The warehouse was supposed to be empty.
Instead, I found myself staring down the barrel of a .45, my back pressed against cold concrete, Lucas’s blood smeared across my stolen blazer.
The gunman sneered. “Carter’s whore finally shows her—”
Thwack.
My throwing knife buried itself in his throat before he finished the sentence.
Lucas emerged from the shadows, his shirt torn open to reveal the bandages I’d stitched over his ribs last night. “Took you long enough,” he rasped, kicking the dying man aside like garbage.
I wiped my knife clean on a dead man’s shirt. “You’re welcome.”
His laugh was dark as sin, cut short when he grabbed my waist and slammed me against the steel shipping container. The impact rattled my teeth, but all I felt was the heat of his body pinning mine, the way his erection pressed against my stomach through ruined slacks.
“You’re hurt,” I breathed.
His teeth scraped my jaw. “You’re distracting.”
The warehouse stank of cordite and copper, but all I could smell was him—gun oil and expensive cologne and that addictive musk that clung to his skin after a fight. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise as his mouth crashed against mine.
This wasn’t a kiss.
This was a war.
I bit his lip until I tasted blood, and he groaned like it was the best pain he’d ever felt. His hands tore at my clothes, buttons scattering across the concrete as his palm slid between my—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Lucas’s phone. The detonator app.
“Fuck,” he growled against my mouth.
I glanced at the timer. 00:45.
“Plenty of time,” I purred, sinking to my knees.
His pupils blew wide. “Christ, woman—”
The first lick had his fingers tangling in my hair. The second had him cursing in three languages. When I took him deep, his hips jerked forward with a guttural snarl, his free hand fisting in my blazer like he might rip it clean off.
00:30.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
I obeyed, watching his face twist with pleasure as I worked him over, my tongue doing things that made his trigger finger twitch.
00:15.
He yanked me up, spinning us so my back hit the container again. One hand shoved my skirt up, the other fumbled with his belt—
00:05.
“Lucas—”
“Now,” he growled, and slammed home.
The explosion rocked the docks as I came, his name a scream on my lips, his teeth buried in my shoulder. Glass shattered. Alarms wailed. And through it all, he fucked me through the aftershocks, each thrust punishing, perfect—
Until his phone rang.
He answered it mid-stroke, voice ragged. “What.“
I clenched around him, delighting in his sharp inhale.
“Sir, the target—“
“Alive,” Lucas snapped, his hips never slowing. “Send cleanup.“
When he hung up, I arched a brow. “Workaholic.”
His thumb found my clit. “Hypocrite.”
The second explosion drowned out my moan.
(Want me to dial up the danger? The debauchery? The plot? You call the shots.) 💋