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"Why is that, do you think?" He reached for the bag.
She didn't release her hold on it. "I have a vagina and from what I hear you like anyone with one of those."
Damn. He wasn't that bad. "Are you B-Squad ladies talking about me during your staff meetings?"
He maneuvered his body so he stood in front of her, his legs on either side of her, relishing the way her breath caught.
She didn't move away. "More like laughing."
But she wasn't now. Nope. A flush had spread from the V of her cleavage up to her very kissable full lips that were slightly parted and begging to be tasted. He dipped his head lower and rested his finger tips on her hips—not enough to hold her there but enough to let her know he wanted to.
He stopped close enough that there was nothing between them but sparks of anticipation. "Really?"
She opened her mouth to retort and he took full advantage of the moment. It wasn't a sweet kiss because neither of them had more than an ounce of sugar in them. They were determined, assertive, demanding people who took what they wanted—and this was their kind of kiss. They devoured each other. She tasted of white wine, salty fries and the kind of dick-hardening trouble that had pre-come pooling on the swollen tip of his cock. The second her tongue slid against his, teasing him just as much as turning him harder than a steel door, he would have given up his soul to find out just how far they could take this kiss—even in the Devil's Dip Gym garage that was outfitted with more surveillance cameras than the typical bank.
Let the B-Squad team watch. He just wanted to touch.
But that wasn't to be.
Way too soon, Tamara pressed a hand against his chest and pushed him back, taking away her sweet mouth and all the sinful possibilities there were in how he wanted to have her use it.
It was a toss-up on which ached more—his hard-on or his lungs as he tried to catch his breath.
For a second they just stared at each other, lips kiss-swollen and desire thick in their veins. Oh yes. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Whatever it was about blondes with bad attitudes that did him in, she obviously had the same thing for swaggering former Marines.
She was the first one to speak. "That's not happening again."
"Why not?" Because he wanted to do it again. Now. And more. So much more.
"I know all the blood in your brain hasn't gone south." She snuck under his arm that had been blocking her in place and strutted away, putting a few feet of daylight between them. "I've got a megalomaniacal cult leader on my tail because I'm hiding his daughter so he doesn't sell her off under the guise of a dutiful marriage. I don't have time or energy to get off on anything other than my own fingers right now."
Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned and walked toward the private elevator that would whisk her up to the B-Squad’s main office. Her hips swayed a little more than normal as she strutted across the garage, her heels clicking on the pristine cement floor. The elevator opened as soon as she put her thumb on the scanner and she strolled inside.
He waited for the doors to close before taking his phone out of his front jeans pocket, a process made more difficult by the fact that his pants were a lot tighter than they'd been before he'd kissed Tamara. He hit the first contact number.
"Lash. Give me Tamara's home address. I need to go do a sweep and double-check your work, slackass."
* * *
Tamara
Tamara's palms were sweaty, her hair messed up, her pulse erratic and her hormones way out of control. As the elevator zipped up to B-Squad's headquarters on the second floor, she wiped her palms on her skirt, smoothed her hair, and told her hormones to shut the fuck up. She hadn't been lying to Isaac. She did not have time for romance of even the one-night, multiple-orgasm, boneless-satisfaction variety. By the time the elevator doors opened, she was back to her natural impermeable state of being.
Marching across the lobby and heading straight for her office, she laid out her priorities in a mental checklist. First, she needed to figure out how to touch base with Essie in Colorado without leading Jarrod and his bounty hunter straight to the teen who had a Mensa-sized brain and whose first taste of freedom outside her father's compound was inching toward the wild side. If it wasn't for the fact that her former beauty pageant mentor Albert Glad-Lovatt was keeping a close eye on the sixteen-year-old. The man had kept Tamara in line. Essie would be a cake walk.
Second, she had to find out how Archie Wolczyk had tracked her to the engagement party. Isaac was right. God, that sucked to even think silently to herself. Her house had to be off- limits until further notice. Her office had a couch that would work out perfectly. No one on the team would need to know that she was crashing here for a few days until things cooled down. The last thing she wanted—or needed—was to give Bianca an excuse to rethink hiring her after all Tamara had done to fuck things up between her new boss and her ex-husband.
"Going somewhere, or planning to haul out someone's head?"
Shit.
Tamara jerked to a stop. She schooled her face into a neutral mask before turning and greeting the brunette staring daggers at her. "Hi there."
Elisa Sharp leaned against the doorway of her office directly across from Tamara's. Elisa, the team's resident transformation artist and the daughter of one of Texas's most notorious con artists, was one of the last people Tamara wanted to run into right now. The woman could smell a lie a mile away and detect an evasion from space. It was what made her so damned good at her job—and not just a little bit scary.
"I'm couch-surfing here for a couple of days." Okay, that was the truth. Not all of it, but enough to pass the human lie detector.
Elisa didn't blink. "What's wrong with your place?"
