Security had better not have let one of those asshole journalists from downstairs up to my floor. I swear, those soul suckers would do anything to get a new detail to add to their nothing stories. I open the door without removing the chain and feel as if I’ve been punched in the gut when I see the woman on the other side.Liz is worrying her lower lip between her teeth and watching down the hall. Is she looking for Sabrina or trying to make sure no one sees her coming to my room? My insides twist at the sight of her—an internal tug-of-war between conflicting emotions. I want to pull her into my room and kiss her until she can’t see straight, touch her until she promises never to leave me again, and at the same time, I want to demand that she go back to her room because having her close makes me hope for things I can’t have.I remove the chain and tug her inside by the arm before closing the door behind her.“No one saw me,” she says, her eyes locked on the floor. “I made sure.”“I saw you,” I growl. It’s painful to be this close—to breathe her air, to smell her perfume. I never knew how much it could hurt to want and be denied.She swallows and avoids my eyes. “Is she here?”“What do you want, Liz?”She lifts her head and stares at me. “Is she here?”“Sabrina’s on her way to meet her mom in South Dakota for a campaign stop.”Her gaze dips to my bare chest and back up. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask you to go with them.”“They did. I declined.” I sound like a fucking dickhead, and I make myself take two steps back so I don’t do something equally dickish. Like kiss her until she melts in my arms and forgets about the other guy, until we both forget that this is hopeless.“I’m sorry that video was leaked. You didn’t deserve that invasion of your privacy.”She has red lipstick on, and it matches her shoes. Ever since I saw her tonight, I’ve been picturing her on her knees in nothing but those shoes, those red lips stretched around my cock. I can’t help myself, and I skim my thumb over her bottom lip.The second I touch her, she draws in a ragged breath. “You came to my apartment yesterday.”“I did.”“Why?”I trail my thumb down her neck and over the red strap of her dress. “Probably for the same reason you came here tonight.”“To talk about Sabrina?”“You knocked on my door in the middle of the night to talk about Sabrina?” I follow the strap down and graze my fingers across her cleavage. “Is this about her, or is it about you and me?”“There is no you and me,” she says. “We both know that.”“There’s so much you and me, there’s no air left when we share a room. There’s always you and me.”“Even when you’re making sex tapes with someone else?”“And even when you’re keeping warm in another man’s arms.”
Wyatt Banks is ready to give one woman the world. Unfortunately, his job as a cop tends to interfere with other goals. When Wyatt is sent deep undercover to investigate a sex slave ring, he doesn’t have time to do anything but focus on staying alive in a dark and dangerous underworld.
Prologue
Twitter: That awkward moment when you wake up in jail and you wonder what you did to get there. Then smile. #TripleX
A lone dimly lit light bulb sways gently from the jail cell’s ceiling. It hurts to open my eyes toward it, so I squint to try to ease the pain. A handful of loudly buzzing insects fly wildly around the dull yellow globe and just the sight causes me to scratch at my arms and neck madly. I loathe bugs. And it's like Swarmageddon above my head right now.
Pulling myself up into a sitting position, the throbbing behind my eyes turns sharp and shatters into millions of razor-tipped tiny pieces of glass. I moan as I grab my head in pounding pain. The room spins, and I fall back with a hard thud against the cold concrete wall.
I hear footsteps, heavy and impending, walking along the rough cement of the hallway. I peek through my fingers, but all I can see is the knotted hair of my cellmate, my partner in crime.
The footsteps become louder, closer. Keys are jangling. Someone is whistling, and the screech of the rusty cell door makes scorching bile burn the back of my throat. I swallow twice to keep it down.
"Stone. Zolendz. Up-and-at-'em. Going before the judge," a deep voice bellows. I hate the man instantly.
I believe I moan out some sort of unintelligible sound, but I'm not sure. Who can be sure?
The dull bulb overhead flickers and makes a sizzling sound. Damn, I'm in a place where even the bugs are killing themselves. "Come on ladies, let's go," the voice yells. It's closer now, and the body attached to it starts kicking the wooden bench I'm sitting on. I think my head is going to explode from the vibrations and violent crashes that echo through my head. "What's the matter, not willing to offer up your goods this morning?"
My head snaps up, "Excuse me?"
The man standing over me is older, in his sixties with a long gray beard. His eyes dance with laughter. "Well, Ma'am. That's what you tried to bribe us with last night when we put you in here. Your goooooooods." He kind of shimmies a little and gives a few humps into the air. I vomit a little in my mouth.
"Oh my God. Seriously? Just don't...just don't pay any attention to anything I said, okay?" I mumble my mortification.
"You mean to tell me, you'll be cancelling our hot date tonight?" he laughs, snidely, mocking me. "Come on, Darlin' the judge is waiting on you both. No harm done last night, you both were quite intoxicated."
"Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick." Slowly, I pull myself off the bench, every bone in my body screaming for a few more hours of silently sound sleep. And really, that stupid light bulb is annoying the Hell out of me; someone needs to shoot it.
"Angelisa," I whisper and shake her awake. "Come on. We have to go. A judge wants to see us."
"Blah...Ha. Ha. Very funny. Lemme sleep," Angelisa groans and swats her hand at me. It falls to her side with a loud thwack against the metal rim of the bed.
"I can't. Clear your head and think about last night. Think back. Go ahead," I urge. She doesn't. She remains motionless and silent; all but a small, low snore can be heard. "You seriously need to open your eyes right now, because we're in trouble," I hiss ominously.
Her head slowly turns toward me, eyes blinking open. They dart around the room and widen; a bubble of laughter escapes her lips. "We're in jail, aren't we?"
I smile and join in with her laughter, "We are indeed, waking up together in a jail cell."
"Damn it, I can't go to prison. You know how horrible I look in stripes," she whispers as she climbs up to her feet, grabbing onto my shoulder and using me for leverage.
"Quick," I look around the cell and laugh, "anybody got a cell phone? I wanna take a cellfie."
And we try, we really do try not to fall back down into a fit of giggles, but it's way too hard. We follow the guard down the hallway.
“Dude, I could so be a violent criminal.” Angelisa mumbles. “Shouldn’t you cuff me? Why doesn’t anyone ever want to handcuff me, Chris?” she whines.
“Ummm, she’s not violent. We swear. She’s just…just…dumb.” I explain, nudging her.
“Seriously though, how does he know I’m not packing an oozie in my girly stuff?”
“Ya know that is true. It’s kind of sexist that you don’t think we could be hiding heat?”
“Ladies, the only thing you two are trying to hide…or hide from is good old-fashioned middle age. And quite frankly, neither one of you is doing a bang-bang up job of it,” the son-of-a-slut says, pretending to shoot us.
“Is that what you do now? Shoot blanks?” Angelisa quips, exploding in laughter that spirals out of control until we’re both laughing like lunatics.
“Enough!” he shouts, trying to silence us before we enter the courtroom.
The two of us are still giggling like two immature kids being brought in front of the principal. Matted hair, mascara-streaked cheeks, and barefoot. I’m pretty sure I even have an extra tattoo somewhere.
We're sworn in; big vocabulary is used. Case numbers are brought forth, and I almost fall asleep. I’m just about to face plant into the table with exhaustion when Judge Caroline Jacobson calls both of us up to the podium. "Ms. Zolendz. Ms. Stone. Approach the bench please." She has dark tired brown eyes, the kind that are weighed down with darker brown bags beneath them. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a tight, painful looking bun. It's streaked with gray. I want to pull out all those restraining pins. I want her to stop feeling so tight and tense behind her bench. I want her to feel free like me, like us.
Almost as if Angelisa’s reading my thoughts, she mumbles, “Man, she needs to get laid…and needs to get those roots done.” I can’t control the giggle that escapes me. The judge eyes us sternly, and you can nearly hear our mouths snap shut.
"As I hear, you both were found in the fountains of the Bellagio last night. Swimming. Naked," she chirps.
"Yes, that's true," Angelisa giggles, proudly next to me.
I nod my head in agreement, "Yeah, that certainly sounds like us—well, the new us, anyway."
The judge pinches her lips into a tight pucker. Doesn't she realize that’s exactly what makes those little wrinkles all around her mouth? She pulls out an envelope marked Prisoner Property/Currency and unfastens the clasp. I suck my lips between my teeth to stop myself from laughing, because this isn't funny—at all. But if I remember correctly, the things in the envelope are.
She slips one dainty little hand in.
Angelisa and I lean forward to watch.
Two books of matches, fifty-six dollars, a bent wedding ring, a fake moustache, a shoehorn, four glow sticks, two “Call for a good time” prostitute cards, a tube of Ben-gay, and an extra large rubbery dildo that flops on its side when she places it on her desk.
"Do you want to explain to me why two fully grown women, respected in their fields, would be caught in this situation…with these items?"
Angelisa and I look and back and forth from her to each other and back again. We both shrug.
"Well, it all started with an apple pie," I smile.
Angelisa nods next to me, "Yes, definitely. That's probably where it all started, the apple pie fiasco."
The judge leans back and draws in a long breath. She pulls her glasses off her fatigued eyes and rubs them softly with her hands. "An apple pie?"
"Yes. A forgotten apple pie. I can tell you every detail except for three or four days where I have no recollection. Both of us can, it's what we do, tell stories."
The corner of the judge's lips curl up the tiniest bit, "Come into my chambers ladies, this I have to hear."
“You look amazing in this dress. I’ve been pretending all night that there’s something I want to do more than get you out of it.”
“What would you do with me if you got so lucky?”
“I’d keep you up all night, for starters.” He slides a hand into my hair and traces the side of my neck with his thumb. His groan rumbles through me. “Tell me what you came here for.”
I thought that was pretty clear. “I’m wearing extremely slutty underwear. What do you think?”
His nostrils flare and his breathing goes thready. “I think I’m going to have to up my game, because now I want to see it.”
I have to bite back a smile. “Good,” I say. My heart thumps out a beat, probably Morse code for please and thank you.
“How slutty is this underwear of yours?”
I lick my lips. “Oh, it’s damn near whorish.”
“Let me see it, Liz.”
I lift my chin and prop my hands on my hips. “Seriously? That’s all the seduction I get? Let me see it?”
He steps closer until I have to crane my neck to look at him, and holy hell he smells good. “What game are we playing here, Rowdy?” he murmurs against my ear. “Is this the one where we pretend we don’t want each other and sleep alone . . .” His fingers skim down my shoulder and my eyes float closed. “Or is it the one where I make you come so hard you scream my name and tomorrow you act like you want nothing to do with me?”
“Are those my only choices?” I ask, but I keep my eyes closed, focusing on the feel of his rough fingers dancing across my skin. The truth is, I don’t want to play either game. I’m done playing games when it comes to Sam. I’m done pretending I don’t want him when I do, and I’m done pretending our annual one-night stand is enough for me.
“Tell me you aren’t going to run away in the morning. Promise me you won’t shut me out again.”
I don’t know what that means, and I’m too scared to analyze it. My eyes are still closed when he takes my chin in his fingers and tilts my face up to his, still closed when he brushes his lips over mine and when I open under him because I’m helpless to this man’s kiss.
“Promise me,” he repeats.
“I won’t run away.” Then I unzip my dress and let it fall to the floor in a puddle, and my boldness is rewarded. Sam’s lips part and his breath escapes him in a rush.
He steps back and takes me in. The bra is strapless, black lace demi-cups that lift my breasts until they threaten to spill out. The panties—what there is of them—are a thong in matching black lace. Their fine lace straps sit in a sharp V high on my hipbones.
A ringlet of hair escaped my up-do, and he takes it between his fingers and twirls it around. I deserve a medal for not melting right here at his feet.
He hooks his index finger under the black bow between my bra cups. “Did you wear this for me?” His voice is a husky whisper that I can’t deny.
“Yes.”
His fingers skim my belly, trace over my hip, following the lace of my thong behind me to where the straps meet at the small of my back. My breath catches as he takes the fabric path over the curve of my tailbone and down, his fingers bringing every nerve ending to life as they pass. Electric pleasure whips through me.
“Fourteen months since I’ve touched you,” he says. “Fourteen months since I’ve gotten to hear the way you breathe when you’re turned on, since I’ve gotten to listen to you scream as I make you come. Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“I’d be lying.”
“Don’t lie,” he says, eyes hot and intense. “Just tell me you want me.”
Copyright Lexi Ryan, 2014
