Page 39 of Bared

Chapter Six

One step at a time.

One block at a time.

One heartbeat at a time.

Brick called up the familiar mantras as his personal flotilla of rescue buoys, letting them pull him along the streets between the dungeon and the safe house. No way were his legs and feet going to get him and Jayd there on their own. Not after the ordeal through which he’d forced them to keep him upright.

Oh, yeah. Ordeal.

He wasn’t about to sugarcoat the description. Wasn’t like his brain was going to let him anyway. It persisted with the invasions of memory, more hot and terrifying than any mortar shell or bombed-out building. No matter what else he focused on, the incursions kept coming.

The same way he’d wanted to come in that place. All over Jayd Cimarron’s sweet, silken ass. Then her gorgeous, taut thighs. And then inside her too…

Holy shit, yes. With her walls shivering around him. Her arms wrapped around him. And her eyes—those turquoises that took him to such magical places—round and filled with nothing but him. Acknowledging the flare of their full fire together. The fire he was certain she felt too. She had to. He’d never experienced anything like it, that was for damn sure. It was a fucking pull, starting from the second he’d settled his stare on her in Tres Particular. That draw had become a psychological demand, and then an inescapable need.

And now a goddamned mess.

Because, of all the back-alley hideouts to duck into, in this whole huge city, they’d wound up against a dark wall with his fly against her ass and his fingers against her clit. And her passion in his ears. And her juices on his skin. So many fragrant, addicting drops…

Holy Christ.

One brick.

One step.

One heartbeat.

Sooner than later, thank fuck, they were climbing a narrow flight of stairs and then another, up into an apartment building situated between a vape shop and a florist. Ozias hadn’t given him an apartment number, but he was glad to see there was only one unit up on the top floor. He wasn’t quite sure what they’d do if Oz and Jagger were still out searching for Requiemme. What he wanted to do—press Jayd up against one of the faded walls and taste every inch of her lush bow mouth—wasn’t happening.

Wasn’t. Happening.

Not even as she paused, meeting his gaze with her own again.

Not even as she stared right the hell into him, boring with those unmistakable opals, until she surely saw every thought in his head. Including the illicit ones.

Damn it, that also wasn’t happening anymore. Even if he had to scoop out his eyes to ensure it. The option was way better than trying to fight this feverish attraction to a woman he could never touch again.

The decision had nothing to do with the tiara that might or might not touch her head again. There were many more walls of situational concrete between them. Barriers that had no chance of ever coming down. Most obviously, the half-dozen countries and thousands of miles between Seattle and Arcadia. Not so visible but twice as formidable: the differences between the two of them. She was struggling to connect with the right father figure. He’d never known his father or his mother and didn’t care. She was a well-loved public figure. He valued solitude and secrecy. She looked at everything with eyes as open as island lagoons. His gaze had shadows that would never go away. Memories that would never conclude in anything but panic.

“Christ in a bathtub. Max fuckin’ Brickham, you really pulled off this troppo hat trick.” And here it was. Oz and his colorful sentence structure to the rescue when he most needed it.

“You think I’d call and make that claim just to mess with you?”

“Wasn’t sure what you were after.” Oz chuffed while stepping aside to let them fully enter the apartment. “Since your signal cut out in the middle of your fun little chase scene.”

Thank fuck.

“So it did,” he answered, checking his phone screen. “Though we might have to have a chat about what you’re calling fun these days, buddy.”

“But we’re okay-golden with the little part?”

“Eat my nads.”

“Sorry, mate. Don’t fancy damp Seattle meat.” Without giving Brick a chance to form a perfect comeback, he persisted, “So what happened? After you went dark?”

“Long story,” he muttered. “Best for a different soiree.”