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“A thank-you would be polite.”
“I should thank you for breaking into my car, cleaning it, and filling it with random safety gear?”
“Yes. You’re welcome. No fake girlfriend of mine will be driving around without emergency gear.”
She narrowed her eyes and rummaged through the glove compartment until she located her lip balm. “You really are one of a kind.”
“Thanks.”
She peered back at me. “It wasn’t a compliment.”
She applied lip balm, smoothing it all over her full lips. Even in the dim light, it was unbearably sexy. Damn. What would her lips feel like on mine? The thought floated through my mind for what had to be the hundredth time that day. It was an all-consuming obsession lately.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I gave my head a quick shake to clear it. “So now we sit and wait for those fuckers in their tacky ass G-Wagons to show up?”
She pulled a camera from her backpack. “Yup.”
“Such an asshole car,” I mumbled to myself.
“Says the man who drives a Beamer.”
I shot her a glare. “My car is a sensible midsize SUV with good safety ratings. It’s not a two hundred-thousand-dollar monstrosity.”
She polished the camera’s lens with a small cloth and raised an eyebrow at me.
Throwing my hands up, I huffed. “What would you rather I drive? An oversized pickup that gets terrible gas mileage? Is that what Agent Asshole drove?”
She chuckled. “Hell no. He drove a hatchback. How many FBI agents have you met? They’re the most practical, boring fuckers on the planet.”
She didn’t look up as she attached the long-range lens to the camera. “He’d only fuck me in missionary too. Trust me, the blandness is all-consuming with the G-men.”
Those words sent my mind straight to the gutter. I would fuck her in every position as often as I could. Parker’s body inspired all my filthiest fantasies.
What a fucking chump. How could a guy have such a mouthy, sexy woman on his hands and not give her exactly what she needed?
My pulse quickened as images of her laid out on my bed played like a slideshow in my mind. Suddenly, I was excited about this stakeout. Particularly if it could give me more insight into Parker. Because I was a complete fool who was slowly sliding into obsession with this complicated woman.
“How do you like to be fucked?” I asked in a low voice, shifting in my seat as my pants got tighter.
She didn’t move. As if she hadn’t heard me. Her gaze was locked on the trailer ahead. After a moment, though, she spoke. “I’ve never been shy about sex. I’ve always been the one to initiate it. The men I’ve dated have always been content to sit back and let me take charge. And that’s fine.” She shrugged, still facing forward. “But once in a while, it would be nice to be ravaged. Be with someone who wants it as much as I do. Someone I don’t have to drag away from TV or work. A man who doesn’t see it as an item to check off his list of things to do.”
I swallowed, watching her profile. Her lips were downturned, and her eyes were sad. And I thought, for the first time since I’d met her, that she’d exposed a hint of lingering insecurity.
“I guess I want the kind of need I’ve read about. Where two people are so into one another they ache to touch. Like they would die if they couldn’t have that other person.” She turned and looked at me, and I swore the temperature in the car shot up ten degrees. “I know, I know. It’s silly and unrealistic…”
“I disagree.” I licked my lips, considering my next words so I wouldn’t come across as a complete pervert. “It’s rare, sure. But not impossible. Sexual chemistry is a real thing. You must have dated the world’s worst men, because I cannot imagine a situation where work would be more interesting than fucking you senseless.”
Her head snapped in my direction. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Isn’t this sexual harassment? I’m your employee, after all.”
“Technically, you’re an independent contractor. Also, I think we’re sexually harassing each other at this point.”
“Fair enough.” She regarded me, holding my gaze for a beat too long. But before she could share all her dirtiest sexual fantasies—because surely that was what came next, right?—the rumbling of an engine pulled our attention to the scene in front of us.
“Slump low,” she said, sliding down into her seat.
We were both hunkered down when two identical white Mercedes parked in front of the trailer. Mrs. Revelle was on point. It was 9:38. One would think these idiots would be more discreet, but from here, it was obvious they weren’t trying to hide their presence. No, they parked right out front.
Mitch Hebert climbed out of the first SUV. His face was shrouded in darkness, but I’d know that posture and that gait anywhere. He strode toward the porch steps like a man who would do anything to get what he wanted and still woke up thinking the world owed him.
