by Angel Payne
Where was he going to take her this time?
And where the hell was Rhett?
And why did the possibilities of both answers make her shiver with anticipation as much as rage?
“Is that so, Officer Osten?” She made the mistake of emphasizing that by glancing back at the infuriating pirate. Reb was ready for her glare, rocking back on his heels, muscles pushing in all the right places at his jeans and T-shirt. Damn it. If he had to be so smug, couldn’t he be less stunning about it? “How I look at it, hmmm? And let me take a wild-ass guess about who’s holding my rose-colored glasses.”
Osten held up both hands. “Nobody’s holding the reins but you, little lady. Choice is totally yours.”
She snorted. “And that choice would be…?”
“Fairly simple.” Rebel flashed a smirk that made her yearn to slap him and climb him at once. “Turn over the car keys—and yourself—right now to the guy who is listed on the rental agreement.”
He braced to both legs now, his stance matching the strength of his jaw and the audacity of his eyes. Brynna pivoted, feeling like a dorky David up against a bold, breathtaking Goliath. She cocked her head, openly accusing. “Oh, is that all?”
“Yep. That’s all.”
“So walk away with you—or them?”
“Technically, you’d ride away with us,” Jake inserted. “I’ve been told that the cruiser’s back seat is comfy, all factors considered.”
Osten nodded. “Me, too. And the women’s holding cell should be fun for you, at least. We always have at least a few characters in there during festival days.”
“Did we release Madame Curie yet?” Jake threw a sardonic look to Rebel. “You know how hard it is to locate family for a scientist who’s been dead for eighty years?”
“Not yet,” Osten replied. “Though Davis told me she’d changed her mind. Today, she’s Susan B. Anthony. Made for a colorful exchange with the three lovelies in black latex bikinis brought in by second shift.”
Jake laughed. “I’ll bet it did.”
There was more where that came from, Brynna was positive of it—and she was damn tempted to let them string out the performance, even at her expense—but in the end, she recognized a deck of stacked cards when she saw one. It was time to throw up her own hands, jog up her chin, and capitulate while she still had some dignity left.
“Fine. You win.” She shot a glare at the gallingly serene man across the pavement. “You win, asshole. Happy?”
She braced herself for Rebel’s gloat. Instead, with unfaltering composure, the man strode forward and hooked a hand around her elbow. “Not by a longshot, minette petite.”
His snarl was menacing and low. His grip closed in, painful and tight. But before taking another step, he stopped to address the two uniformed men now behind them—for all intents and purposes, the bastard’s partners in crime.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a supreme pleasure. I’m certain Double-Oh agrees. Thank you again for the help with the interesting…errrmm…predicament today.”
Both officers shot back more loaded laughs. “Moonstormer, when have your predicaments not been interesting?” Osten drawled.
“Just happy that this time, he has his pants on,” Jake rejoined.
“For the time being.” Osten retrieved the keys from the SUV, pushed the lock button on the fob then tossed the whole set to Rebel.
The pair chuckled harder, enjoying the air sliced by Rebel’s raised middle finger. Seeming to forget his parting shot as rapidly as he’d dealt it, the man dug the full force of his deep blues back down into Brynna. He’d left his cocky smirk behind, too—leaving her with a bunch of residual wrath and not a shred of courage with which to hurl it at him. No action felt right except the lead brick of a gulp now thudding down her throat, while she endured more of the storm that had invaded his face.
He leaned tighter over her. Lowered his mouth next to her ear. She swallowed again, breathing hard from the fresh fire fall that tumbled down through her body. Against even her strongest will, her head fell back—more; please more!—until he snapped it back up, using only an unfaltering grip on her nape.
“March.” His mandate was as hard and rough as his hold. “And don’t stop until we get to your room. One hesitation or word of backtalk, and you’ll be looking at the world from over my shoulder. Understood?” After a long moment, he dug his fingers into her scalp. “I don’t think I heard you, mon chou.”
“Yes,” Brynn finally retorted. “Yes, I understand you.” Then in a bitter mutter, “Asshole.”
Tension poured off of him, making her tense in expectation of being thrown over his shoulder. He only pushed harder at her neck, guiding her to the little room at the back of the main building’s bottom floor, located across from an old ice maker and soda machine. Brynn wasn’t surprised to find the door already opened by a crack, kept open by the safety latch from inside, undoubtedly the result of more fancy Rebel Stafford string pulling.
Through the opening, she smelled dusty air conditioning tinged by the Shalimar perfume she’d reluctantly dabbed on before leaving. She was shocked by how much the stuff permeated the air, but what the hell did she know from fancy perfume? She liked light body spray that kept as close to her as possible; as it was, the Shalimar had spent years in her bathroom cabinet before she tossed it into her bag as a last-minute “what if” essential for this trip.
That list of ‘what ifs” had been a long one.
It had never included a contingency for this.
Especially because she wasn’t even sure what this was.
Strangely, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Between one step and the next, almost like a time warp effect in a movie, everything…changed. The focus of her world was completely different. The breeze on her face, nonexistent. The echoes of their steps on the concrete hall, now muted. The creak of the door as Rebel pushed it open, nearly silent.
But her heartbeat…pure thunder.
The potency of Rebel’s form behind her…painful.
The throb of his breath against her neck…excruciating.
The answering pulse from deep in her pussy…torment.
The atmosphere thickened as soon as Rebel ushered her in—to face the man already waiting for them inside. With his Viking chest already shirtless and his denim-covered legs braced, he sucked out her breath even as frantic air pumped her lungs in and out. As he regarded her from head to toe, his North Sea eyes were as tumultuous as Rebel’s. He raked her over with them again. Then again.
“Shit.” She finally got it out, though the thudding ache between her breasts didn’t relent. But she sure as hell didn’t have a lot of options. There he was, less than five feet ahead, while the man behind her formed another wall with the magnitude of his stance.
“Afternoon, peach.”
Rhett hooked both thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. Cocked his head at her as if striking up a water cooler conversation…if said cooler happened to be filled with ice.
“Hi.” She managed it, but in a rasp that nearly squeaked. Good God. Maybe she really could make this day into a stranger circus than it already was. She should be pissed as hell right now. They’d chased her here, calling in favors on a scale so outside-the-lines that unorthodox didn’t begin to touch it, then had gotten into her room using God knew what kind of line on the pierced punk rocker at the front desk…
For what?
What the hell were they going to do now?
She needed to be more furious about that answer, too.
And scared. Really scared.
She fought the thought, jerking her head higher. “Well. Bravo, boys. You found Waldo. Am I—what?—in trouble now?”
Rhett’s scrutiny didn’t falter until she injected the mocking tone. Only then did his head tilt a little, making her think of a warden contemplating a sassy prisoner. Trouble was, she felt like that captive, too.
“Do you think you’re in trouble, sweetheart?”
She almost
thanked him for the line. It brought a laugh she really needed right now. “Oh-ho. Taste of my own head shrinker medicine, hmmm?”
“No.” There wasn’t a single note of celebration in Rebel’s comeback, growled into her ear from behind. “He was asking a simple question—which you will answer, while I contemplate a prayer to the porcelain god from being so fucking sick about finding you.”
For a long second, she couldn’t speak. She blinked hard, feeling punched in the gut—which apparently, wasn’t as rough as what his stomach had been through.
He’d been worried sick about her? Why?
A fresh look at Rhett socked her with the same feeling. He didn’t seethe it like Rebel but the emotions tugged at the rugged beauty of his face just the same.
“Oh, my God.” She dropped her head, chastened and moved, but still a little pissed and afraid—and other things, too. Things like wishing she wasn’t here but not imagining herself anyplace else. Things like craving how they looked at her, even with their censuring eyes and their tight lips, because all that anger was ignited by something deeper. So much deeper. Their fear.
She’d scared the crap out of them.
So much more than they’d ever terrified her.
Until maybe now.
Whatever was going on now, between them then arced out to her, was like a thousand live electrical wires on the air—currents that fried the ends off of every nerve ending she had in her body, replacing it with a buzzing awareness of them…only them. Every harsh breath they took, tiny move they made, drop of sweat they shed, hit her conscience like another burst of light that opened her, shattered her…
Moved her.
As she started to tremble, Rhett released a long exhalation. His face shifted like he’d scrubbed it with his hand though he still barely moved from gazing so hard at her. She had no idea how to read the look—but knew she hated being the source of it.
“I’m sorry.” The backs of her eyes heated. The liquid fallout coursed down her face. “I didn’t want to—I didn’t mean to—I’m really, really sorry.”
She couldn’t remember meaning an apology more.
As she rasped it out, he drew in another breath. When he let it out, he lowered himself to the bed just behind him. Spread both hands to his thighs then pushed them out toward his knees. He stopped just before getting to the caps—then patted them both. Just twice.
But that was enough.
“Come here, Brynna. Lay across my lap. Grab my calf for support…and lift your ass high.”
The lead brick clunked down her throat again. Her heartbeat screamed. Her bloodstream raced. Her senses roared with conflict.
No. No! Okay, you’re sorry—but you don’t show it like this. Think. Think. Give them other options. You don’t do things like this. You’re not submissive!
But as she took a step toward Rhett, then another and another, her lips parted, dry with fear…and arousal. Finally, they forced out two hoarse words.
“Ohhhh…shit.”
Chapter Fifteen
‡
WELL…DAMN.
As usual, Brynna Monet was fucking up all their plans to hell—in the most incredible, beautiful ways she possibly could.
Rebel shot his stare to Rhett, not shocked to find the same sentiment stamped on his friend’s formidable features. They’d gone through a vision of how this confrontation would go down—extensively. Even with the high-speed escort into Austin, they’d had time to outline exactly what they were going to do with this infuriating little wildcat, if her crazy stunt didn’t get her raped or killed first. Some of the decisions had been easy—like deciding she wouldn’t leave this room being able to think about sitting down for three days. Other calls weren’t so cut and dry—like admitting that while her execution sucked major ass, her idea about getting in past Adler’s security was actually the best option they had right now.
Shit.
He refused to think about that at this moment.
But thinking was exactly what he had to do. Calmly. Ruthlessly. Preferably with a shit-ton of anger along for more clarity, but fuck him if she hadn’t blown that to hell as well, her sincere apology and her honest tears cleansing the air yet clinging to it, like a sudden Spring rain storm. Only better. And worse.
In this case, so much worse.
When had the thinking part become so fucking hard—especially about Brynna Monet? She was an “addition” to the mission, brought along exactly for this purpose: so that they could throw her adorable little ass—and right now, with it swaying in front of him, he could really attest to the “adorable” factor—into the mix of options for rescuing Zoe from Adler’s place? When had thinking about this woman become next to impossible?
The answer bit in. Drew blood.
He’d stopped thinking about Brynna Monet…when he’d started feeling for her.
From their first kiss—a kneejerk thing that’d soared his senses to the skies they were traveling in—to the days after that, in which he’d discovered her humor, her laughter, her grace, her grit, her courage, her tears, and yes, her passion—to the magic of this morning, when her passion had saved Rhett and he from tearing each other apart…
She hadn’t just made everything okay. She’d made everything magic.
Because she didn’t step in as their wedge. She’d built herself in as their bridge.
Now, she was doing it again.
Though the floor beneath their feet was covered in cheap no-pile carpet, every step she took toward Rhett was a boom in Reb’s soul, loud as the gongs of Notre Dame itself. If that made him Quasimodo, so be it. He gazed at the new tension in her back, evident even through her prim business blouse, and relished it. He reveled in her grace and poise, even while doing something as foreign to her as bending over Rhett’s thighs, and was awed to his fucking toenails by it. And yes, he savored the resplendence of the man who welcomed her to his lap: the approving hum in Rhett’s throat, his strong caresses along her spine, the way he parted his legs a little more, imparting stability to her pose…and giving Rebel a glimpse of the growing ridge beneath his zipper…
A bulge he let Brynn experience firsthand, as he secured her body tighter against his.
“Oh!” She gasped then wriggled. Well, tried to. The muscles of Rhett’s forearm were impressive ropes of sinew against her waist, keeping her firmly in place on his lap. “Ohhhh my God.”
Rhett lifted his other arm…and cupped a hand around one of her firm ass cheeks. But he did nothing more. Instead, he raised his head, seeking out Rebel with a dark, inquiring gaze.
For a long moment, Rebel didn’t do anything, either. Didn’t want to. He communicated as much by curving up a steady smile, paying unabashed reverence to the sight before him. Fuck. Few things in life got more perfect than this: the two people more beautiful to him than any others on the planet, bodies fitted as if sculpted by a master artist, too stunning to be real. He was awestruck. Mesmerized. Caught in a reverse trance. Instead of everything in his body running numb, he was a network of humming nerves and electrified awareness, amped like he would be for a mission, only sporting a boner that grew larger by the minute. Wow. Was this what people felt like when in the presence of true masterpieces? He’d never been a “museum guy” but started to appreciate the allure of the places, in ways he’d never imagined.
“Damn.” Imagine that. Quasmido could speak. It wasn’t eloquent, but who needed to be when the artwork spoke for him? “Damn…yes.”
The praise wasn’t lost on Rhett—or so Reb guessed. He couldn’t be certain, when the man’s return smile should’ve earned him a place on the wall next to the Mona Lisa. What was with the cryptic intention—and did it really matter? God only knew, if their positions were reversed and Reb sat there with that stunning woman wriggling on his knees, primal instincts would’ve crawled their way through his brain faster than a caveman bearing the world’s first fire. Clarity would definitely not be a priority—especially if he had someone standing nearby to pick up the rational
thought slack.
Rebel was all too happy to be that someone for Rhett. They’d played reverse roles this morning, with Rhett calling all the shots—and fuck, it had been good. Nothing like an ideal opportunity for payback on the best scale possible…
He let his body do the talking about that conclusion first.
On measured steps, he approached the bed. With calculated intent, widened his stance. With even deeper resolve, let a weighted silence pass. The room’s stillness was unique, as if suddenly sealed off from the party of the world outside the door. The only sound on the air was the soft scraping of Rhett’s fingertips along Brynna’s spine.
Rebel turned. Leaned in. Ran his own fingers along skin, choosing the stretch from Rhett’s elbow to wrists, before meshing his fingers between the long, firm digits that caressed over Brynn’s back. Like his, Rhett’s fingers were seasoned by years of military duty. Their nicks, callouses, and bruises said hello to each other, while the marked difference in their heritage still separated who was who. Nordic snow against Cajun pepper. Marble next to dark gold. The contrast captivated him in entirely new ways.
Hot, blood-hammering ways.
Would their bodies look this good, twined with each other…buried in each other?
Brynn’s moan yanked him back to the moment—though with no less seduction. Holy fuck, she was entrancing, her body responding to every touch they delivered, arching and dipping in response to the direction of their hands, up and down her spine.
Her face gave him a different story.
He crouched down to look at her fully, though reluctantly ended his handclasp with Rhett to do so. But he was damn glad he had. This was all uncharted territory for her, and the torment on her face confirmed it with solidarity. Her lips were twisted, and clearly, she’d not stopped crying. The rest of her features were contorted as if they’d clamped her nipples and clit at the same time. While the idea was beyond appealing, it was also beyond impossible, at least for a submissive like her: a submissive still violently opposed to even the word itself.
