by Kris Norris
His GPS broke through his thoughts, rattling off the next set of directions. Russel focused on the road, on the steady downpour of rain—on anything other than the warm feel of Quinn’s hand in his. The soft snuffling noises she made, or the subtle scent of her perfume that had slowly saturated every inch of his truck. Floral with a hint of something cool, he couldn’t help but inhale it with every breath. And he knew it was permanently fused into his senses. That he could track it anywhere. Anytime.
He gave himself a mental shake, following the ghostly voice as it continued to call out turns and distances. Another fifteen minutes and he was staring at the entrance to a small cabin set against some hills. Wire fencing ran out to either side, a couple of posts opening up a narrow gravel road. A few lights brightened the porch in the distance, a man’s silhouette visible next to a railing.
Russel drove ahead, mindful not to venture even a hair off the gravel drive. Though, he suspected anything Rigs might have planted was mostly for show—a very mild charge to toss some dirt in the air and alert him to possible unwanted visitors—Russel wasn’t about to test his theory. Rigs had been the best explosives ordinance soldier Russel had ever had the pleasure to work with, and his skills demanded respect.
The truck rocked to a halt as Russel shoved it in park. If nothing else, they had a few hours to rest—get their heads on straight. And get some damn answers. After that, they’d discuss their next move.
Quinn groaned when he lifted her against his chest, holding her close as he headed for the steps leading into the cabin. Rigs stood off to the side, half eclipsed in shadows.
He smiled—a flash of white amidst the darkness. “Glad you made it here in one piece.”
Russel arched a brow. “I was hoping you were exaggerating on your defense strategy. But I’m not foolish enough to test you.”
Rigs merely grinned. “Inside and down the hall. Second door on the right.” He moved closer. “She okay?”
“Just exhausted. A good night’s sleep might mean we get some answers in the morning. At least, I hope.”
“I’ll keep watch. Just in case. You two relax. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks, buddy. I owe ya.”
Rigs waved it off, holding the door as Russel maneuvered them inside. He didn’t miss the way Rigs seemed to avoid showing off the left side of his face, but that was a discussion better left for tomorrow. After Russel had gotten some sleep. And, with Rigs standing watch—nothing was getting past the man. Which meant Russel could actually let his guard down. For a few hours.
He headed for the room, placing Quinn on the bed before toeing off his boots then stripping down to a shirt and briefs. He removed Quinn’s outer layer, leaving her in a shirt and panties, not wanting her to feel as if he’d violated too much of her privacy, then tucked her under the sheets, crawling in behind her.
He shuffled over, sliding one arm under her head and drawing her against his chest, letting the other wrap around her waist. She stirred, burrowed closer, then settled. Russel inhaled, drinking in her familiar fragrance coupled with a hint of coconut in her hair. God, she smelled incredible. He closed his eyes, his tension easing for the first time since he’d spotted her in the bar three weeks ago. Though, he knew it was only temporary. Tomorrow, she’d have to level with him about what she’d gotten herself into. Why those men were after her, and what it had to do with her family. Because he wasn’t about to lose the first good thing to happen to him in a long time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rain pelted against her skin, dripping along her jaw to puddle on the pavement as Quinn got shoved down. Her hands connected with the asphalt, scraping a line across her palms. Voices rose around her, followed by a series of dull pops. The same sounds she’d heard in the café. Only these were directed at her—them. She wasn’t alone. He was there. Somehow avoiding the bullets, eliminating the threats. One minute, she’d thought they’d both be killed. The next, he was grabbing her hand—spiriting her away.
And all she knew was his first name.
Quinn inhaled as she startled awake, remnants of the dream still playing in the background. She’d been crouched in the alley, watching as Russel saved her—again. Only this time, it wasn’t from a bunch of guys who didn’t want to take no for an answer. It was against armed men—Thomas’ men. The ones he’d brought with him to deal with her. To deal with a traitor. That’s what he obviously considered her. The only question was whether her father was involved.
The thought beaded her skin with goosebumps.
No. Her father might be a criminal. He might even turn a blind-eye to the violence going on around him. But she refused to believe he’d send men after her—men sent to kill her. It just wasn’t…possible. Was it?
Another shiver raced down her spine, rousing her from the last vestiges of sleep. She blinked away the fuzziness, squinting to make sense of the shapes scattered around the room. Shadows still clung to every surface, only a hint of gray beyond the window across from her.
A warm hand palmed her stomach, drawing her against a wall of firm muscles. She inhaled, finally taking stock of her position. She was lying on a bed, Russel’s left arm under her head, his right slung across her waist. Her head was nestled into the crook of his shoulder, his breath ruffling her hair with every easy exhalation. And the rest of her…
It felt as if every inch of her was snugged against him. Her back against his chest. Her legs interwoven with his. And her ass—it was pressed against his groin, the steely length of his cock—his semi-erect cock—notched between her buttocks.
She closed her eyes. There was no doubt the man was large. His hands, his shoulders, his chest, his feet. Though she’d assumed the rest of his anatomy matched, feeling the proof made the room spin slightly. And all she could think about was that if she hadn’t been so damn drunk that first night, she’d know exactly what he felt like. Looming over her. Moving inside her. Pushing her into the bed.
She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. She needed to think about something else. Anything but how good it felt in his arms. How right. It didn’t matter that her heart raced whenever he looked at her. That her stomach flip-flopped if he so much as smiled. She’d given up on the dream of ever having a relationship when she’d discovered she was an heiress of sorts to a crime syndicate. That no matter how much she distanced herself, she would always be linked back to it—like a set of invisible chains shackled around her ankles. And she knew she’d never be able to drag someone else into that life. To put their life at risk. Last night was a perfect example of how dangerous situations could get. Sure, her actions since the café were largely to blame, but it could have happened regardless.
Thomas had made it clear in the conversation she’d overheard that he thought she was a liability unless she embraced her father’s endeavors. And she knew, in her heart, Thomas would have eventually come after her. A preemptive strike to ensure he remained beyond the scope of the law. The last man standing.
Though, despite his attempts, he hadn’t succeeded. And the reason was wrapped around her, his body warming hers, his scent infused into her senses. Russel had proven he could handle anything. And he hadn’t even known what to expect. What he’d gotten himself into or the level of resistance he’d have to face. He’d just dealt with it. Taken out the threats then moved on, as if he hadn’t just downed three men armed with guns and god knew what else.
Special Forces.
That’s why she was alive. He was some form of Special Forces. He’d learned how to kill. How to survive, and he’d obviously been good at it. He’d said something about dragging his buddy, Rigs, out of a firefight. Then, there had been the comment about carrying men his size for miles. Maybe he wasn’t at as much of a risk as she’d feared? Maybe he could stand against Thomas and his endless goons and not get himself killed?
His hold tightened, his lips curving against her head. “It’s still early. You should rest some more.”
God, that low raspy tone with a hint of sleep. She had no trouble imagining his voice sounding exactly like this after a night of sex—pounding her into the bed was how he’d phrased it. And damn if she didn’t want him to do just that. Dissolve everything into nothing more than primal needs. Forget that they’d almost died. That they were on the run. That she’d eventually have to tell him everything. Because the chance of him wanting to have anything to do with her once he discovered her father, her fucking family, was dirty… To say it was unlikely was an understatement.
The guy was a war hero. Or at least, she suspected he was. Probably had a shoebox full of medals. Had honor shoved up his ass and oozing from every pore. She didn’t know much about the Special Forces, but she knew men had to work hard to get there. Earn it through sweat and laser-focused determination. An unbeatable character. She’d grown up fed and dressed on blood money. Sure, she hadn’t known it at the time and hadn’t taken a dime since, but it didn’t change the fact that her honor was tainted. Stained just like her DNA.
She shifted slightly, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Where are we?”
“Rigs’ place. Got here a couple of hours ago.”
“I…don’t remember walking in.”
He smiled, and her chest tightened painfully. God, how he turned from borderline scary thug to charming, sexy man with nothing more than a curve of his lips astounded her. The guy was pure sex appeal when he smiled. Or talked. Or fought off bad guys in the rain.
“You were exhausted. The adrenaline and all. I carried you in.”
“You…picked me up out of the truck and carried me in, and I didn’t wake up? I’m a light sleeper.”
“Last night, you were pretty much dead to the world.” He chuckled at her pout. “It’s fine. I’d actually be more concerned if you hadn’t passed out after all you went through. Would start me thinking you’re some kind of spy.”
Spy.
Yeah, she’d tried to be. Had made it her mission the past three weeks to gather as much evidence she could against Thomas and his men. While she realized there was little chance of her father escaping unscathed—that he’d likely end up in prison—she wasn’t quite prepared to put him there herself. She knew it was stupid. Clinging to the image of the man who’d braided her hair and taken her to ballet lessons. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t separate the dotting dad from the vicious villain.
So, she’d focused on Thomas. It seemed the man had been quietly taking over, one section at a time. First, it had been in acquisitions. Then delivery. Given another five years, and she had no doubt her dad would have been ousted or retired. Or killed.
Thomas would have been the new king. The head of the James’ estate—the James multi-million-dollar company. The one that was a front for drugs and weapons and… The list went on. Other than actually trafficking people, her father had a hand in everything. And, now, Thomas was gradually worming his way in. One account after another.
Russel’s hand opened, his huge palm splaying out across her stomach. God, it felt good. A couple of his fingers lightly grazing her skin as her shirt rode up. The tips were rough. Calloused. Much like his palms. Hands that had seen years of hard work. Years of serving. She didn’t know how long he’d been a soldier. Didn’t know what kind of soldier, other than he obviously had some medical knowledge, but she didn’t doubt he’d earned every raised vein. Every muscle.
“Quinn? You okay?”
She turned into him, not quite crushing the moan as his hand slid across her stomach, coming to rest on her hip. Just a few more inches down and he’d be cupping her mound. Feeling the heat pulsing there as her breathing kicked up. The room had gotten warmer, the air thinner. It was a miracle she didn’t have to focus on actually drawing oxygen in then pushing it out. But, somehow, her brain was still working. Still finding a way to function when every thought was on the shape of his lips. How they’d feel molded to hers.
He watched her, those green eyes staring at her. Looking as if they were seeing through to the girl she’d once been—the time before she’d virtually gone into hiding. Before she’d switched from Harlequin James to Quinn Scott. She’d thought about changing her first name, completely, but her father would have thrown a fit. Her mother had picked out her name—it had been just hours before she’d died. The name was sacred. Entrenched into Quinn’s psych so much that all she’d been able to do was go by her shortened version.
But everything else—the person everyone knew as Quinn Scott—had been created for the sole purpose of escaping her heritage. Who knew she’d never get that far? That she’d lack the conviction—no, the balls—to shun her father. To turn her back on him. It was the right thing to do. The ethical thing. But she hadn’t, and she wasn’t quite sure what that made her.
Russel’s brows furrowed. “Are you feeling sick? Did you get hurt?”
He went to push up onto his elbow when she lifted one hand and settled her palm on his cheek. His ever-present scruff abraded her skin, but she liked it. Liked the slight catch of the hairs against her fingers as she traced one cheekbone, ending at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not hurt.”
He frowned, still silently assessing her. “You sure?”
“Positive.” She grinned, resting her other hand on his neck. “You really are handsome, you know that? Handsome and sexy and safe.”
Russel’s eyes darkened at the breathy quality of her voice, the small tinge of green she’d been able to distinguish in his eyes fading into black. His gaze traveled the length of her then up. The muscle in his jaw jumped, and his nostrils flared as he drew in a slow breath then let it out. “Quinn—”
She slid her finger over his mouth. “I’m not drunk, this time.”
A smile, and bam, her heart kicked her hard. Made a sore spot in the middle of her chest.
He waited until she’d drawn her finger to his chin. “No, you’re exhausted. And scared. And hopped up on adrenaline. That’s a potent cocktail. One as strong as any cooler.”
She quirked her lips. “Are you always this hard to get into bed? Or am I special?”
Another flare of his nostrils, only this breath sounded forced. As if it hurt to draw it in and push it out. “We’re already in bed. And that’s the point. You are special. I just didn’t realize how much until you told me to leave and not come back.”
Emotions clogged her throat. No one had ever looked at her the way Russel was right now. A thrilling combination of lust, respect, hunger. He wasn’t holding back. Wasn’t hiding behind some macho rule book. His feelings were staring down at her, daring her to look away. To deny that there had been something magical brewing between them since that first night. That behind the alcohol, the good deed, fate had been aligning the stars.
The perfect storm.
She’d never had someone special. Never been special. Never mattered to someone to the point they’d risk their life to get to her. And she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. Sex, she could handle. Was familiar with. But what was looking at her in Russel’s eyes was uncharted territory. Scary rapids that threatened to drown her with a single miscalculated turn. And what about her heritage? Would he still look at her like this once she told him the truth? Still think she was special?
Chances were, she knew the answer. Someone like him—how would she make him understand why she’d stood idly by when he’d spent his life running headlong into danger? How could she possibly measure up?
Better to make a lasting memory, now. Bleed as much out of her time with him as possible. Allow herself to get as close to love as she’d ever find.
Just. This. Once.
Quinn held his gaze, lifting her hand to join her other behind his head. “I told you before. I’d never regret making love to you. So, unless you’re not interested…”
Russel’s mouth firmed for a moment, then it was crushing against hers, sliding across her flesh and opening in invitation. She accepted, thrus
ting her tongue across his, tangling them until they either parted or passed out from lack of oxygen.
It was barely enough of a break before he was back, leading the assault, this time. Eating at her mouth then nipping and licking his way across her jaw. He continued over to her neck, biting at the muscle where it threaded into her shoulder. The small sting sent heat coursing through her veins, and she half wondered if her skin would spontaneously ignite. If she’d simply burn up before he’d done anything other than kiss her.
Her harsh pants cut through the darkness, every brush of his mouth drawing a low moan from deep in her chest. While she’d had her share of sexual encounters, nothing had ever felt like this. Uncontrolled hunger. Insatiable lust. One kiss, one touch, and she wanted more. Needed more. God, if he stopped…
Russel paused with his mouth next to her ear, his body pressing her into the bed. His erection jabbed her stomach, the long, stiff length stealing her breath. Damn, he was bigger. Harder. Deliciously warm, even through the layers of clothing.
A raspy breath caressed her lobe. “Why is it you always seem to think I’m not interested? That it’s not using up every ounce of restraint, every tactic I learned in the service, to keep my hands off you? That I haven’t spent the night holding you, wishing I could make love to you for hours?”
She arched into the next grind of his hips. “Then, what’s stopping you, now?”
He eased back enough to stare down at her. “Like I said. You’re different. And, yeah, I know that sounds crazy. We barely know each other. But that doesn’t make it any less real. I don’t pull punches, and I don’t overthink things. When I make a decision, I go all-in. It’s how I’ve been trained.”
He brushed some hair back from her face. “I don’t want a quick fuck, Quinn. So, if this is just a release of stress—a way to kill some time—I’ll pass. Because I have this nagging feeling that once I get a taste of you, I won’t settle for anything less than your full surrender. And that will take time. Weeks. Months. Years. If that possibility isn’t on the table…”
