Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted 2)

Finally, his thigh below her cheek tensed, and the Jeep shot forward. He drove like a madman through his neighborhood, slinging left, then right, then left again before coming to an abrupt halt. He reached up, and the mechanical purr of the garage door opener resounded above them. He pulled into the garage and hit the button again. She lifted her head.

Matt stood in the door between the garage and the house, weapon drawn, wearing a mean scowl. When he caught sight of them, he lowered the gun with a sigh and tucked it away. “Hey! I didn’t expect to see you, man. When did you get back to the States?”

“Earlier today,” Pierce said as he hopped out of the Jeep and shook Matt’s hand.

As Brea eased out on the other side and inched around the front of the truck, Matt whipped off his cowboy hat and shared a bro hug with Pierce. She approached, and the man’s angular face softened as he wrapped an arm around her, giving her a friendly squeeze.

“Hey, little thing. How you doing? Who was at Cutter’s door, this one?” Matt thumbed in Pierce’s direction.

“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Get your fucking hands off my woman,” Pierce growled good-naturedly…mostly.

Brea giggled as Matt released her and held up his hands. “Just being friendly, man.”

“Find another woman to be ‘friendly’ with. I’m going to go get friendly with my woman now. We’ll talk later.”

Was he kidding? He’d all but announced they would be having sex. Her face flamed hot. “Pierce!”

“What? Matt knows I haven’t seen you in a month, so he knows where I’ll be spending the night.”

She blushed. “It’s impolite to talk about the bedroom.”

“That’s one way of putting it. A lot nicer, too.”

Matt burst out laughing.

Brea frowned. There was a grand joke, and she clearly didn’t get it. “What other way is there to put it?”

“Inside you.” Matt tried to wipe the smile off his face—and failed miserably. “That’s what One-Mile meant.”

“You’re a fucking mind reader.” Pierce fist-bumped him before he wrapped an arm around her and swung her off her feet, against his chest, ignoring both her red cheeks and her surprised squeak. “You mind holding down the fort, man?”

“As long as you lovebirds keep it down. I don’t need to be reminded of what I’m not getting in this town.”

Pierce pushed his way through the door and emerged into the foyer, killing the nearby lights with his elbow and throwing the space into shadow. “Probably not going to happen. You’re better off turning up the TV.”

“Yeah?” Matt laughed uproariously and winked her way. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a screamer, little thing.”

She gaped at them, her face broiling with embarrassment. “I… You…”

Pierce chuckled. “Have I ever told you that you’re perfect and I love you just the way you are?”

Brea closed her mouth. When he said stuff like that, it was hard to be angry.

And when he took her upstairs, into his dark bedroom, and slowly pulled off her clothes, worshipping her with his sure caresses and soft strokes of his tongue, she forgot that Matt and every other person in the world existed, because, for her, there was only Pierce.

Chapter Nine

Friday, January 9

One month later

Outskirts of Mexico City

One-Mile pulled his hoodie over his face and bowed his head against the pelting rain. Normally this part of the globe was a sweltering cesspool of humidity and humanity, but Mexico City—like a lot of the world—was recovering from a hectic Christmas and a raucous New Year’s. He’d missed both of those at home, and he hoped Brea understood. But Montilla and his band of thugs hadn’t taken a week or two off to celebrate the holidays. The average citizen, however, seemed to be partied out. Most of the tourists had emptied from the streets and seemingly gone back to their responsible, desk-jockey lives. So tonight, he walked a largely uninhabited route to his destination, his breaths forming white puffs in the unusual chill.

After nearly another fucking month in this shithole, tonight was hopefully the night Montilla would die.

One-Mile gave the son of a bitch credit. While he’d gone back to the States and weaponed up, thinking he’d have to declare open war to snuff Montilla, the weasel had gone deep into hiding. He’d changed locations, doubled security, increased surveillance, restricted those coming in and out to a few trusted lackeys, varied his schedule, and generally made this mission fucking impossible—except for one appointment he never missed.

One-Mile didn’t intend to miss, either. He only had one shot.

Finally, he made his way from the dark, dirty street into the mostly empty hotel. It was a terrible dive in the middle of an even worse slum, but if Montilla died from a kill shot he fired here, this place would rate five fucking stars in his book.