Trust Me: The Lassiter Group, Book 1 (13 page)

She turned to find him directly behind her, his approach as stealthy as ever. She wondered if he enjoyed sneaking up on her as much as he did crowding her in small bathrooms.

“You should check and see if there are any clothes we can change into first. I’m going to start a fire.”

“Okay.”

Lucas didn’t move right away, his attention fixed on the floor. She didn’t see anything on the slate-gray ceramic tiles at their feet, but the second Lucas glanced at her, she wished he’d kept staring at the floor.

In less than a second his penetrating gaze seemed to slip beneath her skin, and she shivered for an entirely different reason. She never saw him move, but swore he was closer to her than he’d been a moment ago.

“I didn’t plan on things turning out this way, Max.”

“Good to know you didn’t steer us into that rock on purpose.”

“I didn’t mean just this.” He blew out a breath, seeming almost uncomfortable. “I know you’ve had a rough time and if I’ve made things harder on you…”

“Are you apologizing?” At least, that’s what it sounded like.

“I’m just saying that if I had to do this whole thing over, I would make a few changes.”

“What changes?”

His gaze slipped to her mouth, and her stomach did a fluttery backflip. “I’m going to start that fire.” He retreated another step.

“Lucas? Thanks for not letting me drown.”

He nodded, his lips slowly curving in a devastating grin that left her staring at the empty doorway long after he’d gone.

Once she was alone, there was nothing to distract her from the cold. She peeled off her boots, leaving them on the floor while she went to check the other room for spare clothing.

The bedroom wasn’t very big, the double-sized mattress fitting almost wall-to-wall. Directly to her left were a huge armoire and a small dresser. She checked the armoire first, pulling open the doors and coming face to face with two liquid black eyes.

Holy fuck
.

Holding back the scream that shot up her throat, she stumbled backward. It took a moment to register that the previous owner had not in fact murdered her husband and left him to rot in the armoire.

Instead, some dumbass had not only shot and killed Bambi’s mother, but decapitated the poor thing and kept her head for a souvenir.

Some men had
way
too much time on their hands.

She quickly shut the armoire doors and turned to the dresser. Inside it she found bed sheets, a couple thick blankets—which she tugged out and set on the floor beside her—some socks, a few T-shirts and drawstring swim shorts that would do.

The door opened, and she glanced into the main room as Lucas set an armload of wood on the floor next to the woodstove.

Pitching some of the clothes and extra blankets on the chair behind him, she quickly pivoted back around.

“Hold up a second.”

“Oh no. I’ve got first dibs on the shower.”

Abandoning his smoldering fire, he trailed her into the bathroom once more. “Oh yeah? Says who?”

“Says the woman who didn’t want to take the canoe in the first place.”

“You mean the woman who didn’t warn me about the rock that caused us to tip?”

Her lips parted, but he held up his hand.

“Just get in there already or you’ll be having company.”

Carnal images of the two of them beneath the steaming water unfolded in her mind. Heat licked through her veins as he lingered in the doorway looking like he knew exactly what was going on in her head.

She put her hand on the door, torn between closing it and inviting him in. In the end he made up her mind for her.

“Come here.” He drew her close, and her breath hitched as his fingers curled around her wrist.

She bumped against him and a wave of need slid through her, running fast and hot. Even drenched, he smelled good, and she thought about pressing her mouth to his jaw to see if she’d still taste the salty river water on his skin.

He lifted her hand higher. “I should take this off.”

Yes, he should. Take it all off.

He pulled something from his pocket, and she recognized the piece of wire he’d used to get his cuff off earlier. The pad of his thumb rasped across the inside of her wrist as he turned the cuff around.

After a few seconds of fiddling, he glanced at her. “Isn’t this where you ask me if I know what I’m doing?” Something in his tone said he wasn’t talking about the handcuffs.

“Do you?”

His eyes clung to hers, his voice rough as he answered, “I guess we’ll find out.”

The cuff falling away from her skin broke the spell.

“Enjoy the shower.” He walked out, closing the door behind him.

Don’t do it, man.

Lucas leaned against the closed door, reminding himself that getting involved with Max would be a mistake. He was taking her to Boston, end of story.

After the canoe had tipped and he’d lost sight of her in the water, he’d come a little too close to panicking. That right there told him he was losing whatever objectivity he had possessed before this whole thing started.

He just didn’t know if it was Cara’s death and doubting Max’s role in it that set him on this path, or meeting Max and wanting to believe in her as much as Cara had. It used to be about getting the job done and leaving his personal feelings out of the equation. For whatever reason, it was different this time.

But it didn’t change the fact that Joe was expecting him to bring Max in. He wasn’t sure if Joe had been suspicious about his whereabouts before he’d called Tess this morning, or if he’d said something that tipped Joe off earlier. And if Joe had suspected something was going on with his team that he didn’t know about, he would have hounded his granddaughter Tess until she filled him in.

Either way, three seconds into the call that came through before the RCMP caught up with them, it was clear Joe knew exactly what was going on.

Lucas just couldn’t decide if he’d overestimated the odds of keeping his side-mission off Joe’s radar or Tess keeping Joe distracted with other things. And now that Joe knew he’d found Max, he was expecting him to have her back in Boston by tonight.

Since they wouldn’t be meeting the plane that would be waiting for them an hour away—not today anyway—he had to find a way to get through another twenty-four hours with Max without doing something stupid.

Stepping away from the door, and doing his best not to think about Max peeling herself out of her wet clothes, he crouched in front of the woodstove. He was still in the same position, annoyed at how much his best sucked right now, when Max emerged from the bathroom.

She took one look at him and the barely smoldering fire and arched a brow. “What, not a Boy Scout?”

Replying involved using his mouth for something other than exploring every inch of her skin not covered by the pathetic excuse for a towel. Did she realize that no matter how hard she tugged, it wasn’t going to get any bigger?

The second he felt his cock start to harden, he looked backed at the fire.

“I find the whole being prepared thing highly overrated.” At least he had starting thirty seconds ago.

“Is that so?” She crossed to the chair behind him where she’d left the extra clothes.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, the tucked-in fold on her towel in particular, the one that looked ready to come undone. “There’s a lot to be said for just going with the flow. If I had been more prepared, you wouldn’t be standing there in nothing but a towel.”

It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but he thought her cheeks flushed or maybe that was just from the shower.

“Don’t remind me.” She gathered up a few clothes.

He stood, but kept his feet planted in front of the stove. “Funny how things work out, huh?”

“Yeah, hilarious.”

“At least you didn’t end up in the trunk of my car.”

She stopped next to him. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t kiss your feet in gratitude.”

“There is going to be more than kissing going on if you don’t get dressed.” If he looked even half on edge as he felt when her towel was one tug from hitting the floor, then she’d be smart to put some space between them.

Seeming to read his mind, she took a step, only it was closer instead of farther away.

“I think we both know that would be a really bad idea.”

He caught her hand and just touching her unleashed a rush of bone-deep need. He tugged her closer. “Define bad.” Because he didn’t need to think very hard to know
bad
would feel really fucking good—the same way her mouth had felt when she’d surprised him in the diner.

He’d barely had time to process her grabbing his shirt before she’d kissed him. Leaned in, slanted her mouth across his and, with a quick catch of her breath, like she wasn’t sure if she’d gotten in over her head, kissed him.

In less than three point five seconds he’d been hard for her. If he’d been able to communicate with his brain longer than it took to kiss her back, he would have hauled her into his lap.

“Like we don’t trust each other bad.”

He curled one arm around her waist, drawing her flush against him. One of them let out a shocked breath at the contact, and if his gaze wasn’t already locked on her mouth, he would have tried to figure out which one of them had made it.

“You can trust me, Max.”

Her cheek grazed his. “That doesn’t mean I should.”

“Still don’t believe I’m one of the good guys?”

“Either way you’re dangerous.”

He lowered his head and his lips skimmed her bare shoulder. She gave a little moan of approval.

“You don’t sound too worried.”

“I can handle it.”

He trapped her jaw in his hands. “At least one of us can.”

Her lips parted, and he nipped the bottom one then slowly pulled it between his. This time he knew that sharp intake of breath was definitely his, and when she fit against him completely, her hands sliding around his neck, like she needed something to hang onto—and Christ he knew the feeling—he had to tamp down the satisfied groan that vibrated through his chest.

So damn hungry for her, he opened his mouth over hers, taking complete possession. She arched against him, rubbing just hard enough that the slow, sweet friction left him aching to get inside her. Catching her hips, he rocked against her, and she released a deep a carnal sigh. He swept into her mouth, stroking deep with his tongue.

Trouble.

With every slide of her lips he knew he was falling deeper into it. He knew he should care, and maybe if kissing her wasn’t frying brain cells by the boatload, he would have.

The towel pooled around her lower back and he knew the second it slid down her chest by the way she squirmed against him.

“You’re cold and wet.”

“Working on it.”

She smiled against his lips, and whatever she was going to say was lost to a startled yelp as her legs hit the back of the couch, knocking her off-balance.

He could have steadied her, but he enjoyed the way she clung to him, trying to regain her equilibrium. Not that it mattered when he lowered her to the cushions and followed her down, moving faster than he’d planned, a little too eager to get his hands all over her.

Pain flared across his ribs, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay.” Already the pain was easing.

She shifted beneath him, allowing him to settle deeper between her thighs. He didn’t have a clue if that was her intention, but the moment he fit snug against her, a rush of intense pleasure streamed through him. Irritating his bruised ribs was more than worth it if it meant he could feel her thighs squeeze him again.

Hair damp and tousled and looking like she’d just stepped out of some locker room fantasy, Max stared up at him. Bending to run his mouth along her shoulder, he made his way to her neck, loving how her head fell to the side giving him complete access.

She moaned low and deep and tugged at his shirt until she got her hands beneath it, splaying her fingers across his back. If she wasn’t already warming him up, the shared body heat as her hands slid up and down his spine would have gotten the job done.

He traced the hollow of her throat with his tongue before pulling away to peel his shirt off, careful of his shoulder.

“Jesus.”

He followed her gaze to the bruise on his side. As far as injuries went, it looked worse than it felt, and he’d certainly had worse. The expression on Max’s face bothered him more than anything, and he didn’t miss the flash of guilt in her eyes before she looked away.

Maybe Mad Max really wasn’t as tough as she looked.

“Touch me.”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

He caught her hand. “It’ll be worse if you don’t.” And he meant every word.

Maybe they didn’t really trust each other, but whatever she’d been through, and he was starting to think it was more than anyone realized, he didn’t want to see her hurt by it any longer. He’d glimpsed that easy, sexy grin, heard her moan against his mouth, felt her shudder in his arms and he’d do whatever he could to make it happen again and again.

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her fingertips. “Touch me, Max.”

She scooted up a little and he clenched his jaw at the sweet tease along his cock. She tugged her hand free, but instead of running her finger over his ribs, she leaned up and carefully opened her mouth on his skin.

The flick of her tongue set fire to his blood, and he slid down, groaning as her body molded perfectly to his. This time he crushed his mouth down on hers, stark need warring with whatever part of his brain kept insisting he shouldn’t rush this.

He cupped her breast, lazily rubbing his thumb across her nipple. She whimpered, so he did it again then inched down so he could draw the tight peak into his mouth. Her back arched with every long, greedy tug.

He swirled his tongue over each hard tip, learning the feel of her, the taste. Her nails raked his arm, and the soft sounds that escaped her quickly heightened his own arousal.

His heart pounded faster than when they’d been running from the police, but the tremor that worked through him was new. If he didn’t know better he’d think he was fooling around for the first time, caught in that surreal place between feeling so damn good and praying he wasn’t about to screw it up somehow.