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Three’s Company

She can cover him with one hand tied behind her back. Maybe two.

Personal Protection

© 2009 Leah Braemel

Hauberk Protection, Book 2

Sam Watson excels at keeping other people safe. Now a stalker is targeting him, but so what? A few doctored photos and a couple threatening phone calls are no big deal. He can watch his own back. Then again, the view from behind the sexy spitfire assigned to protect him isn’t so bad…

Rosalinda Ramos has managed to keep her attraction to Hauberk Security’s owner tightly under wraps. It’s just as well he doesn’t know. One slip—in the bedroom or on the job—will cost her her heart and her career, so she’s got only one thing on her mind. Protect Sam, whether he wants it or not.

The stakes—and the heat—rise exponentially when she discovers Sam belongs to an exclusive sex club—

one she must investigate for potential suspects. Suddenly she finds herself immersed in a world that pushes her boundaries.

Sam delights in leading Rosie deep into his sexual shadows—until they go one game too far. Making him wonder if he can allow the woman he loves to take a bullet for him.

Warning: May incite the reader’s protective instinct, forcing her to throw herself on the nearest man.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Personal Protection:

The limo pulled into the underground parking lot and past his Jag. A sigh escaped Sam as they cruised past his Harley. The crisp October day would have been perfect to drive his Road King. Instead he was cooped up like a damned dog in the back of the limo that finally stopped near the elevator where Rosie was waiting.

Damn it, why had Chad insisted on Rosie Ramos as his lead CPO? If he’d wanted a woman to accompany him to any upcoming parties or meet ’n greets—the reason Chad had given him—why not McKee or Anderson?

Neither of those women got his cock twitching like Rosie did.

The fantasy he’d had of getting her alone in his apartment hadn’t included her wearing a gun and acting in as his personal bodyguard. All right, maybe one had. But, damn it, if a bullet was going to be aimed in his direction, there was no way in hell he wanted the little spitfire throwing herself in its path. He’d rather have her throw herself in his bed. Go down on her knees and unzip his fly… Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

“All clear, Mr. Watson,” Rosie said quietly.

“Of course it is.” Sam ducked his head and clambered out of the limo, then stomped to the elevator.

Goddamn it, she’d even acquired a key to the elevator, locking the door open so no one else could use it. He ignored that it was standard operating procedure and lashed out, “You think other people might not need the goddamned elevator?”

“Better than having the door open and somebody shoot you from inside. Besides there are other elevators still available.”

Her voice was so damned reasonable. Placating. Like he was some baby to be soothed out of a tantrum.

Which is exactly how he was behaving but goddamn it, his people were supposed to be protecting others.

Not him.

She turned the key and let the door close, pressing the button for the penthouse. The elevator began to rise, a quiet chime announcing each floor they passed. And with each ding, Sam became more and more aware of the delicate smell of apricot shampoo and woman filling the confined area. He closed his eyes, trying not to deliberately inhale great lungfuls of that amazing scent.

As long as she was around him, he’d not sleep. Instead he’d be staring at the ceiling imagining what it would feel like to cup her breasts in his hands, to unzip her pants and nudge aside that blue thong. Imagine going down on her and tasting her honey. When she’d been in the gym doing those stretches, he’d obsessed about some of the positions she could get into while he fucked her. Then in his office while Chad had been briefing her, he’d pictured her stretched out over his desk, her legs hitched over his shoulders. And now she’d be in the next apartment, so damned available.

Damn it!

“Mr. Watson, do you have a problem with me guarding you?”

“Nope.” He couldn’t help that his answer sounded like a growl. He had one helluva a problem and at the moment it was punching against his zipper. He shifted his briefcase so she wouldn’t see his hard-on.

“I mean, do you have a problem with a woman guarding you?”

Shit! She thought he didn’t want her because she was a woman? Why not add sexual discrimination to the mix today? He exhaled and opened his eyes. “No, Ms. Ramos, I do not have a problem a female operative leading my team.”

“Then do you have a problem with me personally?”

Was it a problem that he was imagining pinning her up against the wall and ramming into her until she screamed her release? How the hell did he explain that to her without getting slapped with a sexual harassment suit in addition to the discrimination one?

“If I didn’t have complete confidence in your abilities, you wouldn’t work for Hauberk, and Chad wouldn’t have personally chosen you as team leader.”

That must have been the answer she was looking for. She nodded, and her shoulders imperceptibly relaxed.

“Thank you.”

“I’m pis—ticked off at whoever is sending those damned photographs, and I fu—frickin’ don’t like having to accept that I had to ask my own people to protect me. Leaves me damned twitchy. So don’t take my grouchiness personally, Ms. Ramos. It’s not directed at you.”

No, what was pointing directly at her was his goddamned dick.

The elevator bounced once before the doors slid open, and Sam waited for her to precede him.

Aw, crap. Now he had to watch that bitable ass of hers walk along the hallway and that did nothing to help him control his raging hard-on.

She’s your employee. She’s a crack shot with that Glock 11 she carries.
He almost groaned as the image of her bending over on the firing range, wiggling that ass at him, had his cock so hard it hurt.

She can stomp on your nuts and have you singing soprano without breaking a sweat.

Didn’t work. All his dick thought of was wrestling on the ground with her body pressing against him, over him, under him. Around him.

What was in that coffee of Sandy’s today that left him so fucking horny? Spanish fuckin’ fly?

As they approached the door to his apartment, the door to 1202 opened and Kris nodded. “Evening, Mr.

Watson.”

Sam couldn’t help but notice his newest and youngest operative standing at attention, a worried frown marring that baby-smooth face of his. Aw hell. He’d stomped on that poor boy’s ego pretty good earlier. Hadn’t he been a bucket of sunshine today?

He stopped, and blew out a breath. “Look, Kris, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have yelled at you this morning. I’ve been…”—a festering pile of self-centered dogshit?—“under a lot of pressure lately.”

Yeah, right, and if you buy that one, I’ve got some land in the Okefenokee for you.

“It’s all right, Mr. Watson. I don’t think I’d be feeling too happy if someone threatening me had access to my apartment and personal information either.”

He might have bought Kris’s smile if it hadn’t been for the
Mr. Watson
. Unlike some of his employees, Kris had never had a problem referring to him as Sam. Or even “buddy” on occasion in the gym.
Mr.

Watson
meant he still had some fencing to mend.

“Chad told me you and Walters got those cameras in place.”

“Sir, yes, sir. It was no problem at all, sir.”

First Mr. Watson and now
sir
. And not just sir, but the military sir, yes sir. Well, he supposed it was natural for Kris to fall back on his naval training.

“I didn’t expect you’d have a problem with it, son.”

Son?
Son?
Kris is twenty-five, you idiot, not eight the way you’ve just made him feel. He’s not young
enough to be your son.

Okay,
technically
he probably could have been a father at fourteen thanks to Becky Sue’s idea of a birthday present that year. Thank the good Lord above, she’d stolen a condom from her brother Billy’s bedside table before sneaking out. Not that he’d needed another condom for a coupla years after that, but if she’d not had the forethought that night, he could have been a daddy by his fifteenth birthday. But he sure as hell wasn’t old enough to call Kris
son
.

“Mr. Watson?” Rosie said, touching his arm. “Are you okay?”

An electric shock jumped from her fingers and crawled under his skin in a tingle that caused his breath to hitch. He’d noticed that she was a toucher, seen her patting people’s arms or hands to calm them or support them, but she’d never touched him before. His cock hijacked his thinking processes and started him imagining her tiny hands closing about Sam Junior, milking…

Shit on a stick! She’s your employee, not a member of the Rouge.

“Yeah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled as he forced his mind back onto the scene in the hall. “Look, Kris, I didn’t mean to imply you’re not a good CPO. Chad wouldn’t have assigned you to the team if he didn’t have confidence in you.”

Color crept up Kris’s neck. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sam.”

“Sam,” Kris repeated, his smile breaking out.

Feeling that at least one corner of the world was back on its axis, Sam headed toward the end of the hall and his sanctuary.

Rosie stopped him as he pulled his keys from his jacket pocket. “Let me get that for you.”

His teeth threatening to splinter when his jaw locked down, Sam stepped back and let her unlock the door with her own key. She drew her gun and entered his apartment. Chad had reported they’d monitored the cleaning service doing their thing that afternoon, so they knew the apartment was clear. Though he couldn’t fault her vigilance, it was what she’d signed on for when Hauberk hired her, but damned if it didn’t shrivel his balls that she was willing to take a bullet meant for him.

Marking one’s territory was never so naughty…

Take Me Again

© 2009 Mackenzie McKade

Wild Oats, Book 2

Dolan Crane would love to hate the beautiful new veterinarian who’s horning in on his territory. It’s tough when the flame-haired fantasy come true makes his body burn with just a smile. The smart thing to do is forget about her, so perhaps a threesome arranged by his old college buddy is just what he needs to get her out of his head.

Divorcee Tracy Marx has followed her restless feet to Santa Ysabel to start a new practice—and maybe find someone to take her outside the boundaries of vanilla sex. Instead she finds trouble in the form of a cowboy whose dark, sexy gaze lights her up—and could also destroy any chance of success. The best thing to do is stay far, far away from him.

When Dolan shows up for the promised night of fantasy, he’s shocked to find Tracy has traded her medical bag for a leather bustier and bondage gear. Tracy would like nothing better than to slap that smirk right off Dolan’s face, but the prospect of being sandwiched between two men is impossible to resist—even if one of them is her adversary.

Besides…no one calls her chicken.

Warning, this title contains the following: Ride-me-cowboy sex, hot, explicit ménage scenes, light bondage,
graphic language, and a heated romp in the hay.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Take Me Again:

As the music ended, Tracy Marx stepped out of the cowboy’s arms. Damn. What was his name? Was it John? Paul? George? Ringo? A silent chuckle tickled her throat.

With a sultry expression, he smiled down at her, sliding his palms up her bare arms. “How about another dance?”

“Dance?” She glanced at him not really seeing him. Shamefully, her mind wandered to another—one who’d left her wanting with a single look. The flame had sparked again when their eyes had met once more.

The whole time they’d sashayed across the floor all she could think of was the dark-haired cowboy who appeared out of nowhere. Even when Tom—
yes, Tom was his name
—had suggested they find a quieter place to talk all she could think of was blue-black hair and eyes dark as the night.

She scanned the room in search of her mystery man. Disappointment hit her hard when the spot where he had last stood was vacant. Reluctantly, she drew her attention back to Tom and his question. “Can’t. Promised the next dance to—”

Crap
. Forgot that guy’s name too. She never had problems with her memory. Guess she had too much on her mind tonight.

The stout cowboy she had met earlier sidled up to her. “Charles,” he said slipping an arm around her waist to pull her back firmly against his body. “My turn.”

Tom stiffened. His brows tugged down into a scowl. For a moment, she thought he might raise a ruckus.

Men were gutsier then she remembered. They could be so primitive. Give them a drink or two and they became throwbacks from the Stone Age, fighting to resolve all their disagreements.

Tracy released a pent-up breath when Tom finally tipped his hat. “Later, sweetheart.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Charles whispered in her ear.

Her equilibrium was shot to hell when he twirled her around and into his embrace. His feet immediately started to move to the quick beat of the music. Lightheaded, she missed the first step, but caught the next one to glide across the floor. He held her confidently, guiding her into each move easily.

“So, little lady, where you from?”

Little? She was five-eight, one or two inches shorter than him. Judging by his solid build the man was a bull-rider. Of course, she’d been wrong before. “Nebraska,” she answered.