Tate stopped kissing her neck, pulled back, and stared at her. Lyla pouted and blew him a kiss. After a long, loaded minute, they both burst out laughing.
When she could finally speak again, Lyla admitted, “So, clearly I’m not great at accents.”
“Are you kidding? That was amazing,” Tate gasped. “Straight out of The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Do it again.”
Lyla shimmied lightly up and down the front of him like a lap dancer, but it was hard to suppress the giggles trying to fight free. “Do you even have a permit for this long-range missile, Captain?” she purred, as fake-serious as she could manage, under the circumstances. “Do you even know how to use it?”
“Lyla, how are you so fucking adorable and smoking hot all at the same time,” Tate muttered darkly, before standing straight and wrestling himself back into character.
When he spoke again, he was every inch the silver-screen officer. “Natasha, I am a hardened soldier,” he growled, “You’d better believe I know how to use my weapon.”
At that double entendre, Lyla was pretty much ready to melt into a puddle at his feet, but she was saved from the embarrassment when Tate filled his hands with her ass and pinned her to the door with his own personal ICBM.
He took total possession of her mouth again, and Lyla couldn’t do anything more than tag along and let him do what he clearly did best. If she’d had any idea how flipping good Tate Monroe was at kissing, she’d never have been able to hold out as long as she had.
Hell, he even tasted like cinnamon, courtesy of the flan he’d had for dessert. Her favorite flavor—imagine that.
LYLA HAD NO idea how long they stood there, making out against their suite’s door like a couple of teenagers late for curfew. But at some point, the real world intruded in the form of a stairwell door crashing closed at the end of the hall.
Tate sprang back from her, scanning the area with an abruptly ferocious glare.
“Well, okay then,” Lyla laughed.
“We shouldn’t be out here,” Tate told her.
“But it sure is fun.”
He pecked her on the nose. “Lyla, you have no business being so cute and distracting. I’m supposed to be aware of our surroundings. Protecting you, not pawing at you.”
“I happen to like your paws.”
“And my paws like you. Let’s get inside so I can put them back on you.”
Despite his flirty words, though, it was obvious the moment was over. Tate positioned Lyla next to the open door so he could comb through the suite looking for anything out of place, and she tried not to mourn the loss of his lips.
He was all business as he sifted through the bathroom and the closet and the bedroom. Tate checked the locks on the windows and the sliding glass door, and he felt around for anything untoward stashed under the furniture.
Then, he moved Lyla’s suitcase to the luggage rack, his duffel to an armchair, and slipped her purse off her shoulder to put it on the desk.
Tate pulled Lyla the rest of the way into the suite, closed the door behind her, and flipped the deadbolt.
When he finally turned to her once more, his gaze was incendiary again. He came to stand in front of her, but he didn’t kiss her, and he didn’t say a word. He only reached forward and brushed his fingertips down the inside of her wrist, then threaded his fingers through hers.
“Tate?” Lyla whispered, breathless with anticipation.
“Room’s clear,” he told her.
“So, I gathered.” She tugged on his hand, but he didn’t budge.
Tate swallowed, stared at her mouth, then met her eyes again. “Tell me you want me,” he rasped.
“I want you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“I do. So much.”
“Say this is okay. That I’m not imagining this.”
Lyla pulled her hand free and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and putting her lips against his. “I’m real,” she told him, feeling his breath, hot and shaky, mingling with her own. “And I’m yours.”
Tate crashed against her then, fusing his mouth to hers and walking Lyla backward to press her against the wall behind them. His hands were everywhere—molding to her hips and breasts and gripping her ass until they finally lifted her up against him.
Lyla wrapped her legs around his waist and held on for dear life, while Tate pushed his erection against her core and his tongue tangled mercilessly with hers.
He turned and headed for the bed, walking slowly until his knees hit the mattress. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he told her, wrenching away to lick a path down her neck. “God, Lyla. How are you so gorgeous? You make me crazy.”
She whimpered when he nipped at the tendon between her neck and shoulder. In response, Tate smiled and dumped her on the bed, following her down and crawling over her.
He attacked the buttons on Lyla’s skirt and tried to yank it down, but immediately got distracted by the triangle of skin that he’d ended up baring.
Lyla tried to help him get her skirt off by raising her hips and shimmying a bit, but that only elicited a growl and a hard suck just below her navel. She dropped back down and sighed.
Who knew belly buttons were so sensitive? It felt as if Tate had hot-wired hers directly to her nervous system—and each flick of his tongue was sending white-hot shocks along all the pathways.
He pressed her hips into the mattress to keep her still, covered Lyla’s stomach in hot, wet kisses, and then proceeded to undo the rest of the buttons holding her skirt closed, one by one.
When Tate was done, he opened the two sides and spread them wide, staring down at Lyla’s panties with a smug expression on his face.
“Freaking boy shorts,” he gloated. “I knew it.”
“Did you, now?” she asked. “And how much time have you spent, exactly, thinking about my underwear?”
“So much time,” Tate told her. “You have no idea.”
“I’m beginning to get some idea.”
He braced himself over her and kissed her hard. “Hush, you. And kiss me back. I want your tongue. I want to feel your tongue all the fuck over me.”
“That I can do,” Lyla agreed.
“And your skin. Give me more skin. Give me all of it.”
“You’re pretty bossy for a guy who hasn’t even taken off his shoes yet,” she pointed out.
Immediately, there were two loud clunks, one after the other, as he toed off his loafers. “There, no more shoes,” he mumbled, feeling around on her shirt, looking for how to get it off her. “Now this. Take this off.”
“You first.”
Tate stopped and chuckled, then sat back on his heels and smiled sexily down at her while he divested himself of his dress shirt and his belt.
He also did that move that some guys had mastered, whipping off his undershirt one-handed and throwing it aside. He even went one sexy step farther and unbuttoned his pants.
If Lyla could’ve pulled off drooling and had it look the least bit seductive, she totally would have. Instead, she ran her hands over the scorching-hot skin stretched across Tate’s ripped abs and felt her body turn molten.
“You are…wow. Just…wow,” she stuttered.
“Why thank you,” Tate smiled. “Convenient side effect when you work out to burn off stress.”
He bit his lip and worked Lyla’s blouse up her torso, then urged her arms over her head so he could pull it off. And then, he gazed intently down at his fingertip as it traced a long line from her lower lip all the way down to her panties.
Lyla reached behind her back and released the clasp on her bra. Tate blinked, gently plucked the scrap of lace away, and rolled his eyes back in his head.
“You wreck me, woman. Everything you do. Ruins me.”
He fell forward, kissing her long and slow and sexy, but grinding against her too gently to give her any real relief. He kept it up until Lyla thought she’d die if he didn’t get on with things.
“Tate, please,” she begged
.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” He nibbled on her ear, his hot breath skating over her neck and making her shiver.
“You. I want you.”
“You have me.”
“Then, more of you.” Lyla pushed his khakis and boxer briefs down his hips and reached for the part she wanted most. When she got ahold of it, Tate lost a little bit of his swagger and groaned loudly.
“Oh my God,” he said, “When you do that—”
Lyla stroked him again, and his mouth clamped shut. Tate rolled his neck and looked like he was fighting for composure.
He was so hard and big, and she couldn’t wait to feel him inside her. Her dating dry spell was looking like it had been one-hundred-percent worth every lonely minute if this was how it was going to end.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Always Prepared brought any protection with him?” Lyla inquired.
“You bet your sweet ass I did,” Tate told her. He immediately rolled aside and stood up, kicking off his pants and underwear while he dug through his bag, then returning a moment later with a strip of condoms in his hand.
“We probably only need the one,” Lyla smiled, pulling him over her again.
“Shows what you know,” Tate grinned back. He ripped a square off the strip and covered his magnificent length, and then hooked his index fingers into the waistband of her panties so he could drag them down her legs.
Lyla’s breath was coming in erratic spurts, and she was salivating at the thought of all that broad, hard muscle being hers to enjoy for the next few hours.
“Last chance to back out,” Tate warned.
Lyla snorted, “As if.”
He smiled that mega-watt grin of his, kissed her deeply, and pushed into her in one commanding thrust.
“Jesus,” Lyla moaned. “You’re…”
“Feel me,” Tate commanded, as he moved in and out in strong strokes. “Feel what we’re like together.”
“So good,” Lyla told him.
“That’s right. Even better than I dreamed.”
When he brought Lyla up and over the edge, she could’ve sworn she saw stars.
LYLA WOKE UP before Tate the next morning and was immediately determined not to screw things up like she’d done the day before.
She slipped out of the bed they’d shared all night long, watched him sleep in the faint light bleeding through the blinds for a euphoric minute or two, and then went into the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth.
Tate hadn’t been lying when he said he knew how to use his weapon—he knew how to use it better than any man she’d ever met. Lyla’s body was singing in all the right places today, and she wanted to sing right along with it. She hoped they could add some more notes to the song, too—possibly in the next several minutes.
Tate was still face-down on his pillow when she crept out again. Before she crawled in next to him, Lyla bent to pick up the hotel check-out receipt that someone had stuck under the door during the night.
It would stink if she slipped on it and accidentally woke Tate before he was ready.
Yesterday, she had witnessed firsthand how badly the lack of sleep threw Tate off and she had no desire for a repeat performance.
However, once she straightened, Lyla noticed she’d picked up something else, too—a large manila envelope with her full name printed on the outside.
She frowned and pried it open, then slid out the contents.
The sheet on top had only two lines, but the simple computer font looked harsh against the white printer paper.
Delilah, you filthy whore, it read. Don’t you know it’s wrong to sleep with the help?
Lyla looked underneath it and fell to her knees. There were photos. Oh, God—there were so many photos.
That psychopath must have been in the hallway with them last night, she realized, and somehow, he’d managed to take pictures without either of them realizing it.
Across every one, he’d scrawled the word Wrong in thick black marker.
“Tate?” Lyla called, dropping the horrible images to the carpet like they might catch fire at any moment. When he didn’t respond, she yelled louder, “Tate!”
FIFTEEN
IF IT WAS possible to wake up with one’s blood already boiling, Tate had done it that morning. Just the panicked tone of Lyla’s voice had made him want to strangle something with his bare hands, and that was before he’d even gotten a look at the photos.
Those photos—Tate was still absolutely furious that Lyla’s jackass stalker had managed to take pictures of them without Tate knowing it.
He felt downright murderous that the fucker had ruined what should’ve been a blissful morning in bed for them.
Lyla had pulled herself together like she always did, insisting on getting cleaned up and trucking off to her reading on schedule, despite how hard Tate argued against it.
However, now that they were here, there was no denying she was flustered.
Usually, Lyla was a consummate professional, walking into her various appearances as poised and calm as anyone Tate had ever seen. She made pleasant conversation, projected a caring face to her readers, and smoothly deflected unwelcome prying or digs from the trolls.
He assumed that was one of the reasons Red had wanted her for this project.
Unfortunately, none of those stellar qualities were in evidence today. Lyla was distracted and restless at her table, and jittery and impatient with him. It’d been this way for two hours.
The fans waiting in line for her to sign their books did not appear to notice anything amiss, though, so maybe Tate was the only one seeing Lyla clearly—probably because he’d gotten so tuned into her frequency that it was almost like he could read her mind sometimes.
Under the fear and horror, she’d been really disappointed about their ruined morning, too.
And now, hours later, Tate couldn’t think of anyone more in need of a change of scenery than Lyla. Luckily, he knew just how to give it to her.
While Lyla dealt with the last few stragglers in line and wrapped up things with the bookstore reps, Tate kept one eye on her and one on his phone.
It only took about five minutes of internet searching before he found what he was looking for—a state park that was only twenty minutes away. It would be perfect for what he wanted.
ONCE TATE TUCKED her safely back in the truck, Lyla exhaled heavily, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t budge, and her hands didn’t stop shaking, either.
“How we doin’, Slick?” Tate asked her.
“I’m off,” she admitted. “Really off. Do you think they could tell?”
“I doubt it. But it’s not like you don’t have good reason to be upset. That shit this morning was really troubling.”
“I know. I just wish we could figure out who’s doing this. And why.”
“We will.”
“How does he always seem to know where we’re going to be, Tate? We weren’t even supposed to be in Cleveland last night,” Lyla said. “It’s unnerving.”
“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “And that’s something I want to talk more about. But listen…I think it’s time for you to take a little break from all this. Have a change of scenery.”
Lyla sighed, “Believe me, I’d love to. But how am I supposed to accomplish that? We have to get to Erie by four-thirty. I have that interview with the woman from the Gazette, remember?”
“I know, and we’ll get there in plenty of time. I just thought we could make a little pit stop on the way to clear our heads. What do you think?”
She shrugged. “Sounds good to me. It’s not like this day could get much worse, right?”
Tate didn’t want to touch that thought with a ten-foot pole. Of course it could get worse—things could always get worse. Still, he was going to try his damnedest to make sure that didn’t happen today.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, he’d found the highway exit he was looking for, a drive-through with a good selection of sandwiches and salads that Lyla could eat, and the unassuming
entrance to the park. It wasn’t manned, but it did have a sturdy plexiglass case with helpful maps stashed inside.
Ten minutes after that, Lyla was changing out of her skirt and heels and ditching her cardigan, then trudging after Tate on the dirt path. She carried the bag with their lunch in it like she was planning to sacrifice it to the fishing gods.
Speaking of which—
“Where the heck did you acquire a pair of fishing rods, anyway?” she wondered. “I’m sure I would’ve noticed those being packed in the truck.”
“I found them when I went out that night in Baltimore, and stashed them in the back,”Tate told her. “I figured, even if we never got to use them, I could always give them to my dad or brother next time I visit.”
“How convenient.”
Tate grinned—he thought so. But first things first, “Have you ever fished before?”
“I’m a vegetarian, Tate. What do you think?”
“So that’s a no. Don’t worry, little camper. We won’t hurt the fish today. We’ll throw them back if we get any bites.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Tate wasn’t surprised that Lyla looked dubious. She even had that little divot between her eyebrows that told him she was considering things carefully before she weighed in again.
Soon, though, they reached the spot he’d scoped out on the map, and whatever Lyla had been thinking about got shuttled aside while they set up on the small hill over the water.
The river was more of a creek at this point, but it had a nice bend shaded by an overhanging willow, the fronds long and trailing into the water a couple of feet out.
Even better, when they’d gotten out of the truck before, Lyla had rummaged around in her bag after she’d put on her tennis shoes, and then done the nothing-to-see-here changing trick that every woman seemed to know. She’d slipped a pair of running shorts on under her skirt, and then the skirt came off without one glimpse of her ass or underwear—and wasn’t that a shame.
The Hero Was Handsome (Triple Threat Book 3) Page 13
