by Pam Godwin
“Don’t go after Evan or Mason.” Panic shook her voice. “I swear to you, Cole, they’re not involved.”
“Come on.” Tommy pulled her along by the handcuffs, hauling her out the door and into the morning heat.
She shaded her eyes with her free hand, faltering at the sight of a 1980’s doorless, topless Jeep Wrangler.
“Where’s my truck?” She turned, searching the property, and spotted a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle. “Please, tell me you didn’t get rid of my truck. It took me years to pay that off!”
He lifted her, dropped her in the Jeep’s passenger seat, and made quick work of shackling both of her hands to the handle on the dash.
As he walked around the front, she took an inventory of the cargo. A shovel, pickax, large plastic containers filled with water, other containers with unknown contents. Her attention returned to the shovel.
“You’re going to bury Paul Kissinger?” Her heart shivered.
He climbed in, buckled her seat belt, did his own, and started the engine. Then he shoved the Jeep into gear and took off.
Speeding over ruts and prickly shrubs, he worked the clutch and the gear shift and… Fucking fuck fuck fuck!
Even if she managed to escape the cuffs and knock him out, she wouldn’t be able to drive out of the desert. Because she didn’t know how to drive a goddamn manual transmission.
She dropped her head back on the seat and groaned.
Endless miles stretched in every direction—an expanse of searing, white-hot hopelessness. Gusts of dusty air blasted in through the open top, whipping her hair around her face and stinging her eyes. If she died and went to Hell, it would probably just be more of this.
“I have a newfound aversion to the desert,” she said aloud.
“Tell me about it.”
The fact that he responded at all surprised her, but it was his words that drew her gaze.
“What?” He glanced at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “I hate this fucking place and never planned on returning.”
That was her fault. She’d given him no choice.
“I’m sorry.” And she was. “I demanded you to come here because you were in over your head in that undercover job. What happened with Luke? Did he make it out?”
His hand clenched on the steering wheel, his mouth a slash of grim silence. The silence continued for the remainder of the drive through the desert.
He didn’t use a map or GPS to find his way. He knew this land better than anyone.
An hour later, he slowed the Jeep, approaching a butte on the horizon. It looked like all the others in this region, but the flock of vultures circling overhead told her that this butte had a narrow cave at the base. And a dead body.
When the corpse of Paul Kissinger came into view, she wanted to close her eyes and hold her breath. She wanted to turn back.
Tommy parked the Jeep far enough away not to smell the rot. Large black birds of prey darted and swarmed in her periphery. She couldn’t look. If she did, she would lose her breakfast.
He shut off the engine and unlocked her handcuffs.
She rubbed her wrists, her senses on high-alert. If she ran, he would catch her. If she stole the Jeep keys, she wouldn’t know how to operate the clutch. She was free of the restraints, but not free at all.
“Luke is safe.” He turned his neck, blinding her with the golden depths of his eyes. “I talked to him last night.” The corner of his mouth bounced. “He fell in love with her.”
“With the target? Vera?”
“Yeah.” He unbuckled his seat belt and stared out at the desert through the windshield. “If I hadn’t left the cartel compound when I did, things would’ve gone differently. Probably worse. Maybe my departure saved lives. Maybe Luke, Vera, and I would’ve survived either way.” He turned his harsh glare on her. “But you had no business interfering. I don’t give a fuck if you’re telling the truth about your motivation or lying through your teeth. You’re a stranger to me. You had no right reading my emails and making demands.”
She swallowed down her objections and considered his words. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy. I’ve made a lot of mistakes when it comes to you. But the punishment you’re doling doesn’t fit the crime.”
“That is yet to be determined.” He reached toward the back and tossed a bottle of sunscreen on her lap. “Lather up. We’re going to be out here a while.”
The miasma of death overpowered the desert air, making every inhale a poisonous, stomach-turning affliction. Rylee bent at the waist and gagged, her insides burning in misery.
Tommy stood in a shallow grave, seemingly unaffected by the stench as he swung the pickax over and over. He’d been digging forever, making excruciatingly slow progress in the hard, dry earth.
Since tampering with evidence and hiding a human body were crimes, she refused to help. But it was also a crime to fail to report a death and to fail to report the disposal of the body. Neither of which she intended to do.
She would take the secret of Paul’s murder to her own grave. Not because she forgave Tommy for his heinous treatment of her, but because she was indebted to him for this murder. The only reason he killed this man was to stop him from raping her.
The desert sizzled with dry heat as far as she could see. She wasn’t even tempted to run. Paul hadn’t been able to escape this place, and the grisly aftermath of his failure lay in a pile of vulture scraps. It would be a long while before anyone stumbled upon his grave, if ever.
Even if law enforcement was tipped off to search the area, it would be a race against time and the elements, as the scorching temperatures ensured the remains would quickly decompose. The evidence of homicide would soon dry up with the corpse.
Gruesome thoughts. But comforting. She was so certain the crime scene would never be discovered that Tommy probably didn’t even need to bury the body. But he was scrupulous in every job he undertook. He wouldn’t leave here until every trace of foul play was gone.
The sounds of scraping and hammering rent the air. He threw the pickax with brutal strength, breaking up rocks and chipping away at the sandy soil.
Muscles and stamina. He had an abundance of both, flexing through each swing, his lips set in a severe line, his physique as rigid and uncompromising as stone.
She would have to be stupid or blind not to notice his honed, sun-splashed body, his shirtless chest glistening with sweat, and his face overheated and red as Lucifer’s was by nature.
The handsome devil paused, tossed off the cowboy hat, and raked damp hair away from his forehead. It was cropped on the sides and back and darker at the roots. The longer strands on top were straight and sun-bleached to a lighter shade of brown. If left untouched by his combing fingers, his rebellious bangs hung to his eyebrows.
It was a youthful hairstyle, one he could pull off without a receding hairline like many men her age had. A reminder that too many years separated them.
He resumed digging, angling away and slamming the ax into the ground. Her gaze followed the action, her lips parted in admiration.
His jeans hung low, molding to his contoured backside and exposing the carved indentations at his hips. His boots bore a thick layer of dust, and all those twitching back muscles streaked with dirt and sweat.
Lethally gorgeous.
Impossible to look away.
He was violence and sex and salvation. Salvation for trafficked women, not for her.
For her, he was corruption.
Damnation.
Death wasn’t off the table.
That was the real reason she refused to help him dig. If she stepped into that grave, he might not let her leave it.
But as the day grew hotter and the stench of rot grew riper, she just wanted to get this over with.
With a sigh, she grabbed the shovel and forced her feet toward his sculpted back.
He stilled at the sound of her approach and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes as hot and golden as the blistering su
n.
“I’ll help.” She shrugged. “But it better not be my grave I’m digging.”
He cocked his tousled head, and a mischievous grin touched his lips.
An honest-to-God smile.
She couldn’t have imagined such a thing on his stern face, but now that she witnessed it, she didn’t want it to fade. It matched the glint in his eyes and made him look boyish, less threatening, and unreasonably, heartbreakingly stunning.
She was thunderstruck.
He turned back to his task, breaking the spell.
For the next two hours, they dug in silence, taking water breaks in the shade every fifteen minutes.
When he finally deemed the grave deep enough, she crawled out and stood by while he pulled on work gloves and dragged the half-eaten body into the hole.
She gagged and fought surging nausea as they covered the remains with sand and rock. The stench was eye-watering, the sight of squirming maggots and mangled flesh forever branded in her mind.
When the last scoop of dirt dropped on the grave, she charged toward the Jeep, breathing through her mouth and swallowing down bile.
Please, don’t puke. Please, don’t puke.
She chugged a bottle of water, sweating, shaking, desperate to leave this place and never return.
Footsteps approached from behind. He tossed his dirty gloves and grabbed a water, guzzling it in one long drink.
Dropping her brow against the side of the Jeep, she gagged again. It was all she could do to keep her stomach from emptying precious nutrients.
He moved in behind her and spoke at her ear. “A cock in the ass stops the gag reflex.”
Her heart sputtered. “Are you offering?”
“It’s a helpful tip.”
“So you’re offering just the tip?”
“For you, I’ll bury it to the root.” His breath heated her nape, his body heavy and damp against her back.
Her skin tingled in response, in memory, and she hated herself for it. “Get off me.”
“I read the messages on your hookup apps and know for a fact that anal isn’t just a notion in your lexicon of filthy thoughts. It’s a must-have for your one-night stands.”
If he was trying to insult her, he needed a different approach.
“That simply isn’t true.” She twisted to face him, smirking. “I enjoy all sorts of sex. I’m open-minded that way.”
“If I knew that women your age were kinky, I would’ve bagged a horny old lady years ago.”
That hit the mark.
The outrage this man inspired in her was fast and sticky, climbing through her limbs and burning her hand. She swung, slamming her palm across his face.
He didn’t flinch or raise his hand. His chilling calmness was threatening all on its own. “You wouldn’t have the strength to do that if Cole hadn’t fed you.”
Denial tangled in her throat and surged onto her tongue. “He didn’t.”
He strode toward the back of the Jeep, lifted a huge container of water, and poured it over his head. His wet, powerful physique defied the downpour, standing proud and mighty like an impregnable fortress.
Bronzed by the sun, his chiseled chest provided deep grooves for the rivulets of water to travel. It streamed down his well-thewed arms and darkened the denim at his hips. More trickled over the blunt angles of his face and along the thick column of his neck, racing between the hollows of his bulging chest muscles.
He lowered the container, and a fat, glistening drop clung to the ridge of his brick-hard pec. Finally losing its slippery hold, it cascaded down his flat abdomen and into the thin line of hair that led an enticing path beneath the waistband of his jeans.
“I smelled the bacon on your breath.” He stepped forward, his eyes ablaze with malice.
She backed up. “I stole a piece off Cole’s plate when he wasn’t looking.”
In a blur, he dumped the rest of the water on her head. As she sputtered beneath the deluge, he gripped her tank-top and ripped the straps, the neckline, and the material straight down the front.
It fell to the ground in tatters, leaving her braless breasts exposed. She didn’t bother covering herself in some pretense of being a shy virgin. They both knew she was anything but.
He watched the water run over her bare chest the same way she’d watched him. The appreciative gleam in his hooded eyes hardened her nipples and boiled her blood.
“You insult my age then ogle my tits?” She grabbed the shovel she’d left against the Jeep. “What kind of bastard are you?”
“A hungry one.” He licked his lips, his voice smooth, deep, dangerously masculine. “Remove your jeans.”
“Like hell I will.” She raised the shovel with both hands.
“Make me hurt you, Rylee.” He wrapped his mouth around the words, enunciating slowly. “Beg me.”
She swung.
He seized the weapon with a vicious jerk, yanked it from her grip, and flung it out of reach. She slapped his face. Or tried. A fist caught her hair, whirling her off balance. She swung at him again, and he snared her wrist.
“You can’t keep your greedy eyes off me.” He forced her backward and sideways, crushing her between his body and the Jeep, his breaths coming so hard and angry against hers. “Because you like what you see.”
“You have nice hair. Healthy bones. But your personality needs work. Far more than I’m willing to invest.”
“Liar. You want me so badly it scares you.” He leaned his weight against her, letting her feel the hard, impossibly thick, rigid length of him. “You like it rough and crave an aggressive, heartless man who will smack you around and fuck you like you just kicked his dog.”
“You make me sick.”
“You lied to me about breakfast, and you’re lying now.” He wrapped a hand around her throat. “But you’re going to make it up to me by taking every inch of my cock.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed, a loud, coarse, mocking guffaw that was cut off by his mouth as it slammed down over hers. He kissed her so cruelly and with such sublime devastation of heart and body that it only made her more furious, spurring her to kiss him back with equal venom.
He made a guttural sound deep in his chest as he assaulted her mouth, the thrusts of his tongue lashing against hers, punishing, seducing, making her need him and fear him until the past and present twisted together, doubts and certainty tangling so messily that one couldn’t be distinguished from the other.
She arched into him, and he gave her his powerful body, fucking her with his tongue, squeezing her breasts, choking her throat, and smothering her with the fury of their toxic need.
His kiss was born of darkness, in the horrors of an attic, where pleasure could be plucked from hell if one were demented enough to reach for it. And reach for it, she did, with her lips, her hands, her entire body rising to him. He grabbed her hips, trapping her against the Jeep, and devoured her mouth as if he were trying to suck the life from her soul.
He captured her breaths, swallowed her whimpers, and plunged her into a madness of lust and helplessness. His body was a weapon of enticement, his tongue the trigger. He held her hostage with his mouth, his dominance, and she only wanted to give more, more, more until nothing remained.
When he let her breathe at last, his grip still firm above her collarbones, she could do no better than stare.
He stared back, panting, seemingly dazed.
Christ, he was irresistible. Sexy as fuck. Gorgeous beyond human nature.
And mean as a snake.
She hated him. But she loved the feel of his assertive hands, the taste of his cruel lips, and the dark, deadly passion in his labored breaths. She wanted him to touch her. Her breasts ached for it. But she was scared.
Scared he was toying with her.
Scared he would reject her.
Terrified he wouldn’t.
“You wrote in your emails that you can’t have sex without inflicting pain. Yet you fight for a cause that saves women.” She touched his hand
at her throat, pulling on his immovable fingers. “I don’t know what this is, if it’s just two angry people lashing out at each other and using sex as an outlet, but I don’t want any part of it. I won’t willingly let you abuse me. If beating women gets you off—”
“Beating women?” He slammed a fist against the Jeep beside her head, making her jump. “Touch me, Rylee. Right now.” His face twisted in rage, contorting the masterful planes of beauty as he roared, “Put your fucking hands on me!”
His thundering voice rang in her ears and shook her from head to toe. She swallowed, confused by the demand, and lowered her hands to his jeans.
He tensed as she touched the swollen outline of him beneath the zipper. Her fingers trembled as she followed the impressive bulge, down, down, down, still going…
Holy mother of God, what she’d felt last night hadn’t been her imagination. He was enormous, thick, and so fucking long. Like porn-star long.
“Tommy?” Startled, she removed her touch.
Flattening his palms on the Jeep behind her, his arms supported his assertive lean and caged her in. He scrutinized her face, glaring, invading her space, and stealing her air with blatant intimidation.
“Pull me out.” A deep, insistent command. Taunting.
This wasn’t foreplay or seduction. He was being mean. But there was something else going on. Something straining beneath the antagonism.
Interest? Desire? He was hard as a rock, so yeah, he wanted to fuck, and she was the only female within a hundred miles. But he would never rape her. She’d miscalculated some things about him, but she was certain he would need a damn good reason to force a woman.
And that was what she’d detected beneath his growly, imperious command.
Uncertainty.
Vulnerability.
Was he anxious about her seeing him in the flesh and casting judgment? There was only one way to find out.
Her heart galloped as she unbuckled his belt and lowered the zipper. His breath hitched as she bent, wrestling the snug denim and briefs down his brawny thighs.
He didn’t spring free or jut upward. His erection was too heavy, too inconceivably massive to do anything but hang. God help her, he was hung. In his fully aroused, undeniably hard state, he was easily ten inches.
