Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Read online

  Unusually quiet.

  It’s unnerving, his silence.

  What is he thinking?

  I rub my hand across his hardness, tempting a response. Except for the gleam in his eyes, he doesn’t react.

  “Cat got your tongue?” I press. I feel him hardening beneath my palm. My touch—my sassing him—turns him on. And Lord have mercy, but he wasn’t lying in the Fiat. He’s sporting a mighty fine package.

  “Who are you?”

  My eyebrows raise. It’s a simple question, coming from a complicated man. “Who do you want me to be?”

  He grunts.

  I grin and give him a little squeeze.

  “Tell you what,” he says, calm as a Maine winter evening. Like he’s immune to the hand rubbing his crotch, like he’s about to suggest we discuss the weather or slip outside to watch the grass grow. “I’ll knock the hole off you until you’re screaming hail Mary. But I’m not a piece of meat. If we’re going there, things between us needs to be intimate.”

  The whiskey’s dulled my thoughts because what is he saying now? “Intimate?”

  “Yeah, intimate. I want to feel like I can trust you with my person.”

  I choke back a laugh. He seems dead serious. My eyes drift to the empty whiskey bottle. He did drink more than me . . . except he’s twice my size.

  He pushes my hand off him and rolls up to sit. “Guess it’s askin’ too much for you to be honest with me.”

  Oh. My. God. Seriously? I’ve hurt his feelings?

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  He stares back at me like a little lost boy.

  It’s an act, my jumbled thoughts rationalize. I’m an excellent judge of character, and our time together tells me he’s more player than the picture of godly innocence.

  I lost our bet. I lost two games out of three but suspect he allowed me to win the third. And I get the feeling I caught a glimmer of his true nature while he was taunting and teasing me during the game. Competitive, yes. Calculating, you bet. Likable . . . yeah, that too. He wants me to confide in him. If I do so, will he return the favor?

  I come onto my knees, straddle his lap, and shove him down into the pillows. “Intimate enough for you?”

  “Getting warmer,” is his soft reply.

  “Fine. I’ll give you honest. I had relations with a coworker in an office closet. My boss, to be precise. We got caught. I was fired. That asshole got promoted. With your help, I can redeem my good name.”

  “The feck you say?” He bucks up beneath me.

  “Hot enough now?”

  “Figures I’d take home a real live wire.”

  “That’s right.” I lean down over him. “Be careful or you might get burned.”

  He laughs. I feel the reverberations straight down to my toes.

  “Bottom up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They catch you arse up or on your back?” His blue eyes shimmer, just like they did when I confessed to having played Assassin’s Creed a time or two. I sigh, knowing how lame this story will sound to him.

  “Neither.”

  He arches an eyebrow.

  “I was fully clothed. George’s pants were around his ankles. He asked me to say dirty, filthy things to him while he jerked himself off. That’s how they discovered us.”

  He eats me up with his eyes like he’s memorizing my every intake of breath. “You taking the craic?”

  “What?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Unfortunately, dead serious. “

  “Must have been fine filth slipping from between those sweet lips.” He grins up at me, loving the idea. Not judgmental at all.

  God, I can’t help myself. I arch forward and bring my mouth to his ear. “Want a taste?”

  His smile slips. “Yeah.”

  In my deepest, throatiest voice, I whisper, “Cover me with that hot come of yours. I want to rub it over my tits and stomach. Mark me.”

  He makes a small noise in his throat. And it’s all the warning I get.

  I squeal as I’m airborne and flipped onto my back. He presses me into the cushions then crawls on top. My gun is plucked free and sent sliding across the floor. My blouse is ripped open, tearing at the seam with buttons flying everywhere. My surprise at his “go get ’em” manner written all over my face. Before I can even think about bartering with him, he’s claimed a nipple between his teeth.

  He nibbles then sucks. Lightly, with enough pressure to make me forget the thin barrier of lace between us.

  Yes. I arch my back, feeding myself to him.

  “Bet I can make you come just by sucking these pretty little pebbles,” he murmurs, tone deep and with a rawness to it that I haven’t heard before.

  “Bet you can’t,” I challenge.

  His competitive nature kicks in; I can feel it. But, for whatever reason, he holds himself back.

  I place a hand on his arm and squeeze, encouragingly.

  Interesting.

  “Nice arms.”

  He stiffens, but I’m too curious to stop myself from gliding my hands beneath his hideous poncho. In the position I’m in, I can only reach his abdomen. I cop a feel and my eyes go wide—his stomach is a wall of muscle. “I want to see you,” I command in a hoarse tone.

  “Feckin’ hell.”

  “Strip.”

  “Can’t.”

  My eyebrows pinch together. “Why not? Don’t feed me that lost boy bullshit, either.”

  “Look,” he says, “it’s the sauce kicking in. The whiskey will turn the nicest one into a she-devil.”

  “I never said I was nice.” I remove my hand from his abdomen and shift it lower to cup his crotch. He’s rock hard.

  But now he’s resisting me. But why?

  “Did you swear an oath?”

  He frowns.

  “For work. An ethical oath.”

  “You think I swore an oath of chastity?”

  I laugh at his incredulous tone. Pressing my palm against his rigid thickness, I murmur, “That would have been a damn shame.”

  His expression softens, briefly.

  “Secrecy,” I say. “A pledge to keep silent about the activities you’re involved in. Which is the reason you’re resisting me.”

  All signs of humor, of softness, of this exhilarating exchange of banter between us disappears. A chill runs up my spine. I feel like I poked the tiger hard, and in the eye. And he doesn’t like it. Not. One. Bit.

  I scramble to smooth things over between us. “I’ll keep my mouth shut—”

  “Yeah, you will.”

  “I won’t compromise your work or draw attention to your investigation in any way.”

  “Ballsy minx,” he mutters.

  “We can exchange information.” I draw in a breath. “For example, are you aware of the cargo ship arriving in Acapulco this week?”

  He hesitates, then grunts, “What are you going on about?”

  “I believe Señor Fahder sold the weapons to a buyer overseas. No names. No destination. But whoever bought the weapons paid the transportation fee in hard cash.”

  He’s quiet, processing the information. I wait, allowing him to take the next step. Giving him room to decide whether to trust me.

  “You’re a reporter?” he finally asks.

  “Investigative journalist.”

  “Investigative journalist,” he mulls over my words. “Of course.”

  “The information you provide me won’t become public until long after you’ve arrested Señor Fahder. What I’m really hoping for is a heads-up before you make the bust.”

  Something flashes across his face. It comes and goes in a blink.

  “The bust?”

  I nod.

  “And how exactly did you figure I’m the right fella to approach about this?”

  “We have a mutual friend.”

  “Nah.” He pins me with hard eyes like he’s trying to intimidate me. “I don’t have friends.”

  I pat his erection. “Sure you do.�
�� I gift him with a smile, which he doesn’t return. Fine. In my line of work, you learn quickly what information to offer and what information to omit. I don’t mind offering up the gang leader’s name if it’ll help convince him to trust me.

  “El Chulo.” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Right.” Do I sense the slightest bit of relief? Is he not upset I know he’s CIA? “How much did you pay him?”

  “You don’t deny knowing him?”

  “Answer my question and maybe I’ll confirm it.”

  “Twenty-thousand dollars.”

  He whistles. The sound’s sweet music to my ears because the awkward moment between us seems to have passed. “Ten grand would have done it.”

  “If you help me, it’ll be worth every penny.”

  “Can’t.”

  I grind my teeth together.

  “My boss has trust issues. The Bastard doesn’t like information being leaked. He’ll kill you and me both.”

  “You shouldn’t joke like that. I worked in places where people were as expendable as a politician’s latest whim.”

  “Who says I’m joking.”

  I frown.

  He laughs, and this time the sound of it grates on my nerves. I feel like I’m the brunt of a joke, the punch line delivered in a language I can’t speak.

  “You really hell-bent on redeeming yourself because of some tool named George?”

  I drop my hand, breaking contact as a flash of pain washes over me. How do I make him understand? Those smug executives telling me they have no interest in covering a hard, albeit realistic, look at Aleppo falling. Like little Christiana’s life was worthless and the deaths of innocent people were unworthy of attention?

  “Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong puts you at risk, you know that?”

  “Let’s say I’m driven to do a good piece of work and leave it at that.”

  He rubs his beard and gives me an undecipherable look. Like I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit into the picture. Like he’s as confused by me as I am by him.

  “Feck’s sake,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You got me. I’ll do you a good turn. Just remember I did so out of kindness.”

  I exhale sharply. “Thank you. This means a lot.”

  “There’s an older woman in Acapulco who sells fresh tortillas from a small yellow stand by the beach. It’s two blocks away from the warehouse.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen her.”

  “Next time you’re in Acapulco, ask her for the special of the day.”

  “The special of the day. Okay. That’s code for something else, I suppose?”

  “Correct.”

  My grin slips, though, as, in one fluid move, he pushes off me and onto his feet. I roll up to sit. “Where are you going?”

  “To fetch a Johnny.”

  I roll my eyes. “Translation, please,” I call after his retreating back.

  “Condom.”

  Okay, then. This thing is happening.

  I busy myself plumping the pillows. When he doesn’t come back, I take inventory of my damaged blouse. When he still hasn’t returned, I retrieve my pistol then crawl over to my purse and dig inside, ignoring the safety pins I always carry in case of an emergency to retrieve the condom I have tucked inside.

  I blow on it as if to remove the dust.

  When he finally returns, I hold it up for him to see.

  “Best save that for the wee fellas.” He drops a box of Magnum Premiums—an unopened box—on the floor beside the pillows.

  I lift an eyebrow.

  He narrows his eyes at me, daring me to comment on the full box and his apparent dry spell. Or maybe he’s such a stud, he goes through boxes at a time?

  I lick my lips like a cat tempted by a treat. A big treat.

  “Tell me no if you don’t want this to happen.”

  I blink.

  “Last chance to make a run for it.”

  Run? It takes great effort not to roll my eyes. What does he need, a parade lined with red flags leading to me? Looks like I need to be the aggressor. I roll my shoulders, work my blouse off my body, then grin as I feel it drop to the floor.

  A spark of desire lights his eyes. “Right here,” I murmur, caressing the swell of one breast.

  “There.” His face takes on the expression he had during Assassin’s Creed when I killed my first captain of an elite troop: dumbstruck.

  “Shoot your thick sweet cream right here.”

  His groan fills the room.

  “Or do I take that big cock of yours in my throat?”

  “You’d tempt the devil, you would.”

  “Says the devil himself.” I sashay forward. “But do I? Tempt you?”

  “You want the truth?” he murmurs, his tone thick and full of want.

  I nod.

  “I’d like nothing better than to take you to bed and fuck you until you can’t walk straight. First slow. Then hard. You on your belly, you riding my cock.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. His filthy, naughty words.

  His eyes glimmer with need. “You’re something else, you know that?” Leaning in, he places a gentle kiss on my lips. “And when the whiskey’s worn off and a brand-new day is on the horizon, you’re gonna remember what a devil I am.”

  I gasp at his warning, but he’s already charging forward. He grasps me by the arms and tugs me into him. My breasts push against his chest. Yeah, there’s no denying he’s all muscle.

  He places his finger on my chin and angles my head to the side. It’s a move you read about in romance novels. The alpha male taking charge of his woman.

  Yet the angle is . . . awkward. Uncomfortable, even.

  “Bring me those naughty lips,” he murmurs.

  “Let me move and I will,” I murmur back.

  “Nah, I got you were I want you.” He brings his lip to my ear and whispers. “You’re never going to forget this night, storeen.”

  I jerk within his hold when I feel his coarse beard on my neck. Back and forth, back and forth, the friction he’s creating reminding me of the time I slid down the carpeted stairs and got a nasty case of rug burn.

  “Kiss me,” I choke out, needing the rubbing to stop.

  He listens, brushing lips over the blossoming neck-burn before going in for a suckle. My neck has always been sensitive, the cords on the side a total erogenous zone. But he latches on with his mouth like he’s attempting to suck a hole to China.

  “Feel good?” he says, his lips making a loud pop as he withdraws from my neck.

  “Um . . .”

  “You going to play innocent now?” Before I can reply, he turns my head forward and swoops down for a kiss. Except he purses his lips before pushing them into mine, offering me a series of kisses you’d place on a toddler’s cheek. And the noises he makes sound like he’s calling a cat.

  My gaze slips downward to the full box of condoms at our feet. Jesus. Is he a man with a lot to say, who talks the talk but has never walked the walk?

  He wiggles his head from side to side. Terrific. Mouth-burn to match the neck-burn.

  I want to tell him to stop, but I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll get a mouthful of scruff.

  “Like that?” he asks, finally coming up for air.

  I step back and break free from his grasp. “Who taught you how to kiss?”

  He gives me that lost-boy look.

  Yet this time . . . is he for real? Is he really this barbaric? Has he been waiting to be intimate?

  “You don’t like how I kiss.”

  How does he not know? This is beyond awkward. You’d think for a CIA agent, he’d be more adept. That what has to be an endless line of CIA bunnies looking to be fucked by a hero would have taught him a thing or two.

  Without warning, he swoops forward and hauls me off my feet. “You should know I like a challenge,” I hear him say over my loud gasp. He lowers us to the floor, and, with expert hands, has my pants down and is tugging them off before I can decide if I want to continue or not.<
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  I catch his hiss, my eyes going wide.

  “Aren’t you full of surprises? Dressed all proper in a blouse and slacks, yet look at you, wearing silky, red panties that make a bloke want to tear them off with his teeth.”

  Teeth . . . crap . . . no teeth, or mouth, or beard.

  I grab hold of his hand and tug him down to lie over me. Immediately, I go for gold, slipping my hand inside his pants to grasp hold of his thick, hot erection.

  I stroke him hard, sliding up and sliding down.

  “Playing like that, are we?” He presses three fingers against my crotch and rubs. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a man trying to scrub a scuff mark off his shoe.

  Lord help him because he’s a barbarian. I place my hand over his and guide him to me. “Gentle. Like this.” I move his hand in a light, less aggressive circular motion, rewarding myself by angling it forward, far enough to stimulate my clit.

  “You make me want things I shouldn’t want,” he murmurs in a low, whiskey-filled tone. He presses his thumb into my clit, just hard enough to make me arch up off the cushions.

  Now we’re talking.

  Our eyes connect as he circles over my nub. His fill with lust, mine . . . with surprise.

  “What I’d give to see you come,” he tells me in his thick, sexy accent.

  “Keep doing that and you will.”

  He stills. “Nah.”

  “Nah?” I gasp.

  “I want a taste of you.”

  My body stiffens, as he removes his newly expert fingers. The thought of his mouth, that beard, anywhere near my— “No,” I choke out. “Gentlemen first.”

  His lips curl beneath his whiskers, and my heart skips a beat. He can be drop-dead sexy at times, especially when he’s being cocky. Can he really be this terrible a lover?

  “I’m getting the feeling you don’t want this.”

  “It’s your beard,” I admit. “Ever thought of shaving it off? I bet you’re handsome beneath all that—”

  “Lay back,” he interrupts, all business.” He brushes my hand off him, unzips his jeans, and removes his cock.

  I can’t help but stare at it. He’s hung, impressively so. His cock might be the second most beautiful part of him aside from his eyes.