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What’s this? I lift up the still drying Honduran passport and stare at the woman.Rosa Bellathe passport reads. Sean made Rosa another passport? Illegal as anything… but also very sweet.
I scan the drying passports hung from a wire like a mini clothesline strung over the desk and spot another familiar face. Rosa’s son. Sean has made a passport for him, too.
My throat grows tight. He’s finding ways to ease the guilt of working undercover for a human trafficker in his attempt to rescue Sofía.
Not that I would know anything about that guilt.Pero, no.
I continue to walk the room, finding plane tickets stacked at the printer. Not just making passports. He’s bought Rosa and Carlos airline tickets. There are other tickets. People I’ve seen at the soup kitchen. This is how he spends his money from Walid?
“Sister?”
“Ay!” Startled I swing around, dropping the printed-out tickets. To my horror, I find Sean squatting on the fire escape, staring at me through the window, his mouth set in a firm, disappointed line.
I bring a hand to my chest, mostly to buy time. “Dios. You scared the life out of me.”
“Sorry about that,Sister.” With alarming dexterity, he climbs in through the window. “Don’t usually have guests break into my flat. Not sure of the protocols.”
Hard to miss his sarcasm. “I didn’t break in. The apartment was...”
He’s shaking his head in outright disbelief. He knows I’m lying, and it’s not hard to figure out why. The apartment couldn’t have been left open if he’d gone out through the fire escape.
I turn back to the door and scan until I spot it. There’s a small, nearly invisible device at the foot of the door. It must’ve registered me entering. I missed it, not only because it is so very tiny, but because it’s very high-tech. I’ve underestimated this man.
I spin back around, smiling. “I need your help.”
Wearing his trademark flannel, he swallows the distance between us with his sexy swaggering gate and says, “You broke into my flat because you need my help?”
I’m scrambling. My brain is scrambling. My heart is scrambling. He stops feet from me. I have to crane my neck, which is rare and uncomfortable.
I often wear heels in order to have the advantage of looking down on most men or meeting their eyes. My height has always given me a better sense of control and situational awareness.
Not having that advantage is supremely disconcerting. Not only that, but the heat of him rolls forward like lava, envelopes my staggering senses. He’s put on a lot of muscle since he played. He’s broader in the shoulders. Add his height to that and it’s hard not to feel small.
I rarely feel small.
“Want to try the truth, luv?”
Luv? Not evenSisterorDee. I’m not on firm ground here. Maybe, I should switch tactics. What man doesn’t like to have his ego stroked? Plus, I’d be a fool if I pretended I hadn’t noticed the way he looks at me. The way he’s looking at me right now.
“Help might be the wrong word.” I make a point of running my tongue along my lips and am gratified when his eyes follow the movement. “I felt a strong need to be near you. With you.”
Feminists everywhere are cringing at me using my sexuality to get out of this situation and, internally, so am I. Well, a little. He is so very hot that telling him what I feel, what I’ve kept hidden, is a bit of a relief.
“Really.” He smirks, both interested and not buying it even a little. He leans closer. “Is that how you intend to play this?”
He smells so good, like freshly washed jeans and spring. Maybe he requires proof of my sincerity, a proof I am more than happy to provide. Quick as a hot second, I fist his T-shirt, tiptoe, and place my lips on his. Eager and hungry, I let go of all the tension of playing at being someone I’m not and let myself feel—really feel—the intense attraction I have to this man.
For a breathless moment, he freezes as my tongue plays along the seam of his mouth. But then, with a moan, he relents.
A bare moment of heat and naked desire rake painfully through every cell in my body as we grab each other, tongues intertwining, bodies screaming for more.
A flash, a millisecond of surrender that’s so good, I’m consumed with my need for him, with getting closer to him.
I brush my hands down his chest, down and over his waist to his hard cock. It stands out under his jeans, firm and thick, and I rub the length of him. He moans, moves himself against my hand.
“Feels so good,” he says.
It’s going to feel a lot better.I start to unbutton him.
