Page 87 of Jonas

I glanced back at the beautiful woman and could see how he’d think that. She was a bold, confident, take-no-shit and take-what-she-wanted type of woman. It was stamped all over her, impossible to miss.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Huh. I didn’t see it, but I didn’t know the woman, or Cash, so who was I to argue?

“Before we leave, I need to finish washing my hair,” I told him. “It’s one thing to sit through a briefing with a rats’ nest on my head, it’s another to go out into public looking like this.”

Jonas’s eyes lifted to my hair.

“What are you talking about? You look your normal gorgeous.”

I rolled my eyes at his lie.

“I’m a sure thing, J Dog. You don’t have to blow sunshine.”

His eyes flared before he dipped his face closer.

“Warning. You call me J Dog again, you’ll find it’s you blowing something and you’ll be doing it on your knees with your ass red from a paddling.”

I couldn’t stop the shiver. I’d never had my ass paddled so how would I know the threat would send a tremor through me and have my lady parts quivering?

“Pleased as fuck you’re on board,” he rasped. “But we got work to do.”

Right. Work.

I filed away my kink and put calling Jonas ‘J Dog’ on top of my mental to-do list as soon as we had time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Three hours later and my dick still hadn’t recovered from seeing Derrika bent over, head in the kitchen sink. Never in my life would I have guessed I’d get hard watching a woman wash her hair. Sure, a lot of it had to do with how good her ass looked in her jeans, and most of it had to do with me wanting to strip her out of those jeans and fuck her again. But the fact I wanted to fuck while she was lathering up her hair was not a fantasy I’d thought I’d ever have.

Yet there I was driving through an upscale neighborhood in Great Falls, Virginia with a three-hour-old softie that just wouldn’t fucking behave.

“Stakeouts suck,” Derrika mumbled from the passenger seat, snapping pictures of all the cars parked on the street and in the driveways.

“You’re not wrong,” I agreed. “My least favorite part of a job is the sit and wait.”

“More of an action man.”

“Yup.”

I was driving slowly down the street so Derrika could get her pictures, but not slow enough anyone looking out their windows would think twice about an Escalade rolling down their street.

“So this is how the other half live.”

“More like the top five percent,” I corrected. “There’s not a house on this block under six mil.”

On our drive over, Derrika had spent time researching the neighborhood. This included looking over old real estate listings. With no effort at all, we now had the layout to Lou Peterson’s thirteen-thousand-square-foot mansion, thanks to the 3D tour. The aerial view showed there was no easy point of entry without being seen. The houses might’ve been huge but the lots were small and there was no fence or shrubbery blocking the house to the left from a clear view of the Peterson house. There was some coverage from the neighbor to the right but not from the house at the rear beyond the Petersons’ pool and tennis courts.

“Who needs eleven bathrooms? And seriously, two islands and three sinks in the kitchen, that’s absurd.”

She wasn’t wrong. The picture of the kitchen she’d shown me while I was driving was absurd, and I’d only been able to give it a cursory glance.

“Though,” she carried on. “I can’t lie; if I had Lou Peterson’s money, I’d definitely have that closet. Not that I have a use for a closet the size of a normal person’s living room, and not enough shoes to fill all the racks, and I’m not even sure what the cedar alcove is used for, but it looked badass. And the vanity, makeup, sitting area space would never be used but it sure would be pretty to look at while I’m tugging on my ratty-assed jeans and boots.

“And the outdoor kitchen. That’s a must, but not the marble countertops. That’s a waste of money. But the rest, hell yeah. But I’d also add an outdoor shower on the other side of the wall since there’d already be plumbing out there.”