She tasted like honey and spice and she went straight to his head. Kissing her was like immersing himself in addictive sweetness. He licked at her, his tongue tangled with hers, and before he realized the idiocy of his actions his hands were tearing at the little straps of her dress, dragging them down her arms. His lips tore from hers to travel down her neck, down the arch of her throat, heading for nipples that, as the pads of his thumbs stroked over them, tightened further.
Ah hell, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He had to taste.
He lifted her against him, and set her on the padded barstool, his hands cupping those luscious breasts, lifting them to him as his mouth captured one tight, hot bud between his lips.
He’d have thought he could hold on at that point. He’d have thought that the sheer pleasure of finally tasting Emerson’s tits would be enough to give him the control needed to hang on and enjoy it. And in doing that, he could find at least a single thought to remind him that he wasn’t just playing with fire, he was playing with his own career.
But did he think? Thought washed away when she cried his name in that breathless, shocked voice. It ripped out of his head and left him in a reality where the only thing that mattered was her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her breast as he sucked at that tight nipple like a man drowning in lust and pleasure.
Sharp nails pricked at his scalp, pulled at his hair, dragged him close as she arched and shoved her nipple tighter between his lips.
Thought didn’t control him now. His dick controlled him. Thick and hard and straining beneath his slacks. One hand dropped to her thigh and he began jerking that softer than soft evening gown up legs that he knew had to be softer.
This was what happened when a man denied himself. When he worked with no breaks to play. When he pushed back lust and refused to drown the hunger for one woman in another woman’s body. This was what happened. Because then weakness became hunger, and hunger became a ravenous instinct that refused to be controlled.
Until the door to the study slammed open violently, causing his head to jerk to the mirror, his gaze to clash with the enraged gaze of the admiral. The admiral who cherished his goddaughter as most men did their own children.
Admiral Samuel Tiberian Holloran. Known as the Commodore to most of the men who served under him. A tight-assed bastard where his goddaughter was concerned.
Macey shielded Emerson with his own body, her bare breasts pressed into his chest as she struggled to straighten the bodice. He felt ice form in the pit of his soul as his gaze stayed locked with the admiral’s.
“My office,” the admiral snarled. “Now!”
Holloran jerked the door open, stalked out, and slammed it with enough force that Macey was surprised the frame didn’t crack.
Drawing back, he stared down at Emerson. Her face was still flushed with pleasure, but her eyes were concerned.
“Thanks,” he snapped as he stepped back from her, watching as she dragged the straps over her shoulders, a hint of confusion, of hurt in her face.
“For what?”
“For staying away from me like I asked you to. You’re trouble, Miss Delaney. More trouble than I think I need right now.”
With that, he stalked from the study and headed for the office and the bust in rank he knew was coming. Hell, he’d just been reinstated back to lieutenant, and for what? So he could go right back down because he was hungry, hungry and hurting for a woman so far out of his league that she might as well be in another universe. The one woman Macey knew Admiral Holloran would kill him over. The one woman he very much feared held his heart.
Hell, he should have stayed home.
As he entered the hall, he drew the note Emerson had just given him from his slacks.
The admiral requests a meeting, ASAP, his office. Landry.
Hell. No wonder the admiral was pissed. God only knew when his aide had given Emerson that note. One thing was for sure, the admiral was out for blood now. His blood. And Macey knew he would be damned lucky if he survived.
ONE
Three weeks later
EMERSON HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED.
That knowledge echoed through Macey’s mind from the moment he received the admiral’s phone call to the second he had received the information informing him of her location.
She had been taken from him. As the admiral had snapped in his taciturn voice, she had been stolen. And the admiral’s blue eyes, chips of icy rage, had glared at Macey.
“You’ll find her. Find her and hide her, Macey. You’re the best, and that’s what she needs now.”
The best. Yeah, he was the best at this. Tracking, killing. The admiral had made certain his men were the best; he considered Macey one of his, despite their problems.
Now, Macey crouched in the corner of the shadowed warehouse and told himself it was all in a day’s work. He would get through it because he didn’t have a choice, and he would do it right because that was the only way he knew how to do things. Even when he fucked up, he always made it right in the end. Answering the admiral’s call at midnight was his chance.
He’d fucked up last month. He hadn’t just lost rank for messing with the wrong woman, but he had walked away from the woman as well. Dumb move. Hell, the admiral had had every right to be pissed when he demanded to know Macey’s intentions toward his goddaughter. He had, after all, just caught Macey in a rather explicitly compromising position with her.
Unfortunately, Macey hadn’t had the right answers, so to say he was surprised when the admiral called to assign him to the mission to rescue her was an understatement. But as the admiral had known, there was no keeping the information from him. There was no keeping him away from her. And that was besides the fact that the admiral knew Macey would give his own life to protect her.
It was partially his and the admiral’s fault she had been kidnapped, after all. The remnants of a terrorist and white slavery organization he had helped to destroy were now striking back at the admiral because of his part in the assassination of the head of that organization. And the admiral’s goddaughter was his only weak spot.
“Remind me to put your names on my birthday card list.” Emerson Delaney’s voice was soft and sweet, sugar-coated and so gently Southern it sounded ridiculously out of place here in the darkened warehouse. “What was your name again? Mo, Larry or Curly?”
The sound of flesh hitting flesh sent his blood temperature rising. Fine, she was a smartass, but that was no reason to hit her, and some bastard inside that warehouse had hit her. He would kill the bastard who had dared to touch her.