Negotiations (Close Contact Book 2) (2 page)

Two petite, shaky hands moved to the top button of her shirt. One by one she unfastened the buttons, steadier hands moving faster at the end. Her lips pursed in a stubborn pout. “What now?”

“Less lip.” He smirked. Not that she could see it. “Take it off.”

“You’re a son of a bitch.” Her shirt parted over a sheer blue bra, cupping small round breasts with aroused centers. She pushed the sensible business shirt off her shoulders. It fell down her arms and landed in a heap on the ledge.

“And the bra,” he said more hoarsely than he would have liked.

Instantly, her hands went to the clasp at her back. Two breasts extended toward him from the effort. He greeted them with his covered mouth. The pointed tips prodded his tongue. Sweat and caramel. Salty and sweet. He could have guessed, but why when this was so much more fun.

Donovan’s callused palms bit into the concrete ledge. He couldn't let go. If he did, he’d grab handfuls of her and he might not let go.

A deep moan rumbled in her chest. “Please.” The begging request slipped from her lips.

“Please what?” he asked, pausing above her chafed breasts and swollen red nipple.

“More.” She gasped the desperate plea.

He left her breasts and traveled up to her ear.

“Tell me exactly what you want.”

“What I want?”

“A confident woman like you shouldn’t have any trouble with that.”

She moaned and ground her pussy against his leg. She tried to hide her face in his neck when she whispered, “I want—”

His hand tangled in the damp tendrils at the base of her neck. He pulled back and pinned her with a steely gaze.

“Go on.”

She swallowed hard, but met his unyielding gaze with one of her own, still defiant despite the fact he’d pushed her to bare herself.

“I want you to fuck me. I want to be under you—here at least. Now.”

“More.” Shit, now he begged.

Her eyes closed for a moment, then flashed open, a hint of vulnerability in their moist depths.

“I want your mouth on me. You, inside me. I want you to pound me with everything you’ve got and make me scream so loud when I come that all of Detroit hears my excitement.”

His breath came in short strained gusts. He’d asked for this…dreamed of this, and she was giving him exactly what he wanted. With a quick move, he filled his hands with her butt cheeks, locked their cores together and laid her back on the ledge. Her legs wrapped tight around his torso and dug into his muscled back and cheeks. Before him, she lay bare-breasted, a marvelous painting set against the blackness of the sky and shimmer of city lights.

She rode him through the layers of his clothing as he slid his hands up her body. The first skin-to skin-contact, his hand to her belly, sent a thrill up his arms. Her smooth skin stretched under his rough hand. He circled her chest, strumming over her erect tips again and again as her breathing became labored, and her legs clamped him harder in time with her undulating thrusts against his clothed erection.

“Oh yes!” A moaning cry pierced the night sky.

Paige rode it out, mewing and bucking against his throbbing penis. While she calmed, he traced her lips—the object of many fantasies—with his thumb. When her breathing quieted, she lapped her tongue at his finger. She caught it on the third lap between her teeth and sucked hard, pulling him in to the base and working it with her mouth.

When she released it, he demanded, voice rough as bedrock, “More.”

Her narrow jaw bobbed the smile it hosted. The vice-like grip of her legs dropped from his waist. He stepped back while she edged off the ledge, and then she dropped to her knees.

Donovan’s head lolled back at the jerk of his zipper, and he grinned like the fucking Cheshire cat. She knew to leave his buckle fastened so his sidearm, knife and ammo stayed put. Perfection.

Paige’s warm hands wrapped his girth and released him from his pants. Her mouth was hotter still. Slick wet suction welcomed his cock from tip to damn near base as she immediately relaxed her throat and allowed him in deep. The sauciest blue gaze he’d ever enjoyed taunted him from under long naked lashes. With the same enthusiasm with which she’d ridden home her orgasm, she pumped his length. Slurps and moist suction steamed the hot night air. Her hands cupped the sensitive skin of his testicles, massaged and pulled, while her head bobbed.

Tension soon tingled heavy in his balls, rushed up his shaft and released his own climax. Moaning while he groaned, she coveted all he tried to deny her with greedy pulls and gulps.

She stood, gaze raised, not submitting, and smiled like the devil triumphing over a tempted sinner. Slowly, she licked her smiling lips.

Incited by her smirk, he wound a hand in her blonde locks, and with his body shoved her back against the building’s edge. His mouth teased hers, and she licked at him through the balaclava. She bit down on his lip and pulled until she had only material between her clamped pearlies, and then yanked aside the material, revealing his mouth.

His eyes clamped shut in ecstasy when their tongues mated. Sweeter than ice cream, with a bite of his own on her lips, he was lost…spiraled out of control…driven to the edge. His hands moved to her pants and yanked them down with a frantic movement. Her boots sailed off with a flick of his wrist, and then her gauzy panties and jeans followed.

Spreading her ankles wide, he dove down for her core, dying to taste her, to lap up her wetness and invade her with some part of him. Any and every part of him.

Donovan hitched her thighs over his wide shoulders and speared her silken channel with his tongue. Her wetness coated him and tempted his mouth with sweet cream. The need for more drove him to withdraw and stroke deep again. His hair was pulled as her hands grasped the covering on his head, but he refused the distraction. Instead, he used his lips to pull on her rosy, swollen clit.

In response, she worked her hips against his face, using her heels against his back for leverage.

Rising, he gripped her asscheeks, arranged her wide open and rubbed his dick from puckered bottom to pointed top, over and over, leaving no part of her intimate skin untouched. He yanked a condom from his wallet and mangled the wrapper, freeing the thing. As much as he hated the barrier, he rolled it on the solid length of his cock.

“Fuck me, Wolfe. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

He repositioned her legs around his hips. Their sexes met. Slick on slick, and there was no waiting. Donovan’s hips pushed forward. He slid into her, head to base in a single thrust that left him gasping for air. She fit him like a second skin. A hotter, wetter skin. He pulled out to the tip and rammed home again allowing his balls to smack the damp skin of her ass. Twice more he repeated the ritual, watching their bodies separate and come together. On the third thrust, he stayed planted deep, enjoying the full contact. He leaned over the ledge, twined his hands in her hair and kissed her hard. Their lips collided, and their tongues curled together in a seductive battle.

When he rose, she used her arms to crawl up his body. She latched on with small yet solid arms and legs and began to ride him wildly. Her breasts brushed against his vest. Her sex pumped up and down the length of his straining erection. Widening his stance, he joined in the rhythmic beating of their flesh. His arms threw her hips into the air and his cock enjoyed gravity’s response.

Her clit must have enjoyed the rough ride too, because she let loose a series of screams at the sky. A rush of moisture coated his dick. As she spasmed around him, contracting hard, he joined her in orgasm, shouting his triumph at the night.

Though slower, he pumped her still, refusing to leave the pleasure their bodies created. He laid her back on the ledge and rocked inside her while his hands molded her breasts. Every part of her was swollen, moist and red from their efforts. The corners of his mouth went wide in appreciation.

“You know,” she said lazily, “you have a killer smile.”

“Is that all?”

She shrugged. “Since that’s all I’ve seen, I’ll plead the Fifth.”

“Fuck many men whose face you’ve never seen?”

Her eyes widened, like she’d forgotten that little fact.

He almost relented and pulled the covering from his face to reassure her he wasn’t an ogre, but her quickly narrowing gaze amused him too much.

Before she had a chance to respond, he flicked her nipples and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, and then her hips jerked of their own accord. Donovan had just settled into a rooted grind.

Two high-pitched beeps breeched their world.

In unison they barked, “Fuck!”

Moving forward, he gave her lips a biting kiss and disengaged their bodies. They retrieved their phones, her resplendently naked and him fully covered with the exception of his mouth, dick, and balls. While accessing the urgent message, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small towel and tossed it to her. With sure reflexes, she caught it and began cleaning while checking her own message.

“Hostage situation four miles from here. You want a ride?”

She laughed hard, doubling over a little.

“What?”

“Didn’t I just get one from you?”

“You only want one?” he asked, tone wry.

She gave him that devil’s triumphant expression.

“No. I want more.”

“Good.”

“But,” she added, “I’m not taking orders from you on scene.”

He planted his hands on his hips and leered over her. “You will.”

“Only when I’m naked or you’re trying to get me that way,” she said, fastening the pants she’d pulled up her lean legs.

“We’ll see.”

With a pouty smirk, she said, “Yes, we will.”

W
hen friends become enemies and enemies become lovers.

B
orn in the blood of Sierra Leone's Civil War, enslaved, then sold to the US as an orphan, Base Branch operative Sloan Harris is emotionally dead and driven by vengeance. With no soul to give, her body becomes the bargaining chip to infiltrate a warlord's inner circle. The man called The Devil killed her family and helped destroy a region.

As son of the warlord, Baine Kendrick will happily use Sloan's body if it expedites his father's demise. Yet, he is wholly unprepared for the possessive and protective emotions she provokes. Maybe it’s the flashes of memory … two forgotten children drawing in the dirt beneath the boabab tree… But he fears there is more at stake than his life.

In the Devil's den with Baine by her side, Sloan braves certain death and discovers a spirit for living.

F
or justice. For country. For love
.

A
fter witnessing her friend’s sexual assault, seven-year senior Magdalena Wells escapes an attack with a few bruises and a thousand questions. As a journalist in practice, if not in pay, Mags vows to utilize the skills she mastered in the Democratic Republic of Congo and answer every single one, just as soon as she gets the hell out of town.

Law Pierce’s aim is rest and relaxation after two years undercover in South Africa on an extended Base Branch mission, but restlessness puts him in trouble’s path. As a servant of justice, Law will do everything in his power to keep trouble safe. The fact that trouble’s petite stature and luscious curves stir his every primal instinct is a massive inconvenience he struggles to ignore.

Together Magdalena and Law uncover a web of corruption and dirty lies that could set their country’s top official ablaze, if the inferno doesn’t consume them first.

F
or information
on new releases and giveaways, sign up for Megan’s newsletter at www.meganmitcham.com.

S
troke
. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe.
Sloan’s sun flushed skin prickled quickly in the cool water. For the next twenty minutes, she focused on the rhythm. She released every concern from her mind and swam. No, in hooker mode her legs couldn’t kick as furiously as she wanted nor arms stroke as hard, but her muscles still sang. The effort gave her brain a welcomed respite from the restless night.

Covert work had always been Sloan’s forte. Morphing into someone else. Hiding who she was. What she’d endured. But this assignment held in the balance every desire she’d clung to since the day she’d quit mourning her parents and started fighting, everything she’d thought beyond her grasp after so long struggling to make it a reality. This assignment had also tapped a well of emotion she’d thought long ago drained.

“Nice stroke.”

His voice destroyed her solitude. The dark timbre resonated down Sloan’s spine like a cellist’s bow being dragged across the C string. A fresh wave of gooseflesh crested over her. She curled the water’s surface and turned toward Baine. Words froze in her throat. Thick and unruly dark hair cropped neatly around his ears, but dipped and swayed wildly at his forehead. The perfect handle for screwing.
Jezuz.
If that one wasn’t enticing enough, the swells and dips of his traps, shoulders, and biceps provided a feast of options to grip while riding the sculpted V of his hips. Everywhere she looked his swarthy skin wrapped taut—over a defined eight pack, thick and sturdy legs, corded forearms. The short crinkles of brown hair that peppered across his chest and peeked out from the waist of his swim trunks sizzled her brain.

“Thank you.” Sloan aimed for courteous and non-solicitous, tamping down the resentment, warring curiosity, and wicked lust he stirred inside her with every bit of self-control she possessed.

The bespoke suit he’d worn so well the night before had been traded for charcoal swim trunks and a towel slung over one shoulder. He moved toward her with grace that belied his bulk, before dropping his towel on the chaise next to hers. Of all the chairs and loungers in the place, he’d chosen the only occupied lounger on the entire patio. The act, though in all likelihood innocent, rang in Sloan’s ears like a war cry. A deliberate move in a complicated game of chess. Having just finished her laps, his timing was too perfect to be coincidence.

Baine turned and settled his gaze on her. Sloan searched for any sign of recognition in the sky blue orbs, in the tautness of his square jaw, or the furrow of his brow, and found none.
Good.
If he recognized her, the mission would be ruined. Not that she’d live to see the fallout. It was good that his eyes hadn’t alighted with remembrance, but heedless of the boon, emptiness pitted her belly.

Every battle honed instinct screamed for Sloan to retreat. In submission, she pushed off the bottom and glided to the stone outcropping only a few feet away from the enigma that was Baine Kendrick. She should hate him on sight. Anger roiled just under the surface, but the sudden and undeniable physical awareness of him played bumper-cars with the ire and her brain.

“It’s all yours,” she said, levering herself out of the water. Thousands of droplets rained off her body, and Baine’s intent study likely cataloged each. Like a damn schoolgirl, her cheeks heated.

“That’s good,” he said. A smile pulled at one corner of his mouth. Then he added, “I think you would put me to shame in a proper race.”

Sloan shook her head, unable to speak. The twinge of memory of two forgotten children racing over the green grass was too sweet and painful to rouse.

He held out a towel, and she forced her feet to close the distance. Proximity sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her, similar to the energy that surged before a fight, but different. She swallowed hard, struggling to ignore the nuance, which made her hyper aware she wore only strategically placed strips of spandex. When her fingers closed around the terry cloth, Lana and Cynthia ambled through the doorway onto the patio. Their conversation quieted once they saw her and Baine. The women waved.

“Good morning, ladies.”

They beamed at him as they walked by, then settled on side-by-side lounges at the opposite end of the row. Sloan nodded and soaked up the excess moisture from her hair and body in preparation for her escape. She secured the towel around her body with a tuck of its tail at the top of her breast, and gave him the best smile she could muster.

“Enjoy the—”

“Lotion me,” he asked. Though his tone made it sound more like a command.

Sloan turned a palm up. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any.” She motioned toward the other women. “They might have some, and I’m sure they’d happily help.”

“And you wouldn’t,” he countered.

While she sputtered, something she didn’t recall ever having done in her life, he reached across her to a side table and plucked a tube from a decorative bowl. His body came so close to hers the heat he radiated seeped into her marrow. As he retreated, the dusting of dark hair on his chest tickled her arm.

“Here,” he said, slapping the lotion into her hand.

He sat on the end of the chaise, elbows on his knees. Hunching didn’t diminish his presence in the least. In fact, it drew Sloan’s attention to the sloping topography of his chest and the spread of his shoulders, which dwarfed the chair under him. When she didn’t move he tilted his chin up and directed her behind him with a thick arm.

She circled him in a wide arc, but surrendered, tucking behind him on the hard wood. Clinically, like she treated a field wound, Sloan uncapped the sunscreen, deposited a dollop on her palm and began rubbing it onto his back. From his nape she worked her way out over his shoulders, denying the tingle the friction created below her waist. Until he leaned into her touch.

Her belly skittered, then churned at the absurdity. Of all the horrible things she’d done in the name of greater good, this topped them all. Because a small twisted part of her enjoyed the closeness to Baine. There were layers of deception, anger, and betrayal between them, but hope hid underneath like a tiny, dingy marble under a landfill of trash. And wasn’t it ironic that he’d been the one to instill that hope inside her.

She’d been a terrified girl in a haunted house. Alone in the universe. Her loved ones’ dead bodies ripped from her clenched fingers. Trapped as a slave. Utterly hopeless.

Then one day a boy, bigger and older than she by a few years, she’d guessed, had wandered into the basement where she’d been washing linens and asked her to play. When she’d declined, he’d put the bag of marbles in his pocket and silently stepped up to the basin, grabbed a napkin, and scrubbed the cloth against the washboard. For one week he showed up, helped her with her chores, then went about his business. The next week they’d hurried through the chores, and then actually played. He taught her how to shoot marbles, and had even given her one the last time she’d seen him.

But they weren’t kids any longer. And there was no hope for what he’d become.

Sloan snapped the cap closed. “All done.”

Before she could stand, he spun to face her. One brow furrowed. “How is it a woman like you ends up in a situation like this?”

“A woman like me?”

“You could choose another line of work. Toned as you are, you could be a fitness instructor.”

“Sometimes we choose our fate,” she said. “Other times it’s chosen for us.”

The cleft between his dark brows deepened and his jaw clenched then released. “And sometimes it’s what we make it.”

Sloan eased back, suddenly aware that his face was less than a foot from her own. Quietly, against all of her better judgment, she asked, “Is that what you’re doing, making your fate?”

His lips parted, but no words came. She recognized motion by the door, but when she saw Kobi with his arm draped over Nena, dismissed it as a threat. Anticipation jingled her nerves as she waited for his response. She didn’t know what she expected from him. He didn’t owe her, nor the hooker she played, any explanation. But damn that hope.

Abruptly, her head was jerked left and cold lips like those of a dead fish sealed over her own. Sloan clutched fistfuls of the towel, fighting the instinct to pummel the man’s gut. His tongue dampened the edge of her mouth.

“Sod off, Ross,” Baine swore.

The words were quiet, but held a threat that caught the man’s notice. He broke away from her lips. It was all she could do to keep from scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I had her first,” Kobi Ross boasted. “And we have some unfinished business.” Hiking a thumb toward the other escort, he added, “I won’t leave you empty handed.”

The redhead winked at Baine, and reached for his arm. “Let’s go have some fun.”

“No. She’s mine,” Baine said, his voice flat and his intense glare never leaving Kobi.

Sloan’s stupid heart jumped at his words.

In defiance, Kobi’s hand bit into Sloan’s chin and he wrenched it up. Before Sloan had a chance to remind herself not to react, Baine’s arm shot out. A choking sound gurgled in Kobi’s throat as Baine’s hand encircled the column of the man’s neck. Kobi’s eyes widened. His hands flew to Baine’s wrist. He struggled to wrench the hand away. The heels of his shoes heaved against the ground and his body bucked.

“If you want to continue breathing, I suggest you take the redhead and be on your merry way.” With that Baine released his grip.

Kobi stumbled back, heaving in air. Nena placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and he slapped it away. The look on his face oscillated between embarrassment and pure hatred as he stomped past them, the other quirk-browed women, and then through the back gate.

Baine grabbed her hand and pulled Sloan off the lounger, not giving her time to collect her covering as it loosened in the upheaval. He moved with authority. Chin up. Shoulders back. He aimed for the manor, drawing her behind him. The towel fell, entwined her legs and pitched her off balance. Still, he refused to slow. To keep from meeting the stone pavers with her face, Sloan yielded her grip on the fabric.

Through the threshold of the rear entrance, he spun on her. His wide chest crowded her in, until her back met the cold wall. Sloan had no idea what to say or do. So, she kept her mouth shut. Had the whole scene been a tiny turf war between the two men? It was the most logical explanation. But Baine regarded her now with nearly as much hostility as he’d forced upon Kobi. His dark expression made the young girl inside her vanish and the warrior surge forward, smacking a fist to her armored chest.

But, just as swiftly, her inner warrior stumbled.

The palm of his hand glided over the slope of her chin, warming the abused skin. His thumb scrubbed over her lips. Once. Twice. The rough pad of his finger stung her sensitive flesh again. Then he inclined his head. Baine’s face hovered so close to hers stubble rasped her cheek. Sloan breathed him in on a gasp. Her head spun from the redolence.

He stilled for a moment, save for his breathing, which seemed almost pained, the inhale and exhale ragged. His hand slid up the nape of her neck. His fingers wove in her hair and tugged. Unwilling to fight him, her chin raised to meet his gaze, which honed in on her mouth.

His lips covered hers. The pressure of him was unrelenting. He pulled her in to the kiss with his hand and pinned her to the wall with his body. Warmth engulfed her. From the tips of her lips to the soles of her feet, the chill she’d harbored earlier scorched in Baine’s onslaught. This was no embrace. It was an out and out attack on the tiny space inside her mind where things made sense. Where everything was good versus bad. Black and white. In this space she was a tool for justice and Baine was part and parcel with the enemy. No matter their youthful friendship. No matter how good his mouth tasted.

And Lord, if sin had a taste she’d found it.

His thick lips parted then bracketed her lower lip. Balmy wetness soothed her sensitive skin, but enlivened a nature she had no idea existed inside her. A need so carnal and base screamed to life. Unbidden, Sloan’s hands groped Baine’s hot, hard lats. To her shame, she did not push him away, but held him in place while her body arched against his.

Her lips muffled his curse an instant before his other hand smoothed over the length of her neck. Where his grip on Kobi had meant to harm the other man, it only tormented Sloan, hovering just above her heaving breasts. Her whole body tingled with awareness, but not in the usual way. This had nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with yearning.

A moan of anguish or desire—of which, she couldn’t be entirely sure—breeched her lips. His other hand, which had been still at his side, ran up her thigh. The roughness of his palm heated her from the inside out. Baine’s fingers bit into the bare bottom revealed by the bathing suit. In response her body quickened, nipples tightening, core clenching.

“Ahem. Might I offer you some towels? You look a bit wet.”

Again Baine cursed. This time, however, the words came through loud and clear. He growled it out as he broke the kiss. With one hand he held her to the wall while he created a gap between them. The sudden withdrawal served the same purpose as a bucket of ice water. In less than a second the world around her refocused.

Behind Baine, Lawrence, the butler, stood, a pile of towels balanced neatly in his hand. The set of his mouth almost disguised his mirth, but the sparkle in his blue eyes gave him away. Once again, Sloan was intrigued by Lawrence’s stealth and uncanny timing, but before she could attempt to figure the man out, Baine turned on him.

He snatched a towel from the pile. “That’ll be all.”

“Are you sure I can’t interest either of you in a drink?”

“Yes.” Baine’s tone bordered on harsh, but he seemed to rein it in when he turned back toward her.

Lawrence bowed his head then retreated down the hallway as quietly as he’d arrived. As much as Sloan wanted to study the servant, Baine’s brilliant eyes owned her attention. They didn’t flit about her face, but bore into her eyes. Searching. She trembled under the scrutiny. Actually freaking trembled like a rabbit staring past the wolf’s teeth down his throat. His size didn’t intimidate her. Though in the few times she’d seen him all grown up, he’d used it for that distinct purpose. His searching eyes scared her because they saw too much. Elicited too much.