weren’t sure about this monogamy thing.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Will you ever just give me a straight answer?”

  “Why should I?” she said, arching a brow. “I love what frustration makes you do.”

  “That taunting can work both ways, baby.”

  A slow smile stretched across her pretty face. “I won’t break as easy as you do.”

  “We’ll see.” With that, he bent and bumped her belly with his shoulder.

  Laughing, she folded over his back.

  On the way up the steps, he felt her hands cup both sides of his ass.

  As he climbed the porch and entered the house, Reaper mused. Loving Carly Wyatt had taught him a couple of things. One woman existed who could brighten every corner of his life. One woman made him believe in Happy-Ever-After. Who’d have thought it? Certainly not him, but he wasn’t questioning fate or God or whatever force had placed Carly in his path. He’d just be grateful for the rest of his life.

  Don’t miss the next Montana Bounty Hunters book:

  Dagger!

  About Delilah Devlin

  Delilah Devlin is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author with a rapidly expanding reputation for writing deliciously edgy stories with complex characters. She has published over one-hundred-eighty stories in multiple genres and lengths, and she has been published by Atria/Strebor, Avon, Berkley, Black Lace, Cleis Press, Ellora’s Cave, Grand Central, Harlequin Spice, HarperCollins: Mischief, Kensington, Kindle, Kindle Worlds, Montlake Romance, Running Press, and Samhain Publishing.

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  The Bounty

  A Short Story in the Montana Bounty Hunters World

  Enjoy reading the story that was my test run in the bounty-hunting world. Be warned, it’s a tad “bluer” than Reaper! ~DD

  The hunters I work with all have cool, dangerous-sounding handles: Catch, Dagger, Bulldog. My first day on the job, Bulldog nicknamed me Buttercup, and it stuck.

  Catch, the hunter who founded this agency, decided he needed a bounty hunter with “soft” skills. Someone approachable, whom mamas and girlfriends could confide in. Not that he ever expected I’d have to do the “heavier” tasks, like break down a door or take a target to the ground. Bounty hunting’s dangerous work, and not meant for faint-hearted dudes—or girls.

  I felt lucky when they called me Buttercup because mostly they called me “the girl.” Like this morning, when Catch handed out assignments and told Bulldog to take along the girl.

  I didn’t make a fuss. PC communications weren’t part of any office handbook. I knew from day one I had to prove myself. Not that I’d gotten a chance, so far, to show them what I had. Being ex-military, and an ex-cop, didn’t earn me any points. I guess it didn’t help I was only five-feet-five and a hundred ten pounds soaking wet. Bulldog figured that with blonde hair and blue eyes, I looked more like a former high school cheerleader—not a compliment, since he thought girls like that were stupid as hell.

  Maybe I didn’t help my cause with the way I dressed. Ever since they’d named me Buttercup, I did my best to dress the part. Sure, I wore denim, tees, and boots, just like them, but my pink T-shirt emblazoned with “Girl Power,” and my purple-calico-lined jean jacket with lace inserts on the pockets, didn’t exactly fit with their black tees sporting bike club slogans and black leather jackets. The few times I hadn’t been tied to a desk making phone calls to relatives to track low-lifes who’d skipped their court dates, I’d been relegated to staying in the truck while the guys did the dirty work.

  Not so today, but only because we were going to reach out to Lenny Holcomb’s mama to see if she wanted to keep her house, seeing as she’d offered her home as collateral when posting his bond.

  Bulldog gave me the evil eye as we walked toward the small clapboard house on the bad side of town. “Shit goes sideways,” he said, “you stand back and let me handle it.”

  I offered him a non-committal nod. “Think Mrs. Holcomb will give you that much trouble?”

  He snorted and skewered me a narrow-eyed glare.

  “Ooh,” I said in my best little-girl voice and gave an exaggerated shiver, hoping he’d trip over his big feet. Not that I had to pretend my reaction too much. Something about the big burly guy did it for me. His face was too manly to be handsome—square jaw, crooked nose, laser-sharp blue eyes. Thick, gold-brown hair dusted the collar of his jacket. His six-foot-four, heavily-muscled frame made me feel feminine and soft and all those other useless qualities I despised in “helpless” females. Go figure—the thought of those big, hard hands rasping over my skin made me tremble.

  At Mrs. Holcomb’s door, I knocked.

  No response.

  I knocked again. Still nothing.

  Bulldog stepped to the left and peered into the window. “Don’t think anyone’s home. And since this is his address of record...” He backed up and began to raise a booted foot.

  I cleared my throat.

  He lowered his foot and gave me a scowl.

  “Really want to knock down her door?” I pulled my lock-pick kit from my back pocket and knelt in front of the knob. A couple of twists of my tools, and the lock snicked. I turned the knob and quickly moved away from the door, giving way to Bulldog as he grumbled something under his breath about smartass women and strode inside.

  Bulldog’s big frame filled my view, so I was taken by surprise when he cussed and rushed toward a hallway.

  A crash sounded in a distant room. Light from an open doorway in the back glared as he ran through it. I followed, watching as our target ran for the chain link fence and vaulted over it.

  Bulldog cussed again, placed a hand on the top of the fence, but when he swung over his big body, the thin metal rod running through the top caved, and he fell
to the dirt.

  I picked another spot farther down the fence, grabbed a post and swung over, landing on my booted feet and shooting down the alleyway.

  Behind me, I heard grunts and more curses, and finally, “Dammit, Buttercup, wait for me!”

  I wasn’t waiting for shit. Lenny moved fast for a big boy. He was almost at the end of the alley. If I didn’t catch him quickly, I’d lose sight of him, and we’d lose our paycheck. With my breaths coming fast and sweat trickling into my eyes, I sped up, reaching out with my fingertips to snatch a handful of his shirt. With the fabric in my fist, I drew back and swung him.

  He went sideways, but he didn’t go down. He twisted out of my grasp and raised his fists, his eyes widening as he looked me up and down, an ugly sneer stretching across his equally ugly face.

  He swung.

  But I was ready, ducking beneath and coming up to drive my fists into his fat gut, then bouncing backward to avoid the next wide swing.

  When he didn’t connect, his swing carried him forward, and he turned.

  I rocketed to his back and wrapped my arm around his throat, grasping my fist to keep my arm in place, as he staggered then went to his knees, his fingers scratching my arms before reaching backward to pull my hair.

  But he didn’t get a hank. His body crashed forward, bringing me with him, because my arm was trapped beneath his thick neck. Then his body shifted halfway onto mine.

  Boots pounded the pavement then slowed.

  “Buttercup, need a hand?”

  Not able to look back, I wheezed, trying to drag in a breath as Lenny’s weight crushed me against the pavement. “Roll him so I can get back my arm.”

  Lenny’s body rolled to his side.

  Bulldog lowered his boot then bent to offer me a hand up. His gaze went to the thick scratches on my arms.

  Blood ran in rivulets from the deep gouges.

  “Goddammit.” Bulldog’s scowl was scary as he blew out a deep breath, and then reached behind his neck to pull his T-shirt over his head.

  He tossed it at me.

  All I could do was stare at the grayscale tattoos covering his shoulders and chest and disappearing into his jeans.

  “Wrap this around your arm. You’re gonna bleed all over my truck.” Then he went down on one knee and locked cuffs around Lenny’s fat wrists. When he stood, he kicked the low-life in the ass.

  After we’d dropped Lenny at the jail, Bulldog remained silent as we drove.

  My arm stung like hell, so I was fine with the quiet for the first while.

  His expression was so dark, I didn’t dare try to make small talk. When he missed the turnoff to the agency, I straightened and darted a glance his way. His narrowed gaze swung toward me, daring me to say a word. I sat back, my heart thudding hard inside my chest. Just how pissed was he?

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled onto a gravel road. Once we passed the first curve, I saw a single-story house ahead. Gray stone and wood. A metal roof. He reached up to hit a button above his windshield, and a garage door rose.

  So, this was his house. He’d brought me home. But would he cut me into tiny pieces and feed me to the Rottweiler jumping against the fence, or was he planning to read me the riot act in private, because he intended to yell and didn’t want the world to hear?

  I hoped for a third option. One where he pushed me face-down over the first piece of furniture we met and delivered his frustration in the sexiest way possible.

  He pulled the SUV into the garage, hit the button to lower the door, and then turned to give me another glare. “Get the fuck inside.”

  I was tempted to chide him about his tone. Not his words. I wanted to be the fuck inside...fucking.

  Without a word, I slipped out of the truck and headed to the wooden stairs leading into the house. I stepped inside a mud room then through another door and into the kitchen.

  Bulldog entered behind me and closed the door.

  His hands grasped my shoulders and turned me toward the table.

  My heart stuttered—was this the bending over part? No, he pushed downward, forcing me into a chair.

  “Unwrap your arm.”

  Disappointment turned the corners of my mouth downward. Slowly, because the shirt stuck to the bloody stripes, I peeled away the shirt while he headed toward the sink.

  He ran water then pulled a washcloth from a drawer and wet it. Next, he strode back to the table, pulling out a chair to sit beside me. He laid the washcloth over my arm.

  It was hot, and I winced.

  “Got to soak the blood to loosen it,” he said.

  His voice was softer but no less growly, and my pulse raced.

  When he wiped away the smears of blood, he shook his head. “Should have let him go, Buttercup. These’ll leave scars.”

  I raised my chin. “Would you have?”

  He grunted and completed his task, then stood, opened a cabinet above the stove, and pulled down a first aid kit. After he’d rubbed antiseptic gel over my wounds, he wrapped clean gauze around my arm and secured it with surgical tape.

  “Thanks.” I kept my eyes cast downward. “But I could have managed on my own.”

  “I know.”

  I lifted my head and found him studying me.

  His mouth tightened. “You handled yourself well. I just didn’t like you anywhere near that shithead.”

  “Oh.” And because I was feeling off-kilter, his change in demeanor sending my insides swirling, I did what I always do when I feel a little afraid. I brazened it out, giving him a slow, seductive smile and a wink.

  Instead of putting him back in his bad mood, his reaction to my taunt was a narrowing of his green eyes. He glanced at my mouth then shot out a hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of my neck to pull me toward him.

  When his mouth slammed over mine, I gasped, giving him entry.

  Bulldog might have been a big guy, but there was nothing lumbering or bearlike about his reactions. They were lightning fast. His tongue invaded my mouth, pushing past my teeth to stroke my tongue.

  I gave a kitten-like mew, very un-me, and melted against him, my hand landing on his broad, bare chest, and my fingers tangling in his hair. Then he gripped my waist and slid me right off my chair onto his lap. Shock blasted through me at how much I liked the quick way he took charge.

  He bent me backward, an arm around my shoulders. His free hand slipped between my legs and pushed against the damp denim, cupping me then squeezing my sex. “You’re fucking wet, Buttercup,” he rasped when he raised his head to let me breathe. Then slowly, daring me with his steady stare, he removed his hand from my crotch and cupped my breast through my clothing. “This okay with you?”

  I managed a nod, and before I drew another breath, he went to his feet, with me in his arms, and strode through the house, past a living room filled with deep leather seating, down a hallway, and into a bedroom. His bed was enormous, an Alaska or a Wyoming-size King. He crawled onto the mattress on his knees and stepped toward the center before he set me down. Then he began stripping away my holster, my belt...my tee and bra...my shoes and pants. When the only thing I wore was a pair of bikini panties, he halted, backed off the bed, and began stripping off his own clothing, flinging each piece to the side while he kept his hungry stare on me.

  But I wasn’t any woman waiting on a man to decide what happened next. I lifted my bottom, scraped down my panties, and threw them at his face.

  Magnificently nude, he leapt toward the bed, diving toward the middle.

  I rolled away, and just had my feet on the floor, when his arms wrapped around my waist, and he pulled me back against his body. He sat on the edge of the mattress and bracketed my legs with his thick thighs, then smoothed his rough palms over my skin, starting at my breasts then moving down my belly to my pussy. I squirmed in his arms trying to turn, but he kept me faced away as he felt me up, sending tingles through me.

  Again, he cupped my breasts, and I felt his tongue slide from the center of my back upward, follo
wing my spine. Goose bumps prickled on my skin. My breaths grew short. Fuck, oh fuck. I wanted him. “Bulldog,” I said, shivering hard inside his embrace.

  “Don’t fight me, Buttercup. Don’t move. Let me do you the way I have to.”

  He turned me until I faced him.

  I stood with my arms at my sides as he raked my body with his gaze. His for the taking, because I wanted to be taken.

  I couldn’t resist dropping my gaze to his cock, so thick and straight, jerking against his belly to the beat of his heart.

  “Fuck, oh fuck,” I whispered and shivered hard again.

  He reached to the side, slid open a drawer in the nightstand, and pulled out a condom. With his lips pulling back from his teeth, he cloaked himself, then scooted backward on the bed and patted the mattress beside him.

  I crawled toward him then lay on my belly beside him, hiding my face against the coverlet, because I knew my expression would give away just how badly I wanted this. I rubbed on the mattress, because my skin burned and my nipples ached.

  He kissed my shoulder and climbed over me, his weight pressing me deep into the mattress as he fisted his hand in my hair and held me down, then slipped his legs, one at a time between mine, waiting for me to open to him.

  When he rooted his cock between my legs, my breath shuddered out. His lower body scooped against me, rubbing against my ass as he teased me with the tip of his cock sliding between my slick folds.

  His teeth dragged on my earlobe, and he whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you up, babe. Fuck hard and deep. You ready, Buttercup?”

  I made a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. Ready? Never. But I quivered underneath him and strained to lift my ass, needing him to take me now.

  With one hand still lodged in my hair, he lifted his hips and slid his free arm beneath my waist to raise my hips.

  I braced on my knees, my belly barely off the bed, because that’s all the room he gave me, and then he was rutting against me, pushing between my folds, quick in and out slides, penetrating only a couple of inches.