Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  He sticks out his hand. “You got yourself a girl, yet, Jax?” He asks.

  I shake his hand, and I chew my lip. Who ever said men can’t multitask?

  “Maybe,” I nod. “We’ll see.”

  “Well it would be good to meet your maybe,” Zach grins. “When you’ve climbed out of whatever sewer of shit you’ve toppled into. Come over for dinner. I know Mary would love to meet her. I would too.”

  “Yeah,” I say before I slammed the door shut, “Maybe.”

  I’m not noncommittal because I don’t want to go. Hell, I can’t think of many things I’d rather do. I just don’t want to jinx things; not yet.

  Right on cue, Zach releases the hatch. I open it up and grab a huge fifty pound duffel bag from inside. When I move, it clinks.

  Perfect.

  One hour later.

  The light at the end of the tunnel: you think it’s just a phrase. Then you crawl through hundreds of yards of ventilation tubing in the pitch black, with nothing more than a head light to stop you from going crazy.

  My hands feel filthy. I growl with disgust, and then do what I can to wipe them on my legs. There’s one upside to the darkness, I guess. It means I can’t see exactly how grimy I look.

  I wouldn’t have figured The Landmark for a new hotel – at least not after seeing what lies behind the scenes. I guess that’s why they tell you never to meet your heroes, or ask how a sausage is made.

  “Ten more yards, Jax,” I mutter to myself. The sound is half under my breath, half in my head. It’s quiet enough that I know I’ll never be heard – especially not with the rattling of the air conditioning system – but loud enough to distract me.

  I never did like small spaces. Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone – not even myself. This cramped metal tunnel brings back memories of my least favorite part of training down on Coronado Beach when the trainers forced us poor dumb grunts to crawl through a submerged tunnel without oxygen while they pushed it up and down.

  Sometimes I ask myself why I left the service. Then I remember. It’s because of shit like this, and shit like that. Except this time, I don’t care as much. This time I’m not just doing it for crappy pay and my country. This time I’m doing it for the woman I love.

  And that’s worth more than money, more than weeks of shore leave with your buddies. Hell, it’s even worth more than patriotism – just.

  Still, I grin to myself, if I want the woman I love to love me back, then I had better beg, borrow or steal a shower before I see her again …

  I inch forward, pushing the duffel bag on before me. Its metal zips and straps scratch and grind against the metal tunnel.

  Nine feet.

  Five feet.

  Three feet.

  I push out hard, and the duffel bag flies out into the light. It lands with a soft whoosh on the wrong side of a ten foot drop. I follow close behind.

  When I drop to my feet, I have to shield my eyes from the burning desert sun. I glance up out of habit – just to check that no one followed me. I’m sure they didn’t – but it never hurts to double check.

  The duffel bag lies empty at my feet. A few short lengths of wire lie scattered in a halo around it – cut off, twisted. I scoop them up and put them back where they belong. I don’t expect anyone to come looking up here – but just in case, it’s better safe than sorry.

  I pull a small metal case from my back pocket and flick it open. Inside I see two switches and a slider. It’s a standard issue NATO detonator. I push the slider and a green indicator LED blinks to life. Once, twice, and at the time it flashes. And then it sticks – holding a steady green. It’s a strong signal.

  Perfect.

  I turn around one last time and look back at the ventilation tunnel that just spat me out. I feel a strange sense of satisfaction. I don’t know why. The mission isn’t over yet. Alex isn’t safe. Ryan isn’t dead.

  But even so, I’m ready; as ready as I ever was in a dozen countries around the globe. I’m ready for a fight.

  A growl escapes my lips, a challenge. “Let’s play a game, motherfucker.”

  Chapter 11

  Alex

  “Jesus, girl,” Jackson says, his eyes opening in shock. Shocked delight, I hope. “You look –.”

  “Nice?” I say, feeling kind of awkward in the little black dress that barely goes past mid-thigh. It’s racier than anything I would usually wear, and I’m worried that I look stupid – that my curves are hanging out in all the wrong places. “Or do you think it’s just ridiculous. Maybe I should –.”

  “Alex,” Jackson growls. “If you’re about to ask me if you should change, then I want you to zip that filthy mouth shut – all right?”

  “I …”

  Jackson cuts me off again. He waggles his finger in front of me, and gets to his feet. He keeps waggling, and my eyes become transfixed on his finger. Then he presses it against my lips. God, there’s something hot about it: something commanding. I don’t know what it is, precisely. Maybe it’s the way his eyes light up when he sees me, or the way he can’t stop drinking me in.

  Maybe it’s just that he’s here, now, and by my side after so long: after I thought I’d never find him again; after I thought I was dead.

  “You look like a million dollars. Hell, a billion dollars. Believe me – if I’d seen you in this dress, I would never have even considered re-upping…”

  The memory of what Jax and I once shared – the relationship that went awry – flashes across my mind. Except, this time, it doesn’t hurt. I focused on everything that went wrong for so long that I forgot what went right.

  There were so many things: Jackson’s loyalty; his charm; his wit; the fact that he’d never do anything to hurt me – not knowingly, anyway. I should never have allowed anyone else’s opinion to get in the way.

  Jackson never would have.

  The only opinions he ever listened to were those of his men, and mine.

  If he’d heard it from my father, I know he would never have accepted it. He would have fought his case – and mine. No doubt, he would have won. I know he would have, because that’s what Jax does. He’s not just a fighter, he’s a winner.

  But I told him.

  I pushed Jax away.

  And he listened.

  “Hey,” Jackson whispers. I can see by the look in his eyes that he knows exactly what’s on my mind. “I want you here, with me. Not up in your head where I can’t listen in. There’s nothing good up there, you hear?”

  “Oh,” I growl, in as sultry a voice as I can manage. I don’t think I’ve ever sounded this sexy. It must be Jax – the way he’s built my confidence up after so long. “There are some things…”

  I lick my lips.

  “Like what?” Jax asks. Suddenly, his voice isn’t as strong. It’s like he’s forced to take a deep breath in as he talks.

  I take a pace forward, and slide my fingers down his side. “You know, you scrub up pretty good yourself, Jackson Kane.”

  Jax looks down, following the path of my fingers. He always was sensitive down his sides – ticklish, even. I remember gently scraping his skin a thousand times in bed. I remember the way his back arched, the way his cock grew in my hands. I remember everything.

  “Not too shabby, huh?” Jax grins, but not without swallowing hard. He’s fighting a battle – between his cock and his head. I don’t know which organ is winning. “For a tux off the rack, I mean. Of course, it cost nearly a thousand bucks. But even so …”

  I shrug. A wicked smile plays on my lips. I have to admit, my breath is a little ragged now, as well. “It’s nice enough. I guess.”

  Jackson arches one eyebrow. “You guess?”

  I make a little noise that’s half a challenge, half acquiescence. “Mmhmm. See, the thing is,” I say, dragging my fingers down my man’s side, across his hip, and lower, until they are dancing on his crotch. “In my head, I don’t see you with a black tie wrapped around your neck…”

  Now Jackson licks his lips. He
lets out a heavy, frustrated sigh. He pushes forward – just lightly. Just enough that my fingers graze his growing cock. “What do you see?” He asks.

  I grin, sticking my tongue out just half an inch. “I see you,” I say, grinding my palm against his cock. “And I see me.”

  “What are we doing?” Jax whispers. He closes his eyes, picturing the scene.

  “Well,” I say, folding my fingers around his now rigid and fully-erect cock. “My mouth is wrapped around your –.” I break off, and turn away.

  “Did you say we had to be somewhere?” I ask, letting a smile of deep satisfaction blossom on my face.

  Jackson groans, tipping his head back. “You have got to be kidding me,” he growls. He looks down, pointing at his cock. “What the hell do you think I’m supposed to do with this?” He asks, shaking his head with disbelief.

  I glance up at a clock that decorates the far wall of the extravagant hotel suite. “I’d say take a cold shower,” I tell him. “But we don’t have time.”

  Jackson glances at his watch. I know by the look on his face that he knows I’m right. He growls. It’s not a word – just an inchoate, incoherent expression of sexual frustration. He takes a pace forward. He looks like a lion stalking its prey. He takes another step. He grabs my wrist.

  “Alex,” he hisses, biting his lip. “God, Alex.”

  “You don’t have to call me that,” I pout, blowing him a kiss. “But thank you. I try.”

  Jackson drives me backwards. If it wasn’t for his hand that’s suddenly appeared on my ass, I would topple over. He pushes me back at such a speed that I barely find time to blink before my back collides with the wall.

  “Jax,” I gasp, suddenly, aggressively, acutely aware of how virile my man is. And how turned on I am. “Please be careful – my lipstick.”

  I can tell by the look on Jax’s face that the last thing in the world he cares about right now is my lipstick, and the second last thing his freshly pressed white shirt.

  He dips his head to my neck and lays a trail of fiery kisses all the way to the corner of my mouth. “I can be careful,” he growls, scraping his fingernails up my thigh in exactly the same way I just wanted him. “Or I can be powerful. Maybe I should bend you over right here. I think I could find the time.”

  “Maybe you should,” I whisper. I can feel the veins pulsing in my temple, Jax’s breath tickling my face. My nipples are hard, and my skin breaks out with goose bumps. I’ve never been this turned on – at least, not in years.

  Not since Jackson and I dated the first time.

  Jackson pushes my legs apart with his left hand and my dress up with his right. I tip my head back and it smashes against the wall – and I just don’t care. Nothing hurts. Not right now. Not when everything feels this perfect.

  Jax grinds his palm against my pussy. I push my hips forward, ashamed by my rampant desire, but not ashamed enough to hold back. The slit between my legs is soaking wet, and it feels like a furnace.

  “You like that?” Jax whispers into my ear. I nod fervently in reply. I stare into his glittering eyes and lose myself. I don’t care that we’re going to be late. All I want is this. All I want is now.

  And that’s when Jax does exactly what I feared he would. He takes a step back, and pulls his hand from between my legs. He leaves me, hair messy, legs apart, and lying against the wall. And then, just to rub it in – and as if he thinks he’s damn James Bond – he checks his cuffs.

  “Two can play at that game, pumpkin,” Jax says, a smart, self-satisfied smile littering his face. He offers me his arm as I run my fingers through suddenly messy hair.

  “Now – shall we go?”

  I’m still feeling the after effects of temptation twenty minutes later, sitting in the back of a stretch limousine.

  “You like it?” Jax grins, smoothing back his boyish blonde hair. “I know; it’s a bit trashy chic. But sometimes a guy’s got to show off …”

  The privacy screen that separates us from the driver is closed. I’m glad. I don’t want anyone else hearing our conversation. I swallow. I don’t want to seem weak, but…

  “I’m scared, Jax,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound nearly as strong as normal. “You do have a plan, right?

  “A plan?” Jax replies, his forehead rippling with a stormy sea of frowns. “Me? Nah – you must have the wrong guy. I’m a shoot from the hip kind of dude.”

  I form a loose fist and punch Jack lightly in the arm. My knuckles meet a solid rock of muscle. It kind of hurts – and I barely put my shoulder into it. I can’t imagine what a real fight with Jackson would be like. I’m glad I never have to find out.

  “Hey!” Jax voices his protest. He puts his fists up in the air and shadow boxes with me. “Two can play at that game, you know?”

  I don’t reply. My lips are tight and white with anxiety – I can see it in my reflection on the window. My face is strained – and strangely unlined with tension. I don’t look like myself, and I sure as hell don’t feel myself.

  Jackson leans over and kisses me. It’s just a light peck on the lips, but it’s enough to reassure me. He has a way of doing that. If I could bottle and sell it, we’d be millionaires.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “I’ve got a plan. I believe in it – otherwise I wouldn’t have dragged you along with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t mean to sound weak. It’s just – this isn’t my –.”

  I pause, close my eyes and tip my head back. Jax doesn’t say a word, he just strokes my knee. I like that – like that he’s giving me the time to come to terms with this on my own. As I wait, I look out the windows. Las Vegas flashes past, like the stars speeding past on the Millennium Falcon. God – of course my geeky mind would think of a Star Wars reference now, of all times. But it seems to work. The words come to my mouth now, unbidden.

  “It just feels like we’re walking into a lion’s den, that’s all. Do you understand that?” I ask, glancing up at Jax’s relaxed face. I wonder if I look as anxious as I sound. I wouldn’t bet against it.

  “That’s because we are,” Jax grins. “This is dangerous, Alex. The guys we’re going up against shoot to kill, and they won’t lose a second’s sleep at night if they put us into an early grave.”

  I watch my lover – and the man I’m quickly remembering how to love – for a few long seconds before I reply. The only sign that Jackson might be feeling even a fraction of the nervous energy that’s coursing through my body is his leg bouncing up and down. It’s not fast, but slow. It reminds me of the slow, measured speed of a nodding donkey oil rig. I lay my hand on it. Jackson covers mine with his.

  “I won’t let them hurt you,” he whispers, leaning in to nibble my earlobe. “You can trust me on that.”

  A few seconds later, the limo slows. We step out into the heat of the Las Vegas night. The city is alive with sound and activity. I guess it’s always like this – fast, aggressive, scurrying and bustling with activity. I don’t think I would like to live here – it really is a city that never sleeps. I’m more of a two-naps-a-day kind of girl.

  “Ready?” Jax asks, a questioning frown decorating his forehead.

  I take a deep breath and nod once – as much to reassure myself as to reply. “Ready.”

  The shining lights of the sparkling, brand-new Landmark Hotel and Casino half-blind me as we walk through the red-carpeted lobby. It feels expensive, exclusive, and a place the likes of which I haven’t stepped inside since dad lost every last red cent.

  For a man who was born into a comfortable, but comfortably working-class family, Jax doesn’t seem fazed. Hell, the way he walks – his back straight, chest upright, and one hand gently resting in his pocket – he looks like he was born into this. He heads straight for the concierge.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The tuxedo-wearing, white-haired man asks.

  “I’m looking for the Roosevelt Room,” Jackson says. I’m glad he’s talking, because I wouldn’t have a clue what to say.
r />   “Are you expected?” The concierge asks. He glances down at a letter ledger on his marble desk, and flicks through a couple of pages. “I don’t have you on the list.”

  Jackson just smiles. It’s open and disarming. “Alex Hunter,” he says, smoothing his tuxedo and smiling at me. “And guest.”

  The sound of my name startles me. I don’t understand why Jax has used it. I’ve got nothing to do with this. Heck, if I did I would be running as far – and fast – away from this place as I can manage on heels a couple of inches too big for me.

  The concierge frowns and purses his lips, but punches three numbers into a cable phone in front of him. He presses it to his ear and murmurs into it in a tone that’s too low to hear. I guess it’s well-practiced.

  “Of course, Sir,” he says, returning the phone to its cradle. “Tenth floor. Your hosts are expecting you.”

  Jax guides me to the nearest bank of elevators. My stomach feels like a washing machine – a stormy sea of bubbles and suds and nerves. “Are you sure about this?” I whisper as the elevator whisks us up. The numbers of floor after floor disappear on the display, almost before I get a chance to register them. I wish we would slow down. I feel like I’m walking to my execution. What if this was all a setup? Can I trust Jax?

  What if..?

  “Relax, baby,” Jax says as the doors slide open. “We’ll be fine.”

  He heads straight to the cashier without looking left or right. I feel my chest rising and falling faster and faster. I feel the blood pumping in my veins and the panic rising in my brain. My heels click on the marble floor as I follow behind.

  The room’s walls are decorated with red tapestries. It’s not too big – intimate, I guess you’d call it. There’s one large poker table in the center, with seven men – only men – sitting around it, with one space free. Security guards are scattered around the room. There are nearly half a dozen of them. I’m no Navy SEAL, but I’ve seen a lot of movies.