Against the Rules (7 page)

“Are you imagining what it will feel like as I take it across your clit?” He tightened his hold on her.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” she chanted.

Teague couldn’t help it as he laughed again. Channy was a treasure. “Too bad, little sub. I’m in charge.” He skimmed it across her hood and delighted in Channy’s scream.

“Ooh, it didn’t hurt.” She spread her legs a little wider. “I… I liked it.”

Her open honesty was killing him. “And we’re both going to love this.” Reese could wait no more. He tore open a condom and sheathed his cock. He climbed between her legs. Fuck, he had to get inside her. He had no idea where his hard-won control had vanished to, but right now he had none.

Channy’s pussy was tight and wet and felt like home. As the word
home
bounced around his brain, he almost pulled out.
What the fuck?

Her channel was still tight from her climax and he knew he had to go slowly, damn it. As he began to move, he watched her closely. She looked so tiny beneath him. So vulnerable. His chest clenched painfully.
What the hell? This was supposed to be about sex. A mutually satisfying romp in the sack. A prescription for keeping a terminal case of blue balls at bay.
He pushed away those thoughts and began to move.

Channy was liquid heat burning through him. Each stroke drove him insane. They moved together in perfect harmony. He watched in wonder as she smiled. Her eyes closed and a new, determined expression danced across her face. He nearly stopped until he felt what she was doing.

On each downward stroke, she tightened her channel, gripping and milking him until all his brain function shifted to lower anatomy control. Yeah, now this was what he needed. Pure physical bliss without all the emotion. Like a man possessed, he drove into her over and over until they both shattered in a riot of colors, sounds and sensations. Teague collapsed over Channy, mindful not to allow his weight down on her. Sated and exhausted, he held her to him, his breathing ragged and his mind racing.

* * * *

Foster was desperate. Mr. G. played for keeps. If he didn’t find and gift wrap four-six-two, Mr. G. would take Foster’s family down with him. Minutes had turned into hours, hours into days and he still wasn’t any closer to finding four-six-two. He didn’t fool himself into believing that the agency could keep his family safe. The lies he’d told to get them into protective custody wouldn’t hold up for long. He had to buy some time.

Foster checked his bulletproof vest and fed shells into an extra clip for his Glock nine millimeter. With a sardonic smirk, he carefully slipped the tiny package of explosives into the breast pocket of his worn leather jacket. He always loved taking the bike out for a spin, but this night he would be riding with purpose.

* * * *

Teague didn’t like the way he was feeling. More specifically, that he
was
feeling. Anything. He had taught himself to remain delightfully numb to emotions. Having everyone you ever loved or cared about ripped away from you could do that to a man. Years of constantly looking over his shoulder and suspecting everyone had made Teague a hard person.

Yet, less than forty-eight hours spent with the fiery, redheaded stick of dynamite asleep beside him had put some serious cracks in the barrier he’d built around himself.

Teague stared into the fire burning in the hearth to keep his eyes off Channy. It hurt to look at her. She was so beautiful. Inside and out. An innocent angel he had no business fucking.

He was such a bastard. When had that happened? Was it the trait of Dan? Robert? John? In which incarnation had he stopped caring about what was right and learned to care only about himself?

At first, he had hoped that this new life of his would be temporary. Once he found that key bit of evidence that would bring down the cartel, he would be able to go back to his old life. Just pick up where it left off. Anger welled strong and ran deep. He wanted to put his fist through something. Had he ever been that naive? He felt like such a piece of shit. Guilt and shame rode him hard.

For about the millionth time, he wished his life hadn’t taken a wrong turn. He used to be a stand-up guy. The kind of man Channy deserved to be with. But it was too late to change things now.

Though he’d tried valiantly, he couldn’t keep from watching her. They had made love many times and in almost every room of his house until she fell asleep in front of the fireplace. He would never get her out of his system. Or look at the dining room table without picturing her there offered like a feast for a king. Damn. He was beyond screwed. One night wasn’t enough. Surely one weekend wouldn’t be too dangerous.

Teague noticed immediately when her breathing changed. Slowly, seductively, her eyes opened. His stomach clenched and his heart did a spectacular flip in his chest. An Olympic judge would surely have given him a ten if stupidity were a sanctioned event.

“I was dreaming about you,” she whispered in a husky, flagpole-raising voice.

“Let me guess, I was the wolf and you were Little Red Riding Hood,” Teague kidded. “And I chased you through the forest. Then, when I caught you, I did terribly naughty things to your body and you loved every minute of it.”

“That was it exactly. How did you know?” She grinned as she ran her hand over the shadow forming on his jaw. “Maybe it wasn’t a dream. You’re a bit scruffy like a wolf.”

“Well, Little Red, this wolfman is hungry and you look like a delicious morsel. I’m going to eat you up,” he warned as he wrapped his arms around her slender body and pulled her to him. He lavished kisses down her neck as he growled.

She giggled and writhed in his arms. “Is there a full moon tonight?”

“Only for us.” Teague howled, bathing her breast in his warm whisper before he pulled her taut peak into his mouth. Channy’s giggle turned into a gasp of pleasure.

“Tell me, Little Red, what one word would you use to describe dipping your toes into the D/s pool?”

Channy blushed, but answered immediately, “Un-fucking-believable.”

Teague chuckled, slightly relieved to hear her admit it. “Much better.”

He gently raked his teeth over her nipple. Her responding moan had his cock hardening into a painful ache.

It didn’t seem to matter how many times he enjoyed her body, it was never enough. He wanted her again and again. God help them both.

* * * *

He settled in for another night of fantasy and fun. With his dick in one hand, he booted the video feed with the other. Soon he would have her here where she belonged. Until then, he would watch her every move and plan.

He blinked in surprise and automatically hit refresh.
What the hell
? It was three o’clock in the morning.
Why isn’t she in bed
? Stroking his hard-on, he considered the possibilities and chuckled at the irony. Some rubbed their head to concentrate and he guessed he did too, just not the one on top of his shoulders.

She was probably taking a piss. As he changed the camera feed, he made a mental note to curtail such inconveniences. Once her room was ready, she would have to ask his permission for such liberties. She would learn who was in control.

His cock throbbed and twitched in anticipation. Dark, seething anger roiled in his gut when the screen showed an empty bathroom.
Where the hell is she?
Quickly, he checked each camera. She was not in the house.

In a show of temper, he shoved everything from his desk, scattering it to the floor. On his phone, he brought up the GPS app and searched for her. He congratulated himself on being prepared. In addition to the video and audio feeds, he had attached a tracking device to her car. Once he was ready, he didn’t want to waste any time acquiring her.

After reading the coordinates, he slammed his phone onto the desk, cracking the plastic case. For good measure, he slammed it again and again, but it still read the same offensive coordinates. Her car was at home, but clearly she was not.
Oh, she will pay for this,
he vowed.

His stroking took on a fevered pitch as he planned, in great detail, just what her punishment would entail.

Chapter Four

Reese carried her into the bathroom and set her on the edge of the tub while he ran a bath for them. As she dangled her feet over the edge, he lit scented candles and dimmed the lights. This man was too good to be true. Suddenly, a horrible thought came to mind. “You’re married, aren’t you?” she accused.

His scrunched face told her that the idea was abhorrent. “No. Why would you think that?”

“The men that I know don’t own candles, let alone light them.” Though he denied it, she still checked his finger for a ring or signs that one had been there recently.

He raised his hand to her eye level. “No ring—no wife. Not even an ex-wife.”

That distant, cool look pooled deep in his eyes again. She knew she should drop it, but she couldn’t. “Girlfriend then? Steady or otherwise?” She kept her voice light and casual.

“No.” He met her gaze. “Channy, I’m a die-hard bachelor. I’m not looking for, nor do I want, a relationship.”

Staring at a flame, she focused on her voice. It would not quiver. “That’s cool. No worries. Just double checking. Rule fifty-eight clearly states never infringe on another woman’s territory.”

Even his tub was perfect. Huge. Sunken. Waterfall faucet that burbled like a natural brook. The candles danced and sparkled off the glass blocks that formed one wall. God, she was in over her head. She wanted much more time with this man. Forever might not be long enough. They just meshed together, shared the same tastes, politics, likes and dislikes. Why couldn’t he see that?

Reese stepped into the tub then knelt at her feet. The sight of him took her breath away. When he poured body wash into his palm and began bathing her with slow, deliberate strokes, it made his rejection of anything steady that much harder to take.

“More rules? Girl, you’re killing me with this!”

“It’s only fair,” Chantel whispered as his hands warmed her already sensitive skin. “What you’re doing to me is absolutely sinful. If I’m going to go to purgatory, I want some company.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. After tonight, I’m convinced you’re an angel sent from heaven.”

Chantel wanted to cry. How could he say something so sweet after just professing to be a hardcore bachelor? Maybe it was just an act. All his sweet talk was just nonsense to get a woman into his bed. But she had already been in his bed, and on his floor—and every other flat or semi-flat surface in his house. He no longer needed to try to seduce her. Maybe he was such a consummate rake that he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“What kind of soap is that? It feels tingly and fresh,” Chantel asked, needing a safe subject in order to get her emotions under control.

Honestly, she had never felt like this before. A queen, pampered and loved. The candles and scent of the bath along with his strong, talented hands caressing her body had her head reeling. How was it possible for him to evoke such strong feelings within her when his every word tried to push her away? He had made it clear that he wasn’t in the market for anything long-term. She needed to get her heart out of this and just enjoy what he was willing to give.

“I knew a lady once who was seriously into aromatherapy. She used it for everything from relieving stress to curing a cold.” He chuckled like it was of no consequence, but Chantel noticed the faraway look in his eyes.

“I tried it one time to humor her.” He shrugged with a sad smile. “I don’t know. I use them from time to time.”

Instantly, Chantel was jealous. Whoever this woman was, she clearly meant something to him. Maybe that was the problem. Her mind began turning over the possibilities.

Clearly this mystery woman was a source of pain. Maybe to keep from being hurt again, Reese had subconsciously started believing he liked being a bachelor. So, he kept it casual, with no emotional buy-in. Just sex, plain and simple.
Sorry, tough guy.
She wasn’t going to make it easy for him to push her aside like yesterday’s floozy.

* * * *

Foster rode like the devil was hot on his heels, but that couldn’t be—he’d taken the driver’s seat many years ago. Death didn’t scare him. He welcomed it. He drove with reckless abandon considering he had an explosive device in his breast pocket. He didn’t mind dying, he would just prefer to take a few bastards down first.

Number one on his list was Sammy, Mr. G.’s favorite henchman. As he neared the roadhouse where Sammy was known to spend his evenings, Foster slowed down and turned onto a side road used to bring in supplies.

Parking his bike out of sight, he went in on foot. Staying in the shadows and behind cover, he eyed the parking lot until he found the distinctive bike he was looking for. His son had described it well. The candy apple red tank was truly a sick piece of art. Images of skulls swirling in mist had looked cool to a little boy.

Skulls would never appear cool to Foster again. A few years back, he’d been one of the first agents to burst through the doors of the chop shop Sammy ran. He’d already realized that his crusade to save the world was a fool’s goal. For every offender they took down, another—often worse than the last—took their place.

It hadn’t taken long before the lure of easy money had been too good to pass up. How did the agency expect a man to raise a family on the shit they paid him?

He worked his ass off and never seemed to have enough to pay the bills. Why shouldn’t his family have the best? Why should they scrimp and do without, when he had the opportunity to provide for them? It didn’t seem like much to look the other way on occasion. The amount of drugs the agency took in were a mere flash in the pan compared to what actually crossed the borders. What did it matter if some of it made its way back into the dealers’ hands? If people wanted to fry their brains, what did he care?