He pushes me up against the red brick wall as our mouths move together. His sure, deft tongue glances against mine, sending a jolt of pleasure rolling down my spine. I slide my hands over his firm, denim-clad ass, tugging him tightly against me. He’s hard and ready as I arch my back, grinding my hips against his. He catches my bottom lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough, and a low groan escapes my throat.
“Do you know how hard it is to keep from jumping you the second you walked into the room?” he says, kissing along my neck, nipping my collarbone. “Just look at you...”
“I’m too busy looking at you,” I grin, marveling at the staggering man before me. How the hell did I ever snag him, even for a night or two? I’ve been next to invisible all my life, content with the bottom of the manly barrel. This whole eye-catching thing is going to take some getting used to.
I run my hands down his cut chest, my fingertips brushing against the MC patches he wears so proudly. Women like me are not supposed to fall for bad boy bikers. And we’re certainly not supposed to hook up with in the shadows of strip clubs. But he makes me want to be bold, brave. To ask for what I want and refuse to apologize. And that’s the kind of woman I’ve always wanted to be.
As my nimble fingers undo his belt, he shakes in head in captivated wonder.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he asks.
You have no idea, I think to myself, brushing my lips against his neck to dodge his question. He’s more than happy to let the matter drop as I run my fingertips down the muscular v of his hips. How long before one of those surprises comes out into the open? When will he discover the scope of my deception?
Not tonight, I remind myself, Your secret is safe for tonight.
And as I slip my fingers beneath the band of his briefs, seeking out that throbbing length I crave, I realize that “not tonight” is good enough for me.
Chapter One
San Bernardino FBI Resident Agency
Three weeks earlier
A misshapen package of Hostess Cupcakes lands on my desk with an unappetizing thump. My head jerks up from where it’s been resting on my palm, and I blink up at the fluorescent light in a daze. I’ve been staring at endless pages of code on my computer screen, and the rest of the world outside of my cubicle has begun to feel like a faraway land. I finally manage to focus on the heavily-lined face looming over me, and remind myself to act like a normal, socialized human being. Even if it is a bit of a stretch.
“To what do I owe this thoughtful gift, Chuck?” I ask, prodding the packaged sweets with the end of my pencil.
The man standing beside my desk shrugs his burly shoulders, smiling wryly. “No room in the budget for a real cake, I’m afraid. This’ll have to do.”
I cock my head at my prickly mentor. “Are we...celebrating something?”
“Quinn Collins,” he replies, his bushy white eyebrows raised in mock surprise, “have you forgotten our anniversary?”
“I’ll be damned,” I laugh, shaking my head, “has it been two years already?”
“Already?” Chuck scoffs, crossing his arms across his barrel chest. “I’m glad the time flew for you, newbie. Training you damn near killed me.”
“Oh, please,” I say, waving away his disdain. “You didn’t train me, you tolerated me. There’s no way you could wrap your head around what I do in cyber.”
“Well excuse me,” he drawls, “I didn’t realize that your Web surfing was more useful to the Bureau than, I don’t know, my thirty years of experience.”
“Let’s not make this into a pissing contest,” I cut him off. “Last time I checked, you had the advantage there.”
“Damn straight,” he grins, turning away. “And don’t you forget it, Agent Collins.”
“Thanks for the anniversary gift, old man,” I pipe after him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Don’t let it go to your head, kid.”
I roll my eyes as my mentor stalks back to his office. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been taking his brand of good-natured shit for two years already. It feels like just yesterday I arrived here in LA, fresh out of the FBI Academy in Quantico. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, I had just chosen an entirely new career, moved across the country, and started my whole life over from scratch.
Talk about a quarter-life crisis.
I try to drag my attention back to the task at hand, but my eyes just don’t want to focus on a screen for another second. The moment I arrived here at the San Bernardino resident agency, I was immediately assigned to the cyber division of the FBI. My background in computer science made me a perfect candidate for Web-based surveillance operations. And while I’ve been part of my fair share of interesting cases, most of my days are spent plumbing the seedy underbelly of the internet for obscene material. Not the most glamorous job, to be sure, but it’s what I signed up for.
Snatching up my crumpled anniversary cupcakes, I head outside to enjoy the few blissful moments of my lunch break. No one looks up as I head for the exit, but that’s nothing new. I get along well with my fellow FBI agents and support staff, but they’re not the most talkative bunch. At least not with me. Most of the people I work with are men in their thirties and forties. Not exactly an ideal group of peers.
A sigh escapes my lips as I step out into the bright afternoon. One glance at my reflection in the glass door confirms my suspicion: I’m looking a little short of a million bucks today. Despite having spent two years in the Golden State, my ivory skin refuses to absorb any of the sun’s glow. Not that I have many hours to spend frolicking in the Pacific. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of my button nose is the only evidence that I spend any time at all away from my computer.
I straighten my pale blue button-up and gray woolen slacks. Unfortunately, the stereotypical suit-and-tie uniform of an FBI agent doesn’t translate well to a petite but curvy frame like mine. I’d totally rock a suit if I didn’t think I’d get laughed out of the office. Even my long red locks—or “man bait” as they’ve been called—have to be gathered into a boring low ponytail. I’m all for being professional, but the “office drab” look doesn’t do much for a lady’s self-esteem.
Sinking onto a creaky wooden bench overlooking the parking lot, I resign myself to a lunch of processed pastries. At least someone remembered my two-year work anniversary. Agent Chuck Jones, the gruff fifty-something cupcake distributor, was tasked with looking out for me when I first got assigned here. He’s been a pretty decent mentor, whether he’d admit it or not. While he can’t offer much practical guidance about my work in the cyber division, his no-nonsense tough love has strengthened my spine and taught me to trust my gut. As a female agent, I constantly have to fight to keep from getting shouted down around here. It’s exhausting, but I’m getting better at it. I think.