Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

She balanced above him, her hands planted on the flat plane of his abs and her knees bracketing his hips. Her thighs burned from the effort necessary to hold herself above him when all she wanted to do was the opposite. “I’m not like your others.”

His abs flexed under her palms. “I know that,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

But he didn’t get it. She could tell by the way his gaze skittered away from her.

“And you’re not like my others.” She said it with all the fierce commitment she felt, and before he could deny her, she lowered herself onto his cock—slowly—until he filled her up. All she wanted to do was close her eyes, toss her head back and ride him hard, but she had to make him see. “This is about us. The others don’t fucking exist.”

Understanding cleared the doubt from his blue-eyed gaze. He grasped her hips and pulled her hard against his dick. “No. They don’t.”

She rocked against him and forgot about all those people who didn’t matter. The rest of the world fell away. It was just her and the one man in the world who made her feel safe. The one she could depend on. The one who wouldn’t leave her even when the police, a crime boss, and God knew what else were on her heels.

But it was more, and she knew it. Who else had been there for her like this? Who else had stood by her when all of the evidence demanded they run away? He’d made a place for himself in her daily existence, and now she couldn’t image her life without his sexy bod and his signature wink that promised all sorts of dangerous fun.

He rolled his hips underneath her, changed his angle of entry, scattered the last vestiges of her rational thought. All she could do was feel. She rode him, straining, reaching for more. Always more.

His fingers bit into her hips. “So. Damn. Good.” He groaned out the words, but she barely heard them.

Pushing, pulling, urging as the tremors started in her thighs and pulsed outward, gained in intensity. “So close.” She arched her back and braced her hands against his strong thighs, lost in the moment.

“Come on, babe.” One of his hands slid up her torso and drew the quaking upward until the surging, spiraling hum took over her entire body. “Let me see it. I need to see you come. I want your sweet pussy to squeeze my cock as you break apart.”

His thumb circled one of her hardened nipples and brushed over the nub, then grasped it and pulled it taut. The sensation centered the vibrations and the sensation exploded as her entire body went ridged, paralyzed by an orgasm that blazed through every muscle in her body.

“Cam,” she cried out as her vision turned Technicolor and she rode the orgasmic wave to its crest.

A second later he surged into her and groaned her name as his own orgasm overtook him.

She collapsed against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. If not for his arms, she would have floated away in some sort of parallel universe of orgasmic bliss. She wasn’t ready to leave him. Not yet.

“God, babe, you’re beautiful,” he whispered into her hair.

She tilted her chin and looked up at him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing had steadied. But it wasn’t that visual that held her attention. It was the slight curl of his lips into a shy smile that was as far away from his normal cocky grin as North Pole was from the South. In this unguarded moment, she glimpsed another side to him—one she wanted to know more about.

The realization didn’t scare her nearly as much as it should have. There was no going back now. Whatever else happened when they walked out of the motel room, she’d have this moment when everything had been perfect.

Chapter Thirteen

“The ones who look best are often a bit wilder.” - Miuccia Prada

Drea’s soft snores filled the tiny motel room, soft enough not to travel through the paper thin walls but loud enough to cover the clickity clack of Cam’s fingers as he pecked away on his laptop.

The truth about Natasha Orton’s murderer was buried somewhere in the numbers rolling across his screen. He was as sure about that as he was about the woman asleep in the motel bed behind him—but he was damned if he could get a handle on either. All he knew was that it was fourth down with only seconds on the clock, and they had about ninety yards of turf between them and the goal line.

He scrolled up to the top of the list and took a fifth look at Fergus’s tax records and bank deposits. He’d pulled up every piece of financial information he could find on their number one suspect—through official and unofficial channels—on the butler with a pimped out pad, but on paper, the man was so clean that he had to be dirty. No overdraft fees. Every bill paid a week in advance—if not sooner. No credit card balances. No unusual charges. No weird tax deductions. Everything was exactly as it should be, and that set off every warning bell in Cam’s head.

According to the video, Fergus was tied to Knight—and by proxy, Diamond Tommy. And the crime boss didn’t have friends, only associates who gave him what he wanted. The question was: what did Tommy want from Fergus?

The snoring stopped, and the silence drew Cam’s attention from the screen to the woman still snuggled up under the ugly comforter. She sat up and let the sheet pool around her narrow waist. Her skin glowed in dawn’s soft light sneaking in through curtains, and she stretched her arms up toward the ceiling in a move that elongated everything above her waist and below his belt. Seeing her like that woke him up better than the weak-ass motel room coffee ever could.

A lazy smile curled her full lips, more pink than cherry thanks to the night he’d spent the kissing every bit of lipstick off. He was half tempted to ask her to reapply the color so he could kiss it off again. His dick pressed against his zipper. Okay, more than half tempted.

“Good morning,” she said, sleep still heavy in her voice.

Just the idea of Diamond Tommy getting his paws on her made Cam’s chest tight. She was too good to go down like that. He’d keep her safe. He’d protect her and then, after they’d figured it all out, they could… Damn, he was a fucking idiot. Who the hell was he kidding that he could change. People didn’t change. He’d learned that lesson young and relearned it after each trip his

mom made home from rehab only to stumble back into old habits. What the hell had ever made him think he could be more?

Drea wasn’t made for a guy like him, a man who lived his life barely on the right side of the line. The best thing he could do for her was to help her clear her name and then stay the hell away.