Down Deep_A Station Seventeen Engine Novel

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Gamble might be making all the moves, but she still had just as much power as he did.

  And it was the hottest thing she had ever seen or felt in her fucking life.

  Purposefully, he skimmed his hands over her shoulders, then her rib cage, before moving down to catch the edge of her already-open jeans. He paused while she toed out of her boots, then lowered her jeans to leave her in nothing but her thong. She reached out for the button on his jeans in return, a tiny pop of surprise pushing her heartbeat faster as he let her undo it and push the denim to the floor.

  “Oh.” Kennedy’s belly squeezed as she took in the ridged expanse of Gamble’s abs and the tightly corded muscles wrapped low around his hips. His cock stood, thick and fully erect, against the black cotton of his boxer briefs, and even though she knew she was staring, she couldn’t force herself to tear her eyes from him.

  Which he must have noticed, because his brows lifted slightly. “What?”

  “I…you’re really beautiful, too.”

  Her cheeks heated, the blush having nothing to do with either of them being nearly naked and fully aroused. She hadn’t meant to blurt out exactly what she’d been thinking, but the words had vaulted out regardless. Gamble seemed just as stunned to hear them, and he shook his head.

  “No one has ever said that to me before.”

  Kennedy stepped toward him, placing both palms flat over his chest. “Well, I’m glad to be the first, because it’s true.”

  She kissed him, and all the seductive heat she’d felt a few minutes ago rebuilt quickly in her core. Curling his fingers around the low-slung satin at her hips, he lowered her panties, sliding a hand to the snug space between her legs.

  She bucked into the touch, as light as it was, and a wicked smile formed on his mouth. “Greedy woman. You don’t want to wait, do you?”

  She tilted her hips again, desperate for the friction of his fingers in her aching, empty pussy. Close. So close. “Gamble—”

  “Ian.” He slipped his hand deeper, making Kennedy gasp.

  “What?”

  Tracing tight circles over her clit, he leaned in, putting his mouth to her ear. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m about to fuck you senseless. A first-name basis seems kind of appropriate, don’t you think?”

  The promise made her bold—or crazy, maybe, but at this point, she wasn’t about to argue semantics.

  She dropped her hand and wrapped it around his cock, starting to pump. “Maybe, but Gamble suits you. And since I’m about to fuck you right back…”

  “Gamble it is,” he agreed. He broke from her body just long enough to grab a condom from the nightstand beside his bed. Returning quickly, he pulled off his boxer briefs and guided her back over the plain, dark blue comforter. Kennedy waited until he’d stretched out beside her before hooking a leg over his waist, using the leverage and his surprise to her advantage in order to reverse their positions and straddle his hips.

  Even as Gamble’s hands flew to her waist to hold her in place, he looked like he might protest. But she angled forward until her mouth was an inch away from his, kissing him with a brush of her lips before saying, “Everything you want to give to me, I want to give it back even more, remember? So, please. Lie back and let me.”

  He stared at her for a beat before nodding. She shifted back far enough to let him get the condom in place, reclaiming her spot in his lap the second he reached for her again. Kennedy parted her thighs wide over his lower belly, the blunt head of his cock nudging her ass. The sensation, and all the deliciously dirty thoughts that accompanied it, sent a dark thrill up her spine, and she bit back a moan as she slid lower, letting her already-slick folds ride back and forth over Gamble’s length. He hissed out a breath at the contact, and she didn’t wait. Canting her hips forward, she reached down to fit his cock against her opening. He filled her in slow degrees, pulling back a time or two to ease deeper inside and stretching her so completely, her breath caught in her lungs.

  Oh. God.

  His body was bowstring tight beneath hers, his cock buried deep. “Fuck, Kennedy,” he grated, his hands turning to fists over the comforter on either side of his thighs. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

  She drew back, but only so she could slide right back home. Pleasure, want, tension—they all coursed through Kennedy in a demand for her attention. She took the slow rhythm of her hips faster as her body adjusted to the pressure of his cock between her legs, her inner muscles gripping and releasing with each thrust. Gamble’s wide hands shaped her waist, his knees bending behind her to push her closer over his torso and drive his dick even deeper inside her pussy on the downward glide. Sparks lit behind her eyes, low in her belly, hot in her chest. The decadent push-pull of an orgasm gathered between her hips, and, hungry for it, Kennedy slipped her fingers to her clit to stroke herself.

  “Let me see you, baby. That’s it,” Gamble said, rocking harder as she leaned back to let him watch her busy fingers slide over her sex. “Show me how you want it.”

  “Harder,” she demanded, the need to feel him as deep as possible burning out from within her. “Please, Ian. Please, I want—”

  He rolled her over so quickly, she was beneath him before she could even register the movement. Pressing one hand beneath the back of her right thigh, he scooped her leg up and away from her body to bury himself inside of her until no space remained between their bodies. The change in angle turned the sparks in her belly into wildfire, the thrust uncovering a wildly sensitive spot hidden deep in her pussy, and she came with a sharp cry. Reaching around to his ass, Kennedy held him in place, arching up to take him over and over again, and finally, his body stiffened under her hands.

  “So good.” Gamble’s eyes were locked on the spot where they joined, his stare black and wild with intensity. “Christ, you’re fucking me so goddamn good.”

  “Show me,” Kennedy whispered, her heart pounding hard with the urge to make him come. “Show me how you want it.”

  He did. In an instant, he took back the lead, angling forward to press into her in a long, rough thrust. There were no pleasantries in his movements—not that Kennedy wanted any—and he pinned her into place, his hands pressed over her shoulders, his hips pistoning against hers. He fucked her hard and relentlessly, and oh God, she loved every thrust. She wrapped her legs around his waist, taking his cock as far and deep as she could, and only then did he start to shudder. Gamble called her name on a guttural grunt, his body shaking over hers. Even in release, he was careful not to drop all of his weight on her, shifting to his knees and forearms to cover her body without causing her pain.

  They lay there together for a minute, trading breaths and heartbeats, until Gamble kissed her forehead and got up, heading through an adjacent door she assumed led to a bathroom. Sure enough, the sound of running water began a second later, dropping Kennedy the rest of the way back to reality. She was fully prepared to grab her clothes and go home—she hadn’t come here with any expectations, and even though her orgasms had been good enough to have been measured by the fucking Richter scale, the last thing she wanted was for Gamble to think she had illusions of grandeur.

  But then he opened the bathroom door, his big, beautiful body wrapped in nothing but a towel, and all her convictions disappeared like the steam starting to build behind him.

  “You coming?” he asked, the unspoken please clear in his eyes as he hooked a thumb over his shoulder and smiled. “The water’s warm.”

  Clothes forgotten, Kennedy nodded. Reality would find her soon enough.

  Tonight, she wanted this. If only for a little while longer.

  16

  Rusty heard The Money far before he saw the glare of the space-age-looking xenon headlights cut through the darkness around him. The finely tuned sound of the guy’s luxury sedan, too sophisticated to be a growl, yet too powerful to be classified as a regular old rumble, sounded off in a showy display of prestige as The Money pulled to a stop about twenty feet from where Rusty stood on
the litter-choked sidewalk on the outskirts of Grant Park. The self-importance of a two hundred-thousand dollar Aston Martin was all sorts of ironic in this situation, considering Rusty was the only person who would see the pompous jackass driving it.

  But that was Chaz Fucking McCory for you. Better to look good than feel good.

  Or, God forbid, actually be good.

  Scaling back on his eye roll, Rusty kicked his feet into motion and strolled toward Chaz’s car. They knew better than to meet in a place that could remotely be considered public—Rusty for practical, cover-his-ass reasons, and McCory likely because he didn’t want to be seen with the riff-raff. The fact that ol’ Chaz had even dipped down low enough on the food chain to approach him for this job had been enough of a shocker to grab Rusty’s attention from the get. Then again, greed knew no societal boundaries.

  Guys like Chaz just called it ambition so they could sleep at night.

  “Nice suit,” Rusty said after Chaz got out of the Aston Martin, mentally picturing how much gasoline it would take to torch the thing right down to its fancy aluminum frame.

  “Thank you.” Chaz shot his cuffs, picking imaginary lint from one flawlessly tailored sleeve as if crossing the limits into North Point had made him dirty by default. “I’m headed to a gallery opening by the Plaza after this.”

  Rusty swallowed his snort. Art was just reaaaaallllllyyyyyy expensive kindling as far as he was concerned. “Of course you are. Saw you on the news the other day. You’re quite the community activist.”

  “I didn’t realize we were here for small talk.” Chaz lifted a professionally groomed brow, and just like that, Rusty’s indifference became irritation. Chaz might have enough money to be gunning for a spot on Forbes magazine’s Top 500 Richest People one day, but he still ate and shit and bled, just like everybody else.

  “Fine, your majesty,” Rusty bit out. “Let’s get down to it, then. The remote ignition device obviously works, just like I told you it would. All the loose ends in testing it have been taken care of”—a smile hooked over his mouth at the memory of watching the Camry burn, growing bigger as the mental image of Xander watching his own flesh scorch joined in—“so I’m ready for the next phase.”

  Chaz sniffed the air, looking at Rusty through the fluorescent glare of the streetlight a half a block away, on the corner. “Actually, I don’t think you are.”

  “Excuse me?” Rusty’s brows shot high over his forehead, but still, Chaz didn’t change his tune.

  “My source at the department tells me the arson investigation unit found enough of your device to rule the dumpster fire an arson. They’ve opened an active investigation into who set it, and that makes us both very vulnerable. Needless to say, I am not pleased. I told you we needed to act with the utmost discretion.”

  Rusty threw his head back and laughed, which, by the look of things, was dead last on the list of things Chaz expected he’d do. Good. Better to keep the fucker on the toes of those perfectly polished wing tips.

  “Jesus, McCory. I thought you were going to come at me with a real problem.”

  “An active investigation by the RFD is a real problem,” Chaz argued. “If they find out—”

  “Do you know how many times a fire I’ve set has been investigated by the RFD?” Rusty interrupted, although he didn’t wait for Chaz to formulate a decent guess. “Nine. Which is actually pretty low, considering how many others I’ve set that they didn’t investigate. Or couldn’t. Also, pretty impressive considering I’ve lived here for less than two years.”

  It was, in fact, the most annoying occupational hazard of being a serial arsonist. But even a busted watch was right twice a day, and on occasion, arson investigators grew smarter than they looked. The national arson database was woefully undermanaged and years behind the curve, so he didn’t have to worry that anyone would trace the fires he’d set over half the Eastern seaboard back to him—which, quite frankly, pissed him off in a way, because God, they’d all been spectacular. Every once in a while, relocation was necessary to ensure that he stayed under the radar.

  Still… “Out of nine tries—one of them including a disarmed bomb under a fire engine that made national fucking headlines, by the way—Remington’s police force, arson investigation unit, and fire department haven’t been able to touch me. They had an entire device, intact, to use to try and track me, yet here I am, still breathing the air of freedom.”

  “I pay a lot of money to be sure my information from the department is accurate. I’ve been assured that they’ve opened a case,” Chaz started, and seriously, this guy was something else.

  “Oh, I’m sure your pricey intel is legit. Those ignition devices are meant to disintegrate along with everything else, but every once in a while, one survives.” With how quickly the RFD had arrived at the dumpster fire, Rusty had known this might be a possibility. “So, yes, if they got lucky enough to find one, the arson investigation unit probably opened a case. What I’m telling you is, neither one of us needs to worry about that. It’s not going to become an issue, because they couldn’t possibly connect the device to either of us.”

  Chaz slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, measuring Rusty with a shrewd stare. “You’re awfully certain of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s why you hired me,” Rusty pointed out. For a guy who had probably gone to Harvard or Dartmouth or some Ivy League brat factory like that, Chaz was kind of a dolt.

  “I hired you because you have a skill set I require,” Chaz said. “What I didn’t hire you for was to get us thrown in jail.”

  Jesus. Money made some people so fucking dramatic. “No one’s going to jail. The ignition devices work exactly like they’re supposed to, and when we use them for real, they’ll burn hotter, longer. If anything is left behind to be found—and that’s a big-ass if, considering the size of the buildings you’re paying me to burn down and how long it’s going to take those idiots at the RFD to actually put them out—it’ll look like part of the ‘faulty’ electrical work. So, relax and let me set some shit on fire for the world to see, would you, please?”

  After a minute, Chaz let go of a slow exhale. “I’ve invested far too much time and money and effort into this plan to back out unless there’s a very credible threat to its success.”

  “Right, I get it,” Rusty said. “You couldn’t buy those investment properties the good, old-fashioned way because you got outbid, or maybe outplayed when it came down to deal time last year. Who knows? But you wanted them so you could expand the Chaz McCory developing empire into a household name.”

  An ugly expression shaped Chaz’s magazine-perfect face, and oh, if Twitter could see him now. “It’s not my fault the original sellers lacked vision. But Remington is a city of culture and class. We need luxury accommodations if we’re going to attract the right sort of people from bigger areas like Charlotte and Charleston and Atlanta. My condos would have provided the perfect upscale atmosphere for discerning residents…if those soft-hearted ingrates hadn’t sold the buildings to developers who wanted a more ‘community accessible’ approach. Can you imagine? Recreational centers for after-school activities. An outpatient clinic offering affordable healthcare.” Chaz paused to scoff. “One of them even wants to build a series of apartments that would serve as a safe haven for victims of domestic abuse. It’s absurd. That space should be utilized by the people in the community who matter.”

  “Of course it should.” Rusty stepped back and put his hands in the air, framing imaginary marquee lights and trying not to throw up in his own mouth at the idea of luxury condos for Remington’s one-percenters. “No need to get salty, Chaz. Once those buildings burn down from the shoddy work being done with the electrical renovations, the developers who bought them for all that feel-good crap will be faced with either waiting for the insurance settlements and starting construction from scratch, which is time consuming and costly as hell, or selling the properties to be rid of the hassle. Given the bad reputation that
part of downtown has recently acquired, they’re probably re-thinking plans for their community-accessible establishments, anyway. They’ll be dying to offload those buildings at the first available opportunity, and cheaper than you’d have ever gotten them before. Then you can swoop in like the paragon of the community that you are”—ugh, there went that gagging thing again. Sure, it was a means to an end right now, and one that Rusty needed in order to get the spotlight he deserved, but placating the rich with what they wanted to hear was so fucking nauseating—“and buy them up. I’m telling you, the plan is a work of art.”

  “Hmmm. This is true,” Chaz murmured, as if he’d been the one to come up with the plan in the first place. But whatever. Pulling this off meant financial security to go with his spotlight. If that meant Rusty had to kiss some ass to get it, he wasn’t above that. He’d certainly done worse for less, and anyway, vandalizing those storefronts to make the area look bad and old Chaz look good had been kinda fun, albeit anti-climactic without the fire.

  Chaz continued, “Still, I’m concerned about the RFD. If there’s even a small chance they could figure this out—”

  An idea unfolded in Rusty’s brain, and oh, perfect.

  He held up one hand. “So, what you’re saying is, you’d be happier if the arson investigation unit was distracted. Say, by a bigger case than the dumpster fire.”

  “I’m listening,” Chaz replied.

  “We need to wait a little while for the electrical contractors to get on schedule before we can set these bigger fires anyway, right?” Rusty’s heart pounded faster at the thoughts now racing through his mind.