Deke Santiago. Age thirty-six, married once, widower. He had been deep cover since his dishonorable discharge from the Rangers ten years before. Dishonorable because he had nearly killed his commanding officer for screwing his then-wife.
The court martial had earned him a year in Leavenworth because he couldn’t prove the adultery. There, he had met up with one of Diego Fuentes’ lieutenants; four years later he had flown into Columbia and begun his apparent life of crime.
There might be four people in the world who knew that he was no more than a deep cover operative. Kira was one of those people.
She paused as the elevator doors closed behind her, flicked a long swath of black hair over her shoulder, and sighed with an edge of irritation, aware of the security cameras trained on her.
She moved along the hall, ignoring him. That was what she did with bodyguards, she pretended to ignore them. Her own, Daniel Calloway, was proof of that.
“I won’t need you to check the room tonight, Daniel,” she informed him as they neared his connecting room. “You can go on to bed.”
“Are you sure, Ms. Porter?” His voice was colored with suspicion as Deke’s lips quirked mockingly.
“I’m positive. I’m certain the room is secure.”
Daniel wasn’t a stupid man. He entered his own room and closed the door behind him as Kira pulled her key card from the tailored lining on the inside of her boot.
“Is he upset over his poor little Rover?” She twirled the card in her fingers as she stared back at Deke, allowing a small grin to curl the edges of her lips.
Deke glanced at her door. “Ask him yourself and see.”
As she turned back to the door, it swung open. A hard hand gripped her wrist and jerked her inside before the door slammed closed behind her.
She was pushed against it, her breath whooshing from her lips as her hands were gripped in one of his, held high above her head, and every inch of her body molded to the hard length of his.
Her juices pooled between the lips of her sex, then eased into the silk of the thongs she wore beneath the leather pants. Her nipples spiked impossibly harder, and she swore she could feel a bead of sweat tickling between her breasts.
No one had ever felt like Ian. Hard, in control, commanding. Every touch, every action gauged for pleasure. Or for pain.
The hand holding her wrists tightened as the fingers of the other threaded through her hair and pulled her head back to stare into the blazing heat of his tobacco-brown eyes. Eyes almost as rich as brandy, fired with dark little hints of red and filled with fury.
Dark blond hair fell over his forehead, the rich mix of colors, sun-lightened and thick, lying long along his nape and falling over his brow, made her long to bury her fingers in it again.
He turned her on in ways she had never been turned on before. She dreamed about sex with Ian. Lusted for it. Had lied to join this mission for it.
“What the fucking hell are you doing here?” he snarled down at her as his head lowered.
His lips buried in her shoulder, opening to allow his teeth to grip the flesh there, his tongue to lap over it with quick heated strokes as she jerked against him.
“Working.” Her head lowered as well.
The strong column of his neck was there for her enjoyment. Her teeth raked it, her tongue licked, and the taste of male lust exploded against her taste buds.
God, he tasted good. She sucked at the flesh, a little moan escaping her throat as he picked her up, turned her, and in the next second, bore her to the bed.
“Ian.” She gasped his name, feeling the hard length of his body covering hers, his thighs spreading her, his cock pressing hard and demandingly into the butter-soft leather covering her pussy.
Her hands were still stretched above her head, her breasts perilously close to spilling from the cups of the leather bustier she wore.
“You have no business here.” His lips drew back from his teeth as his free hand tugged at the ties that secured the front of the bustier. “No business here. No business close to here.”
The top loosened, spread apart, and with a flick of his fingers, the cups covering her breasts were released. Her breasts spilled free, nipples hard and pointed, flushed red and aching for his touch.
“You’re here.” It was a statement and a moan as his head lowered and his lips covered a tight, sensitive nipple.
He wasn’t easy on her, and she didn’t want easy. His teeth gripped and tugged, his tongue lashed with wicked wet heat. Her eyeballs were going to roll back in her head it was so damned good. He sucked on her like a starving man and her breast was the main course.
Long moments later his head lifted, thick dark blond lashes fanning his cheeks as he stared down at his handiwork.
Her nipple was tighter, if that was possible, gleaming wet and ruby red. The same color of his damned Range Rover.
“You wore too many clothes,” he growled. His voice, rough on a good day, was grating now.
“I didn’t want to appear too easy,” she gasped as his lips moved to the opposite breast and began their less than tender ministrations.
God, this was what she had loved about the first and only time he had touched her. He didn’t treat her like spun glass. He didn’t touch her like she would break. He touched her like a woman well able to satisfy the dark, hungry sex drive she knew he possessed. Knew he possessed and craved to experience.
“Not easy enough.” He nipped the side of her breast, his free hand moving to her hip, tugging at the laces on her pants now as his lips moved back to hers.
Lora Leigh, Hidden Agendas
(Series: Tempting SEALs # 4)
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