Thresh Read online

  He hauled me closer and closer, inch by inch, until I was standing between his knees, staring up at him. Breathing hard, which made my breasts--already prominent--swell even further. His gaze went to my chest and stayed there, watching me suck in deep breaths, watching my button-down strain against the buttons.

  Like most girls as well endowed as I was, no button-down shirt ever fit me right. They were either shapeless, or too big everywhere, or too small. Or even if they did fit my shoulders and waist properly, the buttons over my boobs would be strained to capacity, and there'd be boob-gap, where the edges of the shirt didn't quite meet. The shirt I was wearing was of the latter variety, which meant that from the right angle, he'd be able catch glimpses of skin and lace.

  He was at the right angle, clearly.

  His raised his eyes, impressively enough, to meet mine, and they stayed there. Now he was looking at me. At me. Not just at me, either, but seeing into me. I wondered what he saw, what he read in my eyes. God knows I was confused enough that I myself had no idea what I was thinking or feeling.

  His eyes on mine, he reached up with his hand, slid his fingertip down the front of my throat. Where his fingertip touched, my skin burned; his touch was electric, setting me on fire. Down, down, past the collar, to the uppermost button. I'd buttoned all but the top button, which meant his finger only traveled a short distance. But then, when he reached that top button, he didn't stop. He did something impossibly dextrous with his huge fingers, and the button slid free.

  "Thresh?" My voice was thin, weak.

  "Yeah, Doc?" His was firm, strong, but low.

  "What--ahem. What are you doing?"

  He unbuttoned a second button, and now cleavage was visible. Not a lot, but some. And god, that third button...it was fighting valiantly to contain my boobs. One deep breath, and it might just pop free.

  Thresh to the rescue...of the button. He flicked it open, and now my tits spilled out of the opening, a huge expanse of dark caramel skin mounding over the bra. Thresh's eyes widened almost comically, and a monitor beeped at the sudden spike in his heart rate.

  "Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle, Doc," he breathed. "That is the most fantastic thing I've ever seen."

  "I'm still completely covered," I pointed out.

  "And better than all the other naked tits I've ever seen, combined."

  "The hell you say." I tried for in charge, casual, and ended up just sounding stupid and argumentative.

  He met my eyes again, and now maybe he did see my insecurity.

  Wait, no. I'm not insecure. I'm just...conservative. Private. I don't like dressing for attention.

  My internal scolding did nothing for me. I stepped out of reach, buttoned my shirt back the way it belonged, all but one button fastened. "Thanks for the burgers, Thresh." I turned away, and made it to the door before he spoke up.

  "I told you so."

  I stopped, hand on the doorknob, and glanced back at him. "Told me what?"

  "You wouldn't like the answer."

  "Your imagination told you to unbutton my shirt?"

  "My imagination told me to do a fuckuva lot more, Doc." His voice was that lewd snarl again, the one that made my knees quaver. "But I won't do any of that 'til we've been on at least one date."

  "Date?"

  "Yeah. A date. You know, where a guy an' a gal go out and spend time together doing various sorts of vertical activities?"

  "Vertical activities?" My intelligence, which was usually rather prodigious, seemed to have deserted me.

  "As opposed to the horizontal variety." He paused for effect, pale blue eyes fierce and hot and piercing. "By which I mean, fucking each other's brains out."

  "Goddammit, Thresh...you can't say shit like that to me." I barely got the words out.

  "Oh no?"

  I shook my head, and my hair, long, black, wavy, insanely thick, bound in a loose braid hanging past my shoulder blades, bounced back and forth. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we're not going on a date, much less...what you said." I was rather proud of how steady my voice was.

  "What'samatter, Doc? Can't talk dirty?" He sounded amused.

  "I swear all the time."

  "Big difference between cussing and talking dirty, Doc." He smiled at me, but it wasn't a sweet smile, or an innocent one, or even reassuring. Far from it, as a matter of fact. It was a smile that reminded me of a lion with easy prey in sight.

  "True. But, regardless, none of that is happening. No activities, vertical or horizontal."

  He didn't seem fazed by my rejection. "Doc. Why you lyin'?" He said this with a cocky grin.

  I turned toward the door and grabbed the door handle. "I'm not lying. I'm not going out with you, and I'm not sleeping with you." I managed to actually sound as if I believed this.

  I did believe it, mind you. I had zero intention of doing anything with a bad news monster-man hunk of beefcake like Thresh, horizontal, vertical, or otherwise.

  But one's intentions and what one does are often very different.

  Nonetheless, I told myself it was true. I meant it. Dammit, I wasn't--

  He was right behind me, stretching the IV tubes and monitor leads as far as they would go. I felt him. "Lola." He growled my name.

  It was the first time he'd said it, and the sound made my heart flip and my stomach drop out and my knees go watery.

  "What, Thresh?" I refused to turn around.

  "When do I get out of this joint?"

  "I'll check your charts. Tomorrow, though, would be my best guess."

  "Tomorrow is Thursday, so..." he sidled closer, and I could feel his body behind mine, pressing up against me.

  I felt a tug on my hair, and realized he was wrapping my braid around his fist. Then he tugged my head back, gently but firmly. My face tipped upward, and I felt his hot breath on my ear and heard--no, felt--his voice like the tremors of a distant earthquake.

  "Friday. Six p.m. I'll pick you up at home." He released me, then, and I heard him shuffling back to the bed.

  I heard the bed protest as he lowered himself onto it, and then I heard the TV click on, the sounds of the UFC fight resuming.

  I finally managed a breath, my first in almost a minute.

  I totally ran from that room like a scared little gazelle. Not that I'm built like a gazelle, but whatever.

  I fled without looking back, fled so fast my head spun.

  And as I fled, I chanted internally: NOPENOPENOPENOPENOPE.

  Call it a pep talk.

  3: 'ROID-HEAD

  I haul down a lot of pussy. A lot.

  Not as much as my buddy and partner-in-arms, Duke, simply because, very honestly, I'm not as pretty as that motherfucker. That's not the point, though. Duke and I don't compete, never have and never will. No need. We're wingmen. Brothers. I back his plays, he backs mine, no questions asked. If he asked me to storm Fort Knox with a Daisy BB gun, I'd do it and wouldn't bother to ask why.

  Back to my point, though. I haul down pussy wherever I go, and I don't have to try. Walk into a club like what up, I got a big cock--sorry, sorry, that song is stuck in my head. The line is true for me, though. Girls take one look at me and assume, correctly, that I'm packing as much between my legs as I am everywhere else. I crook my finger, and I've got fun for the evening, or the weekend, or the week. Never longer than a week, because I'm never in the same place longer than a week, except when I'm at the compound in Colorado.

  But ever since Harris and Layla got hitched that damn place is always echoing with Layla's screams, and that's not something I care to hear. Harris is sacrosanct, and so is Layla. Duke and I have swung threesomes together, or foursomes. No problem there. I got no problem listening to him make his latest conquest scream. But Harris is the BOSS, and Layla is the BOSS LADY. And the boss's lady. So, no, I'm not sticking around to listen to her howl. And, Jesus fuck, does she scream loud.

  For real, though, I swear I have a point to all this.

  My point is Dr. Lola
Reed, M.D. is a little...tricky. I want her. She wants me. But she's closed off and shut down. Yet, I catch glimmers of fire in her every once in a while. She's sexy as fuck, and exotic looking. Islander, or Filipino, or something like that. Mixed, maybe? I don't know. Tall, closing in on six feet, maybe five-nine, five-ten. Skin like caramel only a little darker, smooth and flawless. Fuckin' bangin' figure. Like...I get all emotional and choked up and horny just looking at her fully clothed; I wouldn't stand a chance if I ever got to see her naked. Girl's got curves. Toned, though. Fit. She clearly spends time in the gym and eats healthy, but she's got no problem indulging now and again. I don't know sizes or anything like that because I don't give a fuck, so I couldn't tell you if she was a nine or a nineteen, I just know she's got an ass that don't quit, and tits that--I don't even have words...they're huge. Perfect. Round, delicious-looking globes of sweet, sweet flesh. I have yet to see enough of her legs to say what they look like, but if what I have seen so far is any clue, they'll be thick, strong, curvy and muscular.

  When I first showed up at the ER, I really was close to passing out. I was playing it up only a very little bit, but she actually supported my weight. Half-carried my heavy ass, and that's no easy feat. Strong girls are sexy as hell, if you ask me. But she's not all muscle, like a body builder. She's soft. Womanly. Shit, that may have come across chauvinistic or whatever, but that's how I like a woman. Strong, but still soft and curvy and girly.

  And Lola has all that in spades.

  Yet she hides that killer body under conservative clothes. Loose dress slacks, loose flowy blouses, a tight sports bra, sensible, comfortable shoes for a woman on her feet all day.

  Except yesterday. She showed up in my room at the end of her shift looking exhausted, hungry, stressed...and wearing a push-up bra that had her tits just begging to be set free. Begging to licked and sucked and fucked and seen and worshipped.

  She's not immune to me, I've seen her stealing glances, and I've watched her breath catch. But she always rallies, and shoots me down.

  Good for her.

  Doesn't mean I'm going to let her get away. It just poses a challenge and, honestly, when it comes to women, they've never really been a challenge for me.

  And sweet goddamn, do I love a challenge.

  *

  Lola was off the next two days, so the ER doctor on call was a dude, an old dude, and a surly one. But he told me I was good to go and worked up the papers to discharge me that morning, Friday. He fitted me with some kind of experimental forearm-bracing cast, which was supposed to be waterproof, removable, breathable, and less of an impediment to movement than a traditional cast. I was happy about that because I had too much shit to do to be stuck with a big plaster or fiberglass monstrosity; plus, Harris was paying the hospital bill. The doctor bound my arm against my torso in a tight sling, with extensive bandaging around my shoulder and chest.

  Fortunately it was my left arm and shoulder, not my right, as I'm right-handed. I could still use a handgun if necessary, and in the direst of circumstances I could work a sawed-off one-handed, or shoot an assault rifle from the waist one-handed. Wouldn't be accurate for shit, but it'd make the bad guys think twice, at least.

  I signed the discharge papers, left the hospital, and caught a cab to a nearby hotel and booked a room. I was assuming the good doctor didn't live far from work.

  I settled onto the hotel bed, pulled up Lear, my high-tech friend, on my cell. It rang and rang and finally went to voicemail. I didn't bother leaving a message because, knowing Lear, he'd call me back in...five...four...three...two...

  Brrrrring. I hit accept. "Lear, buddy. Can you do me a quick favor?"

  Lear Winter was the tech expert at Alpha One Security, a hacker of the highest order, former NSA and scary fucking good with anything electronic. He could do the kind of spy-in-the-sky bullshit they show in the movies; like track someone across the world with a hacked satellite while sitting in his damn living room. Just to show off once, he'd hijacked a satellite and zoomed in on a nude beach in Canada somewhere, Wreck Beach in Vancouver, I think it was. He zoomed in so close you could practically touch the naked babes sunbathing. It was freaky, is what it was.

  "For the last time, Thresh, no, I'm not hacking the D.C. Madam's client list for you."

  "Funny, Lear, really funny. Why would I--wait. You can do that?"

  He snorted. "In my sleep. In a drunken stupor, while vomiting. Point is, you'd have to be willing to blackmail the entire U.S. government. Which, having worked for them, I'm not." I heard tapping in the background, as well as the rhythmic thudding of some kind of electronic music. "What do you need, Thresh?"

  "I need the home address for one Lola Reed, M.D. She's a doctor in Miami. Works for Jackson Memorial--"

  "Got her," Lear interrupted, and read off her address. "It's a condo, third floor, couple miles from the hospital."

  "That's freaky, Lear. Seriously. That was like, what, thirty seconds?"

  I could almost see his shrug. "Child's play, Thresh. Finding someone who doesn't want to be found is easy enough, unless they're a pro. Someone with no conception of staying off the grid? Please." The phone rustled, as if he was changing hands. Meaning, he'd done that in under thirty seconds, one-handed. "I've got her profile, if you're interested. Went to FSU--"

  "No, thanks. Just her address is fine. I'll find out the rest the fun way. Thanks, nerd-boy."

  "No problem, 'roid-head. Hey, how's the arm?"

  "Arm and shoulder, actually, but...well, I mean, it's not fine, but it's fine. Know what I mean?"

  He laughed. "Not really. Never been shot."

  "You're missing out, man, it's the most fun you'll ever have, I swear. Fractured ulna, shredded shoulder muscles. I'll be out of commission for a while, except for emergencies. But I'll heal. I've been shot worse."

  "Really?"

  "You don't want to know. You really don't."

  "Probably not. Okay, well, get better. And if you need anything else on your doctor lady, let me know. Give me a couple minutes, I can probably tell you what kind of toothpaste she uses, and where she buys her lingerie."

  "Freaky, nerd-boy. Freaky as fuck. But that's why I'm glad you're my friend."

  "If you only knew how easily I could erase or hijack your entire identity, you'd stop calling me a nerd."

  "Yeah, well, the 'roids have scrambled my brain, you know?"

  "True. All right, I'll talk to you later, meat-head."

  "Bye." I hung up, laughing.

  I call Lear nerd-boy because it's funny, and it's true, although Lear does have an adrenaline-junkie aspect to his personality that's entirely un-nerd-like. He's freaky smart, freaky-fast with the computer magic, and entirely lacking in any common sense when it comes to doing stupid-dangerous shit that can get him killed just for the shits and giggles of it. I mean, I'm a mercenary--I get into gun battles for a living. But that's different, since I get paid to risk my neck. That crazy asshole does it for fun. Fuckin' weirdo nerd.

  And, for the record, I don't use steroids. That's all part of the inside joke between Lear and me. Just...you know, to be clear. People take one look at me and assume that either I use steroids, or I'm stupid, and usually both. Truth is I don't and never have used 'roids, no matter how big I am, and I'm far from stupid, although I'm nowhere near as smart as guys like Puck or Lear.

  I pulled her address up in Google Maps on my phone--a thirty-minute walk from here, and there were several good restaurants in the area.

  I decided to grab some shut-eye; I don't sleep well in hospitals, never have.

  It was barely noon, so I slept for a few hours, then headed out to hunt down some clean clothes, came back for a shower, and then it was time to start wooing the good doctor.

  Or maybe 'seducing' was the more apropos term...

  4: JUST ONE KISS

  Friday was my day off, and it was also laundry day, and heavy lifting day at the gym. This meant I slept in late--till eight a.m, which, in a doctor's world, is late--ate a
big breakfast, gathered up every last stitch of clothing I owned, except for a pair of skin-tight workout shorts, my tightest sports bra, and a long, loose tank top.

  I started a load of laundry and then headed over to the gym. I worked the free weights until I was jelly all over, hit Jamba Juice for a big protein shake, switched loads...and headed to lunch. Usually on Fridays I caught a movie between lunch and the rest of the laundry, but today I didn't feel like it.

  I was restless.

  I worked out harder than I ever had, pushing myself until I couldn't physically bang out even one more rep, even if my life had depended on it.

  The whole time I was tossing clothes from washer to dryer and folding dry clothes, I was conflicted mentally. I've had a rule since my residency that I never ever think about work when I'm off--I don't ever bring work home with me. It's the only way to stay sane. The problem today, though, was that if I didn't think about work, I'd be thinking about Thresh.

  And that was a bad idea.

  I didn't dare think about what his torso had looked like, after I cut his bloody shirt off. How massive his biceps were, how thick his pectorals were. How flat and hard and defined his abs were. God, definitely do NOT think about that stupid, beautiful V where his abs grooved in and angled under his desert camo military pants. I don't know what they're called, camos? Uniform pants? Whatever. The V disappeared under that waistband like an arrow pointing the way to the Promised Land.

  Only... I DON'T WANT TO GO THERE.

  I don't.

  Really fucking really, I don't.

  But I just couldn't stop thinking about him.

  That growl, his voice in my ear...so full of sexual hunger and lascivious promise. His eyes on me. The fact that his expression, never mind his words, tells me he really does find me attractive.

  Okay, fine, so I've got a bit of an issue with self-confidence. There's a reason, though, and it's not really about how I'm built. I work my fucking ass off to stay in shape. I'm strong as hell--I'm just not small. No part of me is small. I've got thick thighs, thick arms, and my waist isn't waif-thin. But my arms are thick with muscle, and my thighs too. My tits are pretty much perfect, which even I can admit--assuming you like huge knockers. And my ass is--yes, big--but also round and taut and pretty damn firm, but with just enough jiggle and sway to it to remind you that I'm all woman.