Trouble (B-Squad 2.75)

"You're pissed?" he asked, not bothering to cover up his amusement. "How unusual for you."

"I wonder why when it comes to you."

He answered that with a shrug before taking the five steps it took to get into the living room, laying his handgun on a side table next to the couch, and then coming back to stand in front of her in the hall. His gaze stayed on her face as he began unbuttoning his shirt, but Leah was nowhere near as disciplined. She couldn't stop her attention from traveling south with his fingers as he slipped each tiny button through the hole, revealing the expanse of his chest. She had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself from moaning. His low, throaty chuckle snapped her attention back north to the smug look on his face.

"You're such a jerk." She yanked on her arms. "Uncuff me."

"Not yet, Sweets, I have plans," he said, leaning in close and dipping his head down so that his lips almost touched hers.

Everything went so still as anticipation swept through her that she swore even her heart stopped beating for a moment before starting back up with a rush that had her entire body tingling. Only a last desperate surge of self-preservation kept her from rising up on her tiptoes and falling into the kiss. God, this man undid her. She could do this—do him—and keep her sanity but only if she was careful. Something dark and hungry flashed in Drew's eyes before he blinked it away, breaking the moment, and his lazy smirk returned. He brushed her lips with a barely there kiss, before squatting down and going to work on the laces of her Doc Martens, leaving a mixture of need and confusion in his wake.

He pulled one boot off and tossed it to the side. "Why do you wear these things?" he asked, untying the other.

"They're comfortable." At least they were right up to the moment when Drew decided to leave all the parts of her she wanted him to touch alone in order to take off her damn boots.

He took off the other boot and dropped it with a loud thunk. "They could knock out a bull."

"You know," she said, her frustration at his deliberate pace sneaking into her voice. "In the right light, with your hair a little messed up, you do look like you have horns."

There went that one-sided smirk of his again as he stayed on his knees in front of her and redirected those talented fingers to the top button of her jeans. "Are you flirting with me, Leah Camacho?"

"Not when I'm cuffed to a door when I'd rather be fucking you out of my system."

"Is that what we're doing?" The button popped free, but he lingered, brushing the rough pad of his thumb across the b

are skin above her zipper.

Her breath caught as she fought giving in to the moment. A little enjoyment was one thing. Falling back into bad habits was something completely different.

"Could it ever be anything else?" she asked, ignoring the flutter of hope she knew better than to ever listen to again.

Answering with a non-committal shrug, Drew peeled off her jeans, leaving her now very damp panties in place. "How much do you like that shirt?"

"Don't you dare cut it off. It's my favorite." Soft black cotton that hugged her boobs without squashing them against her chest as if it had delusions of being the most unforgiving king of sports bras, her shirt had been on heavy rotation since the spring.

He toyed with the hem, the back of his knuckles skimming across the curve of her belly. "You'll change your mind."

"Cocky bastard." The insult was sixty miles shy of sounding as tough as she wanted but with Drew taking his sweet time about touching her, making her every sense tune into him and only him, that was about as badass as she could get at the moment.

"Nah." He leaned forward until his mouth was only millimeters from the patch of skin right above the hot pink bow on her panties. "Confident."

Anticipation thick enough to choke on swirled around them. He was fully dressed and on his knees in front of her. She was half naked, handcuffed to a closet door, and so turned on she was about to have an orgasm even though Drew had spent more time taking off her Doc Martens than caressing any part of her that actually ached for his touch.

His gaze flicked up toward her and something dangerous flashed in his dark eyes that sparked an answering call within her. And in that single moment that stretched to an eternity, she knew--just as sure as the stars were prettier in Texas than anywhere else in the world—that Drew Jackson was nothing but trouble. Even worse? God help her, he was her kind of trouble.

Drew

Long legs, big tits, smart mouth, devious fucking brain. He'd compared a lot of women to Leah Camacho since that summer. None had come close. Now he had the real thing and he almost didn't know what to do with her. Check that. He knew exactly what to do with her, the question was what to do first.

"You're killing me with these," he said, hooking a finger into the waistband of her hot pink panties. Watching the pulse point in her neck go into overdrive, he nudged the ridiculously girlie material down low enough that he could see she kept everything trimmed but not bare. All the better. "Such a bad girl on the outside with your tough chick boots and badass black, but look at you underneath." He kissed the spot below her belly button. "So soft." Another brush of his lips going lower. "And unless things have changed, which I highly doubt, you are very, very wet."

He stopped right above the line of tight curls, held his breath, and waited for her answer, his cock hard as a lead pipe.

"Yes," she said in a breathless whisper. "Wet."

The temptation to rip the flimsy lace away and lick her slick pussy until she came on his mouth had him fighting for control. "For what?"

"You."