Well, fuck.
In the years since Serena's death, he'd done a bang up job of keeping women at arm's length. In less than a week, with no effort at all, Katrina had managed something. Heaven help him if she put up any conscious fight. Her unconscious efforts were about to kill him.
Her leg shifted up, gliding over the top of the sleeping bag, nudging his balls. The old Braedon would have started to nibble on the exposed portion of her neck and swipe his tongue around her ear. The old Braedon would have pushed her hand down until it covered his aching cock, using his hand to instruct her on what felt good to him. The new Braedon fought like the very devil to prevent those very things from happening. Above and beyond anything else, she was his coworker, the lead agent on this investigation. Talk about a recipe for disaster.
His cock, unfortunately, didn't give a rat's ass. The only thing it cared about was making good on the thoughts rampaging through Braedon's mind, and sliding into a wet, warm, willing pussy for the first time in too damn long.
Finally, after being subjected to the torture of her touch for so long he feared he'd lose his mind, Katrina rolled away from him. Braedon wiggled out of his sleeping bag, away from the unknowing vixen, and out of the tent. He couldn't care less if he woke her, he had to get away before he did something stupid, like kiss her.
Pausing only to grab a flashlight from his bag, he marched the quarter of a mile to the shelter. The waning moon cast a faint glow on the whitewashed buildings, aiding the trip. Thankful no one was using the shelter, he headed for the empty shower stall, not bothering to turn on the light. No need to advertise his presence. With his luck, Katrina'd search him out and catch him with his schlong in hand. Thumbing off the flashlight, it took his eyes seconds to adjust to the dark, a formerly valuable skill for a combat rescue officer. Once he'd kicked off his shorts, he leaned back against the cold wall, his cock gripped in his hand.
His eyes drifted shut and an image of Katrina filled him, a movie flickering to life on the back of his eyelids. Her light brown hair curled about her face and shoulders, messed up, giving her that just fucked look. Her eyes were dark with passion, her lips swollen from kisses. Tiny pink areoles and nipples topped perky breasts of a perfect size to fit in his hands. The flat of her stomach and narrow waist accentuated the gentle flair of her hips. At the top of her thighs, her clit and lips peaked out from pubic hair a shade darker than that on her head.
His hand stroked up and down his shaft, but in his mind, it was her hand driving him insane. Her long delicate fingers belied the strength of her grip. She fisted him with uncanny accuracy. She whispered dirty words to him, how hot and hard he was, how much she loved his thick cock, how she wanted to lock her lips around the tip when he came. Oh yeah, he wanted to shoot his load down her throat, wanted to watch her swallow it all.
With an unexpected urgency, he felt his balls pull up, tighten. He came with a groan, his knees shaky and weak. Turning on the shower spray, he washed down the walls and his hands, then dressed. Feeling vaguely unsatisfied, he picked his way back to the tent.
Standing looking down on what had rapidly become a new level of hell for him—and Dante thought there were only seven—he knew he'd only be satisfied with the real deal.
"Have a nice walk?"
Damn, he'd been hoping to sneak back unnoticed. “Had to go to the bathroom."
She nodded, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Couldn't just go behind the tent, huh?"
He laughed. She didn't pull any punches, this one. In his experience, most women pretended bodily functions didn't exist, at least when they were around men. But then again, this particular woman hunted down sick bastards for a living. Of course, now, so did he. “I guess you could say that I had more to take care of.” If she misinterpreted his comment, so be it. “Did you miss me?” He was grateful for the darkness, glad she'd be unable to read the expression on his face for fear it revealed that he actually did hope she'd missed him.
"The quiet woke me. I've gotten used to your snoring."
Interesting, she skirted the question.
No, not interesting. He had no business thinking about her in any terms other than as Special Agent Boyd. For cripes sakes, three nights in and he was ready to crumble like blue cheese.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He hated blue cheese.
Brushing the dirt off his feet, he crawled back into his sleeping bag. His body protested, preferring to snooze in the open air. Too bad. With Katrina playing snuggle bunny in her sleep, he needed the relative security provided by zipping himself in.
"I hope you're not discouraged by the lack of any evidence to support the assumption the couples were killed during some type of intimacy."
Braedon wanted nothing more than to attempt to get some shut eye. But he didn't intend to be rude. “Not really."
She snorted.
"Okay, a little.” Never try to fool a shrink-type. It was a lesson he thought he'd learned in the Air Force, when he'd had to see a head doctor a couple of times in order to be cleared back to flying.
"Maybe we'll find something at the next scene. Or maybe Symansky will have some additional information when we meet with her in the morning. Regardless, we'll keep exploring all angles."
"Sounds like a plan.” A damn good one, considering she hadn't pitched his idea out with the trash.
"Well, I guess we should get some sleep. Night."
"Night.” Not that he'd sleep with the porno movie still running on the back of his eyelids.
* * * *
Braedon watched the swish of Katrina's butt as she hiked in front of him on the unpaved surface, which added a nice swing to her step. And caused an answering twitch behind his zipper. For all the good it had done him, he might as well not have jerked off last night.
The morning sun beat down on them as they made their way to the meeting area, the haze hanging in the air on this Sunday an indication of unseasonable warmth. As long as it took a chill at night, he didn't mind heat during the day. At night, it was another story. The heat index inside their little tent didn't need any help from Mother Nature.
Forcing his focus on the upcoming meeting, he tore his gaze off Katrina's butt. Their contact was due to meet them at the parking area for an update. With any luck, she'd have more information this time.
As they cleared the trees, he spotted the plain sedan waiting for them; the same one Symansky had been driving when she dropped them at the Port Clinton access to the trail. Closing the distance to the vehicle, he noticed another woman in the car. The passenger door opened and a familiar form stretched to stand.
"Ed, well I'll be damned. I almost didn't recognize you in civvies.” He gave his former comrade-in-arms a brief hug.
If Katrina had been a cat, Braedon swore she'd have arched her back and hissed. Katrina, jealous? Oh, this might be just the break he didn't want.
"I wish I could say it's a pleasure to see you again, Powell."
Of course Erika Dalton-Greene had never been the cooperative type, preferring to bust his chops whenever possible since the very first day they met at the Air Force Academy. It was one of the things he admired about her.
Erika extended her hand to Katrina. “Major Erika Dalton-Greene, Air Force Security Agency."
"Katrina Boyd, Special Agent, FBI. Not to sound rude, but what are you doing here? This is supposed to be a briefing with Trooper Symansky, not a military intelligence briefing."
Me-ow.
"Some intelligence data has come to our attention and the AFSA would like your help."
"What's up, Ed?” Braedon kept the conversation on track, as much as he'd have enjoyed the catfight in the making.
Visions of Katrina and Erika rolling around on the ground naked flashed through his mind, each woman clawing to be on top. Not an image he wanted fixed in his conscious thought. Not now, anyway.
The quartet made itself comfortable at a picnic table shaded by the trees and obscured by the car. Erika then began to fill in some details.
"How can we help?” Braedon cringed at the thought of more intrigue on his plate, but he never refused a challenge. Some things were too ingrained after years of military service.
"I just need you to be my eyes and ears while you're out and about.” Erika pressed her hands to her knees. “And one more thing, Chad is out here on leave."
"What the hell is Marilyn doing in this neck of the woods? Pun intended.” Chad “Marilyn” Monroe, was one of the best Air Force Security Agency officers, if not the best. The man was balls deep in something, but no one knew what. Braedon had run into him in a bar in Virginia over a year ago, when he'd last seen Erika and Aiden at the same bar. Now he was out here on leave? Not fucking likely.
"That's what I want to know. On a previous assignment, someone within the AFSA was leaking information."
"You don't think Chad's gone rogue, do you?"
"I don't want to. But I don't believe in coincidences, either."
"We'll keep alert."
"I can't ask for more than that."
Erika fell silent while Symansky updated them. Or didn't update them, as it were. The FBI crime lab hadn't been able to uncover any new information from the samples they'd been sent. The only good bit of news was the fact that the killer hadn't struck again. Yet. Katrina voiced her frustration that he would, sooner rather than later. Braedon watched the fire in her eyes as she vented and the catfight in the mud image sprang back to life. For the first time, he pitied the UNSUB if Katrina ever lost her professionalism.
Once the nonbriefing had been completed, they gratefully accepted the fresh supplies Sym provided and passed off their request list for the next meeting. Braedon divvied up the provisions and repacked that section of their respective backpacks. Katrina shifted from foot to foot, stepping forward as if she wanted to help, but staying back. Strange, that.
Maybe he'd have a chance to delve into her hesitation as they hiked to the scene of the second murders, roughly a twelve-mile hike from where they were now. The only pleasant prospect, aside from watching Katrina's fine form in action, was the fact they got to hike downhill for most of the trip. A pleasant change from the steady uphill climb of five hundred feet accomplished so far that enabled him to push his partner a little harder.
Damn. Pushing, harder, and partner were not words he needed to string together right about now. Not when he was already about to bust a nut.
As Erika turned to head back to the car, Braedon wrapped his arms around her. “Tell your sorry ass excuse of a husband that he's one lucky man."
Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed. Fuck. He wanted someone to look like that when they thought of him. The mere thought sucker punched him.
"I'm the lucky one. But I'll tell him anyway, just to keep him on his toes.” She brushed a kiss against his cheek. “Be careful out there. This guy is dangerous."
"Aww, Ed, you do care."
She flashed him a dirty look, one so similar to all the others she'd speared him with over the years, then walked to the car.
Braedon turned, not watching the wiggle in her hips for the first time. Ever.
Double fuck.
Arrangements made to meet with Symansky in seventy-two hours, they headed back to the trail. His body yearned to step into a light jog, reminiscent of any number of survival trainings. Compared to his PJ training days, his days out here on the Appalachian Trail were, well, a walk in the park. As rigorous as the FBI training academy at Quantico, he'd do it again if the choice was that and PJ training.
"So.” Katrina stepped ahead of him as she spoke. “How long have you known Major Dalton-Greene?"
Was that a hint of jealousy in her voice? Nah, he shrugged it off to investigative curiosity. To wish for anything else proved he'd gone and lost his mind. No matter what his body craved, a quick roll in the sleeping bags was not an option.
"We were in the same squadron at the Academy. Met as doolies. Freshman."
"You've stayed close?"
Oh yeah, a definite hint of jealousy. Which should not have made him feel good.
"You form a tight bond with your squadron members at an academy. I've maintained contact with any number of friends. In Erika's case, our paths crossed during the course of our respective careers. I was in combat control and the spooks at the Air Force Security Agency told us what to do most of the time. She's one hell of a woman."
Katrina puffed up like a porcupine. What the hell was he doing goading her? His survival instinct was failing him big time. He needed to maintain a professional detachment, not encourage her interest. “Did you ever date each other?"
"We never dated. She shot me down every time. She shot all of us down.” Thank God she never fell for his lame lines. The propositions were serious at first, as their career paths crossed, until it became a game to see how she'd reject him. Then, after Serena, he was grateful for the rejections, even as he continued to play. Erika was too intelligent, too focused. Too much of a threat to him. Better that he stuck to the breezy bimbos who were easy to control, to leave on his terms. “All of us down but Aiden Greene. They dated for about a year at the Academy, but broke up before graduation. Rumor had it that she wouldn't put out and Greene was tired of trying. Or maybe Ed was smart enough to steer clear of men and focus on her career."
The smart one, the driven ones, they left him. First his sister, Margaret, who'd been stupid enough to get behind the wheel of a car, drunker than the sailors she'd been with partying. The only small mercy was that she hadn't killed the passenger with her when she decided to wrap her car around a tree. Then it had been Serena, mere months before their wedding. She'd been co-piloting when the lead pushed the limits of their helicopter too far during a training exercise. All five people on board died on impact. Greta had turned out to be whip-smart, only looking ditzy. She hadn't left him, but she'd taken away the one remaining thing near and dear to his heart—his career.
Best to avoid women with more than two brain cells to rub together.
The one huffing along beside him had so many brain cells she could donate half to science and still be a fucking Mensa member.
So why am I drawn to her like a bad cartoon?
"Where'd you go?"
"Huh?"
"Your eyes all but rolled back in your head and you switched to auto pilot."
Shit. “I was thinking of my Academy days?"
"Your Academy days or Major Dalton-Greene?"
Time to strip the green from this monster walking with them, no matter how much he enjoyed baiting her. “Ed is happily married to a real son of a bitch of a guy, the same one she dated back at the Academy. She was assigned bodyguard detail when a Latin American badass came gunning for him. They picked things up where they left off, I guess. I was at the wedding about six months ago."
"You don't like her husband?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Um, maybe the fact that you called him a son of a bitch."
"Term of endearment, doll."
She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like men. In her haste to glare at him, she missed a divot in the path and stumbled into him. His palm burned as he brushed the side of her breast and slid to her waist. Her bare waist. His fingers flexed against the smooth warm skin. In an effort to reclaim her balance, she shifted until her front tormented his side, the sensuous slide firing up his libido. The floral scent of her shampoo teased his senses, already on high alert. Wide-eyed, she stared up at him. For the first time, he noticed metallic sparks of color flashing in her caramel-colored eyes. Those gold flecks drove him to want to kiss her lids before laying claim to her mouth. She felt so perfect, so right, pressed to him. Her legs straddled his thigh and he wanted nothing more to arouse her until she rode his leg hard in her search for pleasure.
What would she do if he kissed her?
He w
anted to kiss her. Katrina had no doubt about that. His gaze devoured her lips with such intensity that she felt the contact. His nostrils flared with every ragged breath he drew. Her mouth parted in anticipation. Her own unsteady breathing dried her lips and her tongue flicked over them.
Except she didn't want him to kiss her. She didn't. If she repeated it enough, she might begin to believe it.
Bracing her hands on his shoulder, she steadied herself so she could peel her body away from his. Despite the warmth of the morning, a chill seeped to her bones and replaced his heat as she stepped back and prepared to get back to the business at hand. Or feet, as the case may be. With a quick shake of her head, she cleared away the fog caused by his clean woodsy scent.
"I'm so sorry.” She tugged her tank top down over the sweatshirt she had tied at her waist. “I'm not a klutz. I don't know what got into me."
Powell just shook his head and muttered under his breath. “I know what I'd like to get into you."
Oh my. The heat she'd been trying to contain flared to life in a dangerous backdraft. Had he meant for her to hear that? He walked a step ahead of her, preventing her from seeing his face, the look in his eyes. Not that it mattered. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.
Her wild child happy danced and admired the view of Powell's fine bottom as Katrina hiked along. It had been damn near impossible to keep that part of her under control before the inadvertent admission. Now that she'd learned the desire was mutual, the task became Herculean. Would it be so bad to let me come out and play, the unruly part of her coaxed. You're a grown woman now, tap into this suppressed part of yourself, lighten up some, have a little fun. Live a little. You're not the one who died in that car accident. Accident. You've got a man in front of you who is interested in you. You. He's not some law enforcement groupie or some wimp intimidated by strong women. Jump at this opportunity. Jump him.
Katrina debated the merits, hiking along in silence. She was older now, more able to control herself, to not allow the uninhibited parts of her personality to take over. She hoped. They were alone, in the middle of the Pennsylvania wilderness, away from the confines of office politics and protocol. With any luck, this case would be the long-needed credential to land her a coveted spot at the Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime as a Supervisory Special Agent. In Virginia. Far away from Philadelphia and Powell. She'd never have to face him in awkward silence in the halls or at a meeting. Their indiscretion would never have to come to light. And, maybe most importantly, she have the opportunity to have sex with a man built for the task—and not with BOB, her battery operated boyfriend. She single-handedly kept stocks rising in the battery industry, a sure-fire indication that she might need a change of pace.
Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2] Page 7
