Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

“Hey, that doesn’t even count as a kiss.”

“Full payment only after you tell me what’s on your mind.”

His mouth quirks. God, I love his smile. “You’re a tough businesswoman. I thought you said you never got involved in your dad’s deals.”

I actually never said that, but I implied it, didn’t I? They’re after me for money, and I don’t have it, that’s for sure. I don’t have it, and I can’t let them have me.

Should be enough.

Drawing back, I grab my blouse and pull it over my head. When I throw it down, his eyes zero in on my breasts as if he’s never seen them before, going almost black with arousal, the topic forgotten.

I should feel ashamed for distracting him on purpose.

Maybe I do.

I turn and step down, into the sunken tub where jets propel warm water against my legs. Five seats are built in, low in the tub, and I slide down into one, looking up at him.

He’s still standing there, fists clenched by his side, a big tent in the front of his shorts. After a moment he moves, pushing his shorts down, and it’s my turn to be distracted when his hard-on springs free, long and heavy. He gives it a stroke or two, absentmindedly, his eyes locked on me, and steps down, into the water.

I reach for him, and he sits down next to me with a soft groan. I stroke a hand down his handsome face, down his neck and chest. His mouth goes slack when I brush over the head of his cock, but I continue south, to his thigh.

I press down, feel the bunched-up muscles, and he grunts. There’s a thin scar there, I realize. Surgery to set the broken bone. I keep pressing, kneading the muscle.

“God, that feels awesome.” His head falls back, on the rim of the tub. He groans when I hit a particularly hard spot, my fingers digging into the muscle. “How the hell are you doing this?”

We escaped from every town after a con job pretty much unscathed, but not always. My dad was beaten up once and his leg was broken. My brother got his ribs busted quite often, and his arm twice. They got all sorts of injuries. I know quite a bit of first aid, and a thing or two about post-injury management.

“Turn around,” I say, and he just stares at me, eyes wide.

I shouldn’t like catching him by surprise so much, but part of me wants to laugh out loud at his stunned expression.

He does turn, though, and just like that he’s turned the tables on me, because my chest goes tight. I run my hands over his muscular back, over the ink that explodes from the base of his spine up to his ribs, hugging his sides. The tangle of briar and snakes on his lower back is stunning, and from it blackbirds emerge.

Only one breaks free, flying up to his shoulder blade, dripping blood. Is that him? The one who survived his family? How old is this tattoo?

It’s a work of art—not only the ink but the perfection of his body, the smooth skin wrapped over sleek muscle and long bone, flaring into those broad shoulders and the vulnerable curve of his neck where his dark hair is so soft it curls a little.

Lifting up on my knees in the swirling water, I kiss the spot between his shoulder blades, and a tremor goes through him. Then I put my hands on his shoulders and knead the hard muscles there. God, they’re like steel, coiled tightly from his spine up to the base of his skull.

He tries to look relaxed and at ease all the time, but his body tells a different story. Always trust the body to tell you what’s going on in a person’s mind. My mom said that.

Obviously she never spent much time studying my dad’s body.

Squashing the thought, I work his upper back with all my strength, searching for the knots and massaging them until they unravel, making my way up his spine to his shoulders and neck. He’s quiet, one hand clutching the rim of the tub. When I bury my fingers in his wet hair, he makes a sound that might have been my name.

When I’m done, I draw him toward me, and he leans back into me, le

tting me wrap my arms around his torso, to rest on his flat stomach. The warm water pulses out of the jets, soothing, and we lie in the silence together.

I don’t want to break it. Don’t want to ask what he isn’t telling me.

But then he says, “I’ll go make some coffee. We need to talk.”

And the bubble breaks.

With a gunshot.

STORM