by Marata Eros
“Yeah, that’s me,” I huff, controlling my breathing, which is crawling toward tortured.
“She’s confided in me,” he singsongs. Thwack, punch. We grapple, then disengage, circling each other.
His gaze locks with mine. “I planted the date-rape seed about Brock, I came to her rescue. She trusts me.”
I swing and land one in his gut, a steel plank. We’re all in top shape, a requirement of our profession. You never know when you’ll be called on to sprint a quarter mile until your hands shake with fatigue, when all you have are fists to defend yourself because you’ve been disarmed. It’s a helluva a motivator.
“Don’t make her like you too much, Clearwater,” I warn, going for his throat. He blocks my strike with a laugh, shaking his forearm, which will manifest a deep grape bruise tomorrow.
“I won’t lie,” he adds, a manic spark in those eyes, his skin holding only a little flush from exertion, the dusky skin tone hiding how wrung out he is. “I do want to have a taste—”
He doesn’t get the last words out before I launch, Superman style, at him, and he pinwheels backward, laughing so hard he stumbles. I land on him, neatly straddling him, my hand buried and gripping his ponytail.
“Don’t fuck with me on this, Dec,” I say in low voice. The thought of another man touching Jewell makes adrenaline surge and roll from my middle to rush to my extremities in a numbing tide.
He smiles like I’m not ripping his hair out. “Luke told me, Cas.” He makes smacking kissing sounds, and I dump his head on the mat and stand.
I’m not taking another lecture. No. Fucking. Way.
Clearwater lies there, propping himself up on his elbows, crossing his ankles.
I walk off. I hate, just fucking loathe, anyone seeing a flicker of emotion or investment in my carefully crafted nonchalance. I plant my hands on my hips, pacing the four corners of our training ring, the soft pad of the mat giving under my angry footsteps.
“I’ve got your back, Cas,” Agent Clearwater soothes.
I breathe in and out. Hating that I don’t have primary point, knowing it wouldn’t have worked. That my position in our sting is an ideal use of personnel and each of our unique skill sets. Made more so by my unquenched lust for our subject. Fuck.
Clearwater studies me with languid appraisal, clearly thrilled that the unmovable Steel has been taken down by this surprising emotional debacle. He shakes his head and hops to his feet. He laughs and I turn, my muscles still tight from the match. “Luke said you had it bad”—he sweeps a palm at the tense line of my body—“but this, letting your emotions rule your fighting, isn’t the Cas I know. It’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers, man.”
I glower as he grins.
He slaps my back. “I won’t tell, but don’t fuck this up because you want a piece of exotic tail.”
I grab his throat and spin him around, slamming him against the wall as he grunts with the force. “I don’t know what the blue fuck Jewell is, but she’s not just a piece of ass. That I do know.”
Clearwater holds his hands up in surrender, palms out. “Jesus, Cas, settle the fuck down.” I see the worry in his eyes, the same worry I see in Adams.
He straightens after I let him go. “You need to dial this down, or you’re going to get our bird killed, Cas.”
It stings that he thinks I’d risk Jewell. I won’t let Jewell be collateral damage, even if losing her will prevent the deaths of others.
Our marshal believes that one death is justifiable to save the many. Intellectually, I understand this. But I’m not thinking with my brains anymore. My dick and heart have shaken hands, in collusion against me, their collective sights set on Jewell MacLeod.
I’m in so much trouble here, I repeat to myself for the thousandth time.
“I said I’ve got your back.”
I look at him, his face as serious as a heart attack.
I face criminals and danger every day, take the pain of tattoos, beatings, and working my body through a grueling set of paces. I’ve never had anything to lose, no one I cared about except Faith. Until now. One woman shakes the careful foundation of the house of cards I’ve stacked.
They tremble with the force of my emotions, threatening to fall.
Do I change the path I set out on to safety, or do I let that strange polarization have its way with me? With her? With us? The answer is: I don’t know. Not knowing is dangerous.
I walk out of the compound and toward Jewell.
In the end I embrace the danger; it’s what I know. A familiar comfort, like coming home.
I watch Clearwater speak with Jewell, fully embracing his role as Brad. The thunder of his expression tells me she did tell someone.
Why Dec?
I know he likes her. If Jewell wasn’t the subject, maybe there’d be more. I contemplate this, and as if on eerie cue, his dark eyes raise and meet mine.
I see the subtle signal there and react automatically. “I’ll take it from here, Gunner,” I say, using his alias with ease. Dec and I have done this dance before.
Clearwater’s in his role, his eyes narrowing on me, and I return the heat. Not even having to reach too deep to behave as though I’d rather not see her around Dec. I don’t. However, I like it more than when Maverick is around. Dec’s the lesser of the two evils.
“You know Castile?” Dec asks Jewell, her face saying she does. That same face begs me not to say that we’re more than acquaintances. I almost laugh out loud at that. Her face is so full of expression I wonder if she realizes everyone can see down to her toenails.
I study Jewell in her flush of nervousness and can still taste her skin on my tongue. I want to taste more of her. Like a true addict, you can never have enough. Even when you know it’s doing you in, you beg for more.
Dec lays it on thick, dropping the speech I know he’s normally capable of and shrouds himself easily in the persona of Brad. “Jess here says she knows you, dude, but acts like she doesn’t want to, if you dig my meaning.”
I smirk as we do the dance, and Jewell mistakes our intimate understanding as the potential for violence.
See? She does somehow know who I am . . .
Jewell puts a hand on Dec’s arm, and his expression softens when he looks at her. A frown settles on my face. Yeah, Clearwater would dig her if it wasn’t for the assignment.
And me.
“It’s okay, Brad. He helped. Okay?”
Boy, did I. I get turned on remembering Jewell pressed against that wall.
Her large eyes plead with me not to mention our interlude, and I don’t, even though I feel like peeing in corners to mark my territory. “He won’t let anything happen to me,” Jewell says in a loaded comment as her eyes meet mine.
I glance at her, then to Clearwater.
Clearwater lets it go and says, “Treat her right, Castile.”
“I’ll treat her how she wants to be treated.” I lock eyes with Jewell in silent challenge and listen to her sharp intake of breath. A light flush infuses the skin of her face, and I know it turns her on when I say what I’ll do. What I know she wants without her asking. Then I add softly and with promise, “Won’t I?”
I’m not asking for a response, I’m demanding one.
The flush deepens on her fair complexion. “Yes,” she answers softly.
Clearwater just shakes his head and gives a small wave to Jewell as he walks off, leaving her with me.
Jewell looks at me. Fear and anticipation are mixed on her flushed face, her expressive eyes tracking me.
Like a lamb that spies a wolf.
7
I turn and walk away from Jewell. I know she’ll follow. Something inside me begs for her obedience, that she submit her trust to me. I don’t analyze that. Jewell’s been hiding, and I selfishly want her to sacrifice the safe anonymity of the last two years for the heat that’s between us.
My strides take me to the main hall, where the doors swing wildly as students pour in and out, an intersection of human flesh. I h
it the door with the flat of my palm, narrowly missing a geek type by a fraction of an inch.
I hate myself for wanting her, for jeopardizing the assignment. I’m pretty sure what I have in mind is what Marshal O’Rourke was thinking about when he gave the green light for engagement.
I slow when I feel a void behind me and turn. Jewell is slowing, not following me like I want, and I prowl back to her as the students move around us like a choked river of bodies, their gear and purses, backpacks, and the rest jostling us like debris in the water.
I can tell Jewell is working up to tell me something big when I reach her.
“I can’t date you,” she says, the words like a small volcano erupting.
This is so perfect I almost fuck it up, the opening I’m looking for right there for the taking.
“Who said I want that?” I ask, scorn in my voice.
Jewell’s thrown off by that, and I smile.
Gotcha.
She assumes I’m sniffing around her like a stud dog after a bitch.
I am. But I’m not going to make it easy.
“What?” she asks, bewildered. My stance is completely different from her expectation. “Did I misunderstand something?”
No, she didn’t, actually. That’s the problem. Jewell understands me too well.
The crowd thins as we stare at each other, so close we can touch. Keeping the distance is painful, like fighting a magnet.
I step into that electric current between us, and Jewell actually makes a sound of relief when she exhales. It’s everything I can do not to sweep her against me right then. I hang on by a thread. It’s gotta be her. All Jewel. I ask softly, “What about just fucking?”
She flinches as if I hit her. I stand my ground as my palms tremble in an effort to be this close to a woman I want this badly.
But might not have.
Jewell shakes her head, and small wisps of hair softly curl around the delicate line of her jawbone. “I can’t believe you just said that here.” And she begins to walk away to her class. I follow her.
I can see the flushed skin at her nape. When Jewell reaches her physics class, she turns, and we’re no longer sharing the hall with anyone.
Jewell should be in class, but she’s intrigued by my offer of no-strings sex. It keeps her in my protection and will feed the fire that burns endlessly. For her.
And, apparently, no one else. I would give my left nut to want another woman . . . any other woman; it’d be simpler. Sometimes choices of chemistry are misunderstood. Or never understood. I’ve let that reactive and instinctual nature of mine take over. It’s in charge now, and soon it will be in charge of Jewell.
I turn her to face me, and the ache abates when I finally have my hands on her. Where they’ve wanted to be since that first audition.
“Cas,” she says softly, drawing out my name.
The blush deepens on her face as Jewell contemplates what just fucking with me means. Maybe there’s some primal alarm ringing, giving her a warning to flee while she still can.
I begin to smile as she looks me square in the eye.
I move even nearer, our chests almost touching, and Jewell has to crane her neck to look at me. “I see ‘yes,’” I say to her softly, begging permission with my voice, my eyes, a mirror of my own need reflected in her gaze.
If she agrees, Jewell is mine. I don’t know if I can ever give her up if she does.
“Yes,” she says with soft resolution. That one word springs my cock like a strummed guitar string.
“Yes what, Jess?” I ask in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper. My hands are planted on either side of her head, her body pressed against the corridor wall.
Jewell closes her eyes, and when she opens them, I know she’s made up her mind. “To fucking,” she says in a voice mixed with anger and anticipation.
I know exactly how she feels. My smile becomes a grin, my heartbeat racing to catch up with hers. I have a hard time containing my excitement—and trepidation. I’ve taken a big risk, moving the relationship farther than I’ve been directed, farther than I knew I wanted it. Make no mistake, I want it.
I bend down until my lips hover above her own. “Yes . . . to fucking,” I repeat, and I close my palms around her shoulders, cupping them as I jerk her into the shadow of my body. I slam my lips on hers, wrapping one hand in that knot of silk at the back of her head, my other holding her against me with a palm at the small of her back. My tongue breaches the barrier of her lips and we pant as we go at each other, starved . . . our tongues mingling, teasing, tasting.
The school melts away. My job.
A relevant plan of any kind.
All I feel is Jewell’s heat. Her hot skin against mine, bleeding through our clothes, and it’s wiped my mind clean. A great white wall of noise floods my senses in a succulent buzz. It pushes the blood through my ears in a dull roar of pure sensation as I sip at her lips, my palm moving with restless but deliberate abandon at the arch of her spine.
I let her go suddenly, backing away, saving myself like a desperately thrown Hail Mary. I try to regain my composure, tossing on the handy asshole persona. I can’t let her see how she’s affected me.
Jewell’s lips are swollen from my kisses, bruised from the demands of my mouth. It’s still not enough, it’ll never be, and I give a soft moan to camouflage my next word. “Tasty,” I say with a hint of triumph, a smile curling my lips, when the reality is that I feel anything but the winner. On the contrary, I feel like I’m losing. Losing to her . . . to what Jewell is, what we are together. The entire dysfunctionally hot mix of chemistry happening like an unstoppable collision.
But her next words are the equivalent of a cold shower. “I’m dating Mitch,” she qualifies. I know a little of my anger seeps out, and I clamp down on my expression.
She’s mine. Jewell just doesn’t know it yet.
Hell, I didn’t know until now.
I speak before thinking. “I don’t share,” I warn as I approach her again, my eyes never leaving her face. Those deep eyes are definitely the windows to her soul. I don’t look away from anything. I want her and I want to know what she’s thinking.
Goddammit, I want to know what she feels.
She gives a soft little snort of disbelief as her eyes lock with mine, then her gaze slides to my mouth. The one that had commanded her to kiss me. To respond. She’s quiet for so long I realize it might not be a sure thing. I can’t force her to be with me; I can’t force her to not be with Maverick. The thought of it hollows me out, an empty spot in the center of me filled with nothing.
Vacant.
“Fine,” she says automatically.
Relief pours into where nothingness was before. I push my advantage of shock and demands to a new level. “Don’t fuck him,” I order. It’s really for his protection. Because I know with a murderous certainty I’ll kill him if he touches her. I know because it makes my body physically react to think of it.
And that’s just in theory.
I don’t look away. Instead I let Jewell see how serious I am. How my life hangs in the chasm of her indecision, her will, not mine
Jewell casts her eyes down. Finally they rise to meet mine. “I don’t want him to know.”
Good Christ, she was still going to date the douche?
No. I have no right to dictate terms, but I don’t let that stop me. “Don’t worry, Jess. My cock’s for the taking; your pussy is not. I want you, Jess”—my eyes search hers—“and I can tell you want me.” I state it as fact. “It’s just sex; that’s all this will be.”
Jewell is seeing the real me. The raw thing I keep hidden from everyone. I never give anyone the upper hand, but here I am, letting Jess know that she holds a certain power over me. I feel something for her, something that goes beyond chemistry. It makes me vulnerable . . . it’s dangerous, compromising, and simply impossible to stop.
I wait as Jewell thinks about her choices, but in the end, neither of us has a choice. We know it.
&nbs
p; We’re just stalling.
Jewell gives in. She offers me the smallest nod of acquiescence. “Okay,” she says in a shaky voice of uncertain conviction.
It is done.
We’ll just fuck.
But of course, things are never that simple. And we both know it.
“Our girl’s getting up close and personal with Maverick,” Clearwater comments. I frown, feeling the middle of my brow fold in irritation, giving Clearwater a look. “Y’know, I think we need a background on that pal.”
“Budget,” Dec says in answer, polishing off the rest of his hot dog in one bite. He washes it down with a slug of OJ, then elaborates. “O’Rourke will have a shit fit if you ask for anything deep.” Dec meets my eyes significantly. “Remember we almost lost the go for this? If it hadn’t been so high profile . . .” He shrugs.
But this is getting serious. It doesn’t matter that Jewell makes me have constant sex on the brain. Nobody is more important than the next. But she is.
We know Thad’s back. Amanda Miller’s murder tells us so. He’s closing in on Jewell, making her skittish. She’s clearly already paranoid. Making a second name change isn’t our first clue to her state of mind. Thad is using the death of an acquaintance to subliminally unnerve Jewell. He doesn’t have to manifest in the flesh, when torturing her imagination is infinitely more powerful.
Clearwater snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“What?”
“Hey, man, you’re zoning, big time.”
“Yeah, I’m so in my head with all this bullshit.” I scrub my skull in irritation, my fingertips rippling over all the embedded scars in my scalp.
“Better get out of it.” His eyes meet mine, glittering like black marbles in the ambient light that seeps in through from outside, the inherent grayness of Seattle filtering real sunshine like a sieve. “And stop asking for background on every guy who looks at her.”
I peg him with my eyes. “He’s not just looking at her, though, is he, Dec?”
He gives the smallest shake of his head with a smirk.
Goddammit.
Dec shrugs. “I couldn’t see them after their ‘car time,’” he says, dropping his fingers from air quotes.
