Crazy Hot (23 page)

“Shhh. It's okay,” he murmured, pulling back out and trying again, taking it even easier.

He'd never made love to anyone so slowly in his whole life. He felt like they'd fallen into a time warp—but every breath was filled with the scent of her, and every kiss was filled with the taste of her, and he never wanted any of it to end.

Her first time—
oh, yeah.
He was finally in deep enough to thrust. When he did, he felt a slight barrier give way and heard her gasp.

Holding himself perfectly still, he nuzzled her ear, kissed her cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Mmmmm.” She moved against him, lifting her hips ever so slightly, and relief flooded through him. He pulled almost all the way out of her, before slowly sliding back in. She arched her head back on a soft purr, and he ran his tongue down the length of her throat. She was so beautiful. Her breasts small, her nipples softly pink. He leaned down and captured one with his mouth—and sucked, so gently. She groaned, and the sound went straight to his balls, making them tight. God, this was heaven. She was so responsive, so languorous, and so incredibly hot. She was melting for him, and she was so wet.

The briefest grin curved his lips, and he slid his mouth up to nuzzle her throat. She wasn't weatherproof. It was one of the wonderful things about girls. When they got wet, they melted like sugar in the rain. The first time he'd heard J. T. and Quinn discussing this amazing phenomenon, he'd been way too young to understand, and they hadn't been the least inclined to explain girl stuff to J. T.'s baby brother. But he hadn't forgotten, and in a few more years, he'd gotten a pretty good idea of what they'd been talking about, especially from the guy's side, the weatherproof side. When guys got wet, they were vulcanized. They got hard and stayed hard, and the wetter they got, the harder they got. They were weatherproof.

He was the living truth, vulcanized right down to his soul by her body's response. No melting for him. Oh, no. Except in his heart, where she'd turned him into mush, and his brain, which was operating strictly on autopilot. She was so beautiful—her nose so delicate and refined, her cheeks so soft, and her mouth . . .

God, her mouth.

He slanted his lips over hers and thrust into her again. It was her first time, and he wanted her to come. He wanted to feel it. He wanted to know she'd come for him—and he wanted to give her pleasure, mind-blowing pleasure, because he wanted her to stay.

To stay with him for days, and weeks, and months, maybe forever. She rocked his world hard, and he wanted to know everything about her. She could paint all the naked men she wanted, because he'd been the first to make love to her. Maybe he would be the last. Maybe.

Carefully pulling all the way out, he moved down her body, kissing her softly on her belly, following her itsy-bitsy tan line down to the silky insides of her thighs. His heart was racing. She must cause riots at the pool.

Sliding his fingers through her dark curls, he opened her for his kiss. She caught her breath on a shocked gasp, then released it on a soft whimper when he licked her, his tongue gliding over the soft, silky, hot, sweet center of her arousal again, and again, and again. She stiffened, and a rush of pleasure so intense it made him groan shot through him. His hand tightened convulsively on her waist, holding her still for his delicate assault.

She cried his name and opened her legs for him even wider, surrendering to his mouth, to his fingers sliding in and out of her so very, very gently. It was her first time, and he wanted to push her right to the edge and take her down the other side in a long, long fall. He wanted it to be exquisitely sweet for her, more pleasure than she could ever have given herself. He wanted to give her a guaranteed, soul-shattering orgasm she would never, ever forget, not if she lived to be a hundred.

Caressing her, he slid his hand up her torso and down her arm, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his mouth. He sucked on her fingers, then moved back up her body to suck on her mouth. He kissed her over and over again, loving being with her, being on top of her and feeling her getting more and more turned on.

Cradling her head with one hand, he took hold of himself with his other and checked to make sure his condom was still in place, before he fitted himself back inside her. He pushed in just a little way and held himself still.

“Mmmm.”
She murmured a soft sound deep in his mouth, her hips lifting toward his, and he pressed himself deeper, dying just a little, but not going all the way, not yet. The torture was too sweet. He wanted to play with her and tease her for as long as was humanly possible, with no rules save one. He wanted her to come. He wanted her to have that for her first time, for every time.

He lifted himself above her, resting on his forearms, and moved himself in and out of her in a lazy, heat-inducing rhythm. They smelled like sex, the two of them, warmly animal, their skin damp with sweat and pleasure. She was small, so slight, and yet so female. She was taking him easier now, her body having adjusted, and when he gave her all of himself, she took all of him with a groan of longing, not pain.

“Kid.”
His name was barely a breath, uttered with such need he leaned down and kissed her cheeks, her brow. He was here, with her. He wouldn't leave her, not ever. Her leg came around his waist, holding him more closely to her as he pumped, and she groaned his name again.

God.
He felt it, too, the edge of pleasure turning sharp and sweet.

“Kid.”
She tossed her head, her hands grabbing him on either side of his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him tighter.

He hesitated, then thrust, making her wait for a heartbeat or two in varied intervals, slipping his hand between them to stimulate her. It didn't take much before her body went taut beneath him, his name sighing from her lips, urgent and wanton.

“Kid . . . don't . . . please, yes.”

He was in such a haze. He understood her perfectly, his mouth wet on hers, her body slick and balanced on the edge. He slid his other hand up the length of her arm, twining his fingers through hers, rocking into her again and again, until she came, her breath catching, her body pushing up against his, holding him deep. She gasped his name, and he went rigid, releasing on wave after wave of the purest, sweetest ecstasy. It rolled through him, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think.

At the end, he felt transported, his body in some sort of limbo. He rested his forehead on hers, but other than finding his breath, didn't even try to come down. He was so high. His muscles were twitching with latent pleasure, his mind floating in the ozone of total physical and mental relaxation—and he would have stayed there for as long as he could have possibly ridden it out, if he hadn't bent down to kiss her and tasted her tears.

“Nikki?” He rolled to his side and wiped her cheek with his thumb. He knew he hadn't hurt her. She'd been with him, right there with him, every single second. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Oh, Kid.” She sighed, kissing his face, his mouth, her hands sliding over his chest.

Yeah,
he thought, understanding dawning on him. He was just lucky he wasn't crying, too. He'd never felt anything like what had just happened between the two of them. Never. She was hot and sweet and soft and smart, funny and tender and wild, and he was in love. Crazy in love.

He kissed the top of her head where she was snuggled up against him, relaxing into sleep, the movement of her hand slowing into a lazy caress.

He should tell her about being in love. Feeling what he was feeling, there was no way to keep it inside. Yeah, he needed to tell her, and he would—tomorrow.

C
HAPTER

21

N
O GUNS
. Just bones. Nothing but bones. Quinn stood in the middle of the Lafayette warehouse and couldn't believe he'd almost gotten himself killed over a pile of old bones that even Regan seemed to find disappointing.

“It's not here,” she said again, examining one of the fossils for the second time. She'd been through them all in a quick search for the Cretaceous carnivore nest Wilson had thought he'd found. They'd been at the Lafayette warehouse for more than half an hour, and her time was up. She knew it, he knew it, and all they needed now was for Hawkins to show up so they could bait the trap.

“Wilson seemed so sure,” she said, walking down the side of a long table, her fingers sliding from one fossil to the next, some still half plastered, some with their jackets removed. Most of the fossils were crated on pallets on the floor, the ones that positively weren't the
Tarbosaurus
nest.

Neither were they the Pentagon's OICW assault rifles, he thought with disgust, trying to remember exactly what it was that had made General Grant so damn sure this was the shipment to steal.

“Maybe it was all just wishful thinking on Wilson's part,” Quinn said to her, getting carefully down off the forklift he'd been using. His knee was starting to hurt like hell. He'd spent his half hour organizing the “reject fossils” for easy loading. Hell, he'd practically gift wrapped the damned things. When Roper did finally show up—and Quinn knew he would—Quinn wanted things to move fast and smooth. He wanted the bad guys in, and he wanted the bad guys out. No screwups. Not when Regan was going to be there—a risk he should have known better than to take.

Damn it.

“You think he's delusional?” she asked, looking up from the table.

“Your grandfather? I haven't seen him in years, but from what you've said, it's possible.” He didn't want to add to her worries, but here they were, and there wasn't a damn dinosaur nest in sight, or anything else that changed their situation. “What do you think of the rest of the fossils?”

“They're a mess.” She looked around at the crates she'd checked and the few fossils still on the table. “No two bones seem to be from the same species, let alone the same animal. They weren't jacketed very carefully. There aren't any skulls, no teeth, no vertebrae. You seem to have somebody's discard pile of bone fragments without the map to tell you where they were found and how they were laid out.”

Great. He'd dragged her into this for nothing.

“What's wrong?” she asked, coming around the side of the table.

“Nothing,” he lied, making an effort to get the scowl off his face. “Look, I guess I should have told you this before, but you can have another chance at these bones if you want it.”

“What do you mean?” Confusion marred her features.

“We're going to let Roper have the fossils tonight, but we won't let him keep them if that's not in our best interest.”

Her brows furrowed even deeper.

“You'll steal them back,” she said after a moment. A small smile threatened the corners of her mouth. “You haven't changed at all, have you?”

He smiled, too. “No.”

He hadn't changed, not one iota, from the shaggy-haired sixteen-year-old juvenile delinquent she'd first seen all those years ago. Neither had Hawkins changed, or Dylan or any of the guys her grandfather had taken under his wing. After all the years, and all the miles, in their hearts and by trade, they were still thieves. Only now they stole for the government.

“So you stole a hundred cars before you got caught,” she said, settling back against the table and crossing her arms over her chest. “Why?”

He'd been seeing that one coming all night, since he'd first confessed to her up on that dirt road above Denver, and he'd already decided to tell her the truth.

“Stress.”

“Stress?” Her brows lifted. “What stress?”

“Going-hungry stress, freezing-your-ass-off stress, and getting-kicked-out-of-the-house stress. We had it all.”

All traces of her smile faded away, and her eyes went dark and serious. “Who's
we
?”

“Me and my mom.”

“What about your dad?” It was a fair question, or would have been if his father had had any bearing on their situation, which he hadn't.

“You know,” he said, walking over to her and pressing a brief kiss to her mouth. “He's not such a bad guy. Guess he actually turned out pretty good when you consider that he was a father at fourteen. I never knew him, until he looked me up a few years ago. Has a nice family, two more boys, Jesse and Eric, and runs his own tire shop. Steele Street gets all their tires from him. We've been a real good account.” And wasn't that sweet how it had all worked out. Hell. He'd given up being angry a long time ago. How in the hell did you stay angry at a fourteen-year-old kid who'd just gotten lucky one night?

His jaw tightened just a bit, and inside he admitted it was probably still all too easy to get angry, not for himself, but for how casually that boy had used his mother, who obviously hadn't known any better either.

Well, he'd sure as hell kept his pants on at fourteen, and fifteen, and sixteen, and seventeen, which was probably just one more reason he'd become so incredibly fixated on Regan McKinney—whose face, he noticed, had paled.

“Fourteen?” she said, her voice rising in disbelief.

Yeah, it was pretty damn young.

“How old was your mother?”

“Fifteen,” he said, telling her that unvarnished truth as well. “I used to tease her about going for younger guys, until I realized that making her cry was just too damn easy, and that even when I was at my absolute worst, she still loved me. It's the only thing that saved me, that she loved me no matter how rotten and wild I was.”

He'd shocked her, he could tell. His parents' ages certainly hadn't been in any of the newspaper articles about him. He'd made damn sure of that, for his mom's sake.

“I didn't know.”

God, she was sweet, her voice trembling for a little boy who had obviously turned out pretty well.

“If you cry, I'm not going to tell you any more.” He lightened the threat with a smile, but he meant it. There was one more box of fossils to crate up, the smaller ones on the table, and he picked up the closest and moved it over to the last wooden crate.

“I'm
not
going to cry,” she said, swiping the heel of her hand across her cheeks, then reaching for a hand-sized bone encrusted with rock. She followed him over to the last crate. “So go ahead and tell me everything. It's not like I haven't wondered a million times how you ended up on Wilson's work crew. Who kicked you out?”

“My mom's dad. He was always kicking us out of the house. It was either his way or the highway, and at about thirteen, I started choosing the highway every time.”

“Where's your mom now?” she asked, going back for another load.

“In Boulder. She married a dentist when I was sixteen. I've got two half sisters, Jessie and Lynne, sweet kids.”

“Two Jessies?” She gave a little laugh, stopping and turning back to look at him.

“Yeah.” He grinned with her. “My mom and dad didn't exactly keep in touch. Funny how that turned out, both of them naming a kid Jessie.”

“What about your grandfather?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I don't keep track, and I don't ask Mom.”

He knew how that must sound to someone who adored her grandfather, but Bart Younger had not been Wilson McKinney, not by any stretch of the imagination. He'd been an alcoholic asshole who'd beaten Quinn's mother, but Regan didn't need to know all that, not tonight.

The sound of Roxanne's 426 Hemi pulling up outside brought both their heads around.

“Hawkins,” he said, relieved. He started for the door, but she caught his hand and held him back.

“Thanks,” she said, rising up to kiss his cheek.

He kissed her fingers, before taking her hand in his. “Let's get Hawkins and get this show on the road.”

R
egan's
memories of Christian Hawkins were very clear in her mind as she and Quinn stepped out of the warehouse, and at first sight of him getting out of a sleek green muscle car with a black racing stripe running up the hood, she realized she would have recognized him anywhere.

He hadn't changed, except for being taller and broader through the shoulders. His hair was still so dark as to be almost black. He still had the most intense gaze she'd ever seen, and a face made up of angles, not curves. Amazingly, he still dressed in worn-out jeans with a worn-out T-shirt, though he'd added a long-sleeved, striped cotton dress shirt that undoubtedly hid a shoulder holster and gun. The lines in his cheeks when he smiled were deeper and longer than they'd been, and she remembered thinking he was cute, too experienced for his age, and dangerous in a way she couldn't quite pin down.

Well,
cute
didn't begin to encompass the man he'd become.
Handsome
wasn't the right word either, not if it conjured up images of pretty-faced, square-jawed, shaving-cream models. Christian Hawkins was not pretty. He was striking, serious even when he smiled, and looked like he'd been to hell and back since she'd last seen him, and that he might have enjoyed the trip, or at least learned plenty along the way.

The air of danger was still there, along with an animal magnetism she'd known better than to succumb to even at fifteen. At thirty, she had a much better idea of where all that animal magnetism was coming from and where it could take a girl, and the knowledge made her grip Quinn's hand a little tighter.

“Regan,” Hawkins said, reaching out to shake her hand, his smile broadening.

She responded automatically, and when their hands clasped, she felt not only his warmth and strength, but his subtle awareness of her as a woman. It was in the ease of his grip, the light pressure of his fingers, and the unspoken appreciation in his eyes. As a greeting, it was both unnerving and charming, and she got the impression that she was very much in the company of a gentleman—and a rake, a description she wouldn't have quite thought was even in her vocabulary.

“Christian,” she replied with a smile, surprised at how glad she truly was to see him.

After releasing her hand, he glanced at Quinn and lifted one eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

“An hour, tops,” Quinn said, “unless you want to call Roper with a personal invitation.”

In reply, Hawkins rattled off a phone number beginning with the Denver area code.

“Yeah, that probably works better,” Quinn agreed, but Regan didn't know to what. It was obvious, though, that the two of them worked together a lot.

That impression was only confirmed as they went through the warehouse together. Quinn set the tracking device Kid had taken off her car, and placed it in one of the crates. That was for Roper Jones to follow to Lafayette. The device he'd picked up at Steele Street was turned on and placed in a different crate. That was for Quinn and Hawkins to follow to wherever Roper took the bones. The idea, she assumed, was that the bones would lead them to whatever they were really after. He still hadn't told her what that was.

The two of them spoke in a virtual shorthand, but Regan did understand how disappointed Hawkins was about the
Tarbosaurus
nest or something similar not being a reality. Apparently, Roper Jones was berserk about the bones, and not even the great Wilson McKinney had been able to give them a reason why.

Maybe Wilson
had
gotten a little delusional, she thought. Especially if he'd known how badly Hawkins and Dylan had wanted him to find something special.

Hawkins's arrival had bought her a little more time, and she was working her way back up the table while they loaded the remaining fossils, hoping she'd missed something. She wasn't trying to be quiet, and she certainly wasn't trying to eavesdrop, which didn't make what she heard any less startling.

“He wants your fucking head, Quinn. Just your head, and I told him I could get it, especially for the fifty grand he's ponied up.”

“And the rest of me?”

“You know him. To the dogs. Hell, he'll probably sell tickets.”

“We could—” Quinn turned suddenly, warned, she was sure, by her quick intake of breath.

She couldn't believe what she'd heard, and yet she did, every word.

“You've got a price on your head? Just your head?” The thought was so awful, she could hardly breathe.

Quinn looked back at Hawkins and, with a silent exchange, apparently laid a course for the rest of the evening. She didn't know how they did it, but neither did she protest when Quinn took her by the arm and led her outside to Christian's car.

“I know what Hawkins said sounded bad, but it's nothing to worry about.” He opened the trunk and pulled out a very dangerous-looking gun. She didn't know what it was, but it wasn't a pistol. It was bigger, more deadly, like something she'd seen in the movies, with a big clip of bullets curving out of the bottom—and it looked like exactly what they might need.

“How can you say that?” she asked, and damn him, he actually chuckled.