Duke: Alpha One Security: Book 3 Read online

  And a stuffed tiger, old and tattered, the fur worn, one eye replaced with a coat button.

  The guns are all in glass cases mounted against the walls, arranged by type. The cases themselves are clearly meant for security as well as display, since they’re framed with wrist-thick bars of steel, and the glass is easily an inch thick, and each one is locked with a fingerprint scanner. So even if someone did break in, they’d have to cut the cases out of the wall and carry them out of the apartment, or they’d have to have serious tools to cut them open.

  “Um.” I blinked a few times. “Wow.”

  “You didn’t really think I have a collection of panties, did you?”

  I blinked a few more times. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  He laughed. “Actually, neither would I.” The laughter turned…lascivious. “I mean, I’d collect your panties, if you wore any.”

  “I do usually wear them,” I said. “I just…”

  He turned to face me, arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow lifted. “Go on. I’m curious. Why aren’t you wearing any panties, Temple?”

  I glared at him for a few beats, and then crossed my arms under my breasts, giving him my hardest, coldest, I-don’t-give-a-shit expression. “Because I was boy-hunting.”

  He unsuccessfully tried to stifle a burst of surprised laughter. “Boy-hunting? What the fuck is that?”

  “The girl version of picking up chicks.”

  “So you were in that shitty dive bar looking to get laid?”

  “Yep.”

  His shit-eating grin pissed me off. “Well, now, there’s honesty for you.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Trying to drown heartbreak at the bottom of a bottle, maybe? You were giving off some pretty strong leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes. Didn’t even give me the time of day.”

  “Maybe you’re not my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  I hesitated because I didn’t really have a type, other than a minimum standard of hotness. “Not you.”

  Duke chuckled and turned away, putting a thumb to one of the cases. “Piece of advice for you, Princess: don’t ever play poker, because you suck at lying.”

  “I’m not lying!” I huffed.

  When the lock beeped, he opened the case and pulled out a gun. It looked like a miniature version of the machine guns you see SWAT guys using on TV. It had a stock that folded and a short barrel. There were several long, curved clips with the gun, which he stuffed into the cargo pocket of his shorts. That also pissed me off, because putting those idiotic pockets to actual use meant I couldn’t mentally make fun of him for wearing cargo shorts anymore.

  Slinging the machine gun over his shoulder by the strap, he turned and paced over to where I was still standing in the doorway. He stopped when our bodies were almost, but not quite, touching, the tips of my breasts so close to his chest it would have been difficult to slip a piece of paper between us. His proximity did that stupid black magic again, whereby my body completely overreacted, going straight into hyper drive—my nipples hardened, my breath shortened, my brain went to useless goo, and my pussy got all hot and moist.

  And you bet your ass Duke noticed.

  His breath was warm on my cheek. “Temple, babe, not only are you lying, you’re lying poorly.” He touched his forehead to mine, and my face tipped up automatically, my lips parting, my breath caught entirely, now. “If I’m not your type, then why can I smell your pussy dripping for me?”

  “My pussy is not dripping,” I lied.

  “Oh no?”

  “Nope.” Gotta maintain the lie, even when neither of us believe me.

  He wrapped one hand around the back of my neck, his thumb brushing through the flyaway hairs at the nape escaping from my bun. His other hand, where was his other hand?

  OH.

  Oh shit.

  Ohhhh….

  Well…dammit.

  His other hand was sneaking beneath the hem of my skirt and stealing upward. What I should have done was get pissed at his brazenness, walk away, knock his hand down, slap him, or at least pretend to put up a fight. Instead, like a hussy, I let my thighs loosen a little as his fingers drifted slowly up to my slit. Here, again, I should have taken steps to stop his advance but, as established, I am an idiot who can’t seem control herself around assholes who only want me for sex, especially when said asshole is a godlike creature so fucking gorgeously sexy he leaves me literally gibbering incoherently.

  My legs opened for him. It was like he had some kind of goddamn key, like he knew some magic word or gesture. I really, really, really don’t normally behave like this, I swear. But Duke just…does something to me. All he had to do was get close to me, look at me with those piercing, intelligent blue eyes and I was done for. My legs just popped open like they were spring loaded or something.

  And, oh yeah, I was wet.

  Soaked.

  He slid his middle finger through the lips of my pussy, making a wet sound we both heard—I cringed, while he looked like the cat who ate the canary. God, that slide of his finger was an entire moment all by itself. A slow, deliberate journey through the dampness of my pussy. His finger moved upward, just barely brushing my clit, and even at that minor, almost accidental contact, I jerked and shuddered, and my hips flexed forward. And then, damn the man, he pulled his hand out from under my skirt and lifted his middle finger up for us both to see. His finger was glistening, wet with my juices, from the tip to the middle knuckle.

  “See, Fancy? You’re wet for me.” He stared me down as he slipped that finger into his mouth and slowly pulled it out. “I’m exactly your type, and we both know it. You just wanna deny it ‘cause you like playing games. Fine by me, Princess—I like a nice game of catch me if you can.”

  “You’re an asshole, Duke Silver,” I said, but the insult lacked sting, since I was breathless and quaking from a single touch.

  “Maybe,” he admitted, “but I’m an asshole who can give you an orgasm so fast and so hard you’ll pass out.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He leaned closer, whispering in my ear. “Is that a challenge, Fancy?”

  Yes, god yes, that’s a challenge. Make me come, Duke. Make me come so hard I pass out.

  I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I worked up all the self-control I had left, and took a step backward. “I thought we were on the run from a kingpin who wants to use you as bait?”

  “You have a point,” he agreed, and took a step back from me, and I breathed a little easier once a few feet separated us.

  He turned around and opened the case containing handguns, and I watched him choose several guns, and wondered what I’d do if he put the moves on me again.

  Probably compromise my already questionable morals.

  Actually, that wasn’t a probably or a maybe, that was a guarantee. He was too damn potent, too damn sexy, and I was too damn horny. My libido ran high as it was, then add in the fact that I’m two months into a three-month self-imposed sexual hiatus, and you have a recipe for one insanely horny Temple.

  Like…bad.

  Really bad.

  The sexual hiatus was a dumb idea, wasn’t it?

  I could break it for Duke, and then go back to no sex. Or maybe I’d have to start over, a whole new three-month break? God.

  Why am I such an idiot? And why am I so weak when it comes to sexy bad boys?

  3: HARD TO GET

  This fuckin’ girl was going to be the actual death of me. If I don’t die trying to rescue her hot yet complicated ass, I’m going to die from blue balls. For fuckin’ real, Temple had this capacity to get my cock hard as a rock without so much as touching me. I haven’t kissed her, haven’t gotten her to come yet, haven’t even seen her naked titties, yet I’m already hung up on the woman. I NEED to fuck her. It’s instinctive, primal, a physical, mental, and emotional requirement for me to continue functioning as a man. Meaning, if I don’t get her naked and riding my dick within the n
ext seventy-two hours, I might very well just combust. My balls will explode, my dick will fall off, and my man card will be permanently revoked. I’ll be useless.

  And good goddamn, she plays a hell of a game of hard to get.

  I’m good at a lot things: I can take an absolutely unreal amount of pain and keep functioning, I’m a vicious, cold-blooded killing machine on the battlefield, but keep my soul and humanity out of it, I can use nearly any weapon ever created, bladed or projectile, ancient or modern, I speak three languages fluently, and I have a master’s degree in criminal justice. Plus, I have a ten-inch cock and I’ve been known to make women come in less than three minutes—faster if I’ve got toys at my disposal.

  One thing I’m not good at is playing games with women. I don’t play games. I don’t chase them—they chase me. That’s been true for as long as I’ve been sexually active, and I popped my cherry at twelve. Bitches just want my ass, and I’m sorry if that term offends you, but it’s true. It’s always been true. A nice little grin, put some promise in my eyes, and I can have any three chicks at the bar fighting over me, and that’s a proven fact.

  But Temple Kennedy? She’s a cipher, man. I just don’t get her. She’s a reality star, so she should be all vapid and ridiculous, and she is in some ways, but she’s not dumb. Not at all. She’s spoiled, but she does what has to be done and doesn’t complain. She wants me, and she wants me hard, but she’s not letting herself. And that’s what I don’t get. We’re both adults, and neither of us is looking for anything serious. Shit, we don’t even know each other. But yet she’s resisting. I can get her off a dozen times in the same amount of minutes, and that’s before I start fucking…and that’s a reality most chicks tend to pick up on somehow, without me having to say it. I’m a goddamn champion when it comes to fucking, and nothing gives me more pleasure that making my sexual partner get off hard, fast, and frequent. So…why is she bugging about this? We can fuck, I’ll keep her tight, round ass safe and sound, deliver her back to Malibu, and that’ll be that. I get to sample a piece of one of the hottest women in the country—legit, she’s been in the GQ list of sexiest women of the year for like three years in a row. With me she’ll get the most and best orgasms of her life, guaranteed. If I was a gigolo, my shit would come with a customer satisfaction guarantee.

  But no.

  She’s playing hard to get. But I also wonder if maybe she’s not playing, that she really is that hard to get. I mean, that’s fine. Better, even, because then it means she has standards and that I meet them. Or maybe she’s scared of getting with me for some reason? I don’t know. I just don’t know. And the curiosity and doubt is killing me.

  What’s killing me more is how fucking hot she is. Those tits? Goddamn. I got a lace-obscured glimpse when I relieved her of her shirt, and that was enough to leave me salivating for more. And that mouth? Her mouth is, literally and metaphorically, something I could get hooked on: literally, her mouth is just beautiful, plump red lips in a perfect cupid’s bow, a quick, easy, sassy smile…god, I’ve got visions of that mouth wrapped around my cock running through my head the longer I’m around her; and metaphorically, her mouth…her sass, her attitude, her comebacks—those turn me on just as hard. I bet she talks dirty, like nasty dirty.

  I wonder if she’s bossy in bed, or passive? She’s got that attitude, that arrogance of a girl who’s been beyond spoiled her whole life, so I want to think she’s bossy, but sometimes those are the ones who end up being the most submissive when you get ‘em naked. I don’t mean submissive in a dom/sub way, just as an aside. I don’t do that shit; it’s just not for me. I don’t mind pain, but I don’t get off on it, whether receiving or causing. I mean, if a chick begs me to spank her or blindfold her or something, that’s one thing, but whips and gags and bondage, shit like that? Nah. I’ll take a good old-fashioned fucking, thanks.

  She stood behind me as I sorted through my selection of handguns. I had any number to choose from, but I had some old standby favorites: the Sig Sauer was great as a hideout, so that one would go on my ankle; the Glock, of course, but I also liked the Beretta, and a nice big fuckoff Desert Eagle was always good for intimidation value…

  The Desert Eagle was stupidly enormous, and distractingly loud, and hard to carry enough ammo for, so that’s staying behind. The Glock and the Beretta in twin shoulder holsters—the Glock in the left holster, Beretta in the right—with the Sig as a backup, and the HK as the main.

  Grenades? Um, probably not, since shit was likely to happen in populated areas.

  Ah, don’t forget the KA- BAR.

  Three spare mags for each pistol meant my shorts pockets were…a little full, plus two backups for the HK in my back pocket…

  I got the shoulder holsters arranged, settled the pistols in the holsters, set the HK on top of a case, and turned around to face Temple.

  “Think I’m overdoing the weapons?” I asked.

  She just blinked at me. “Um.” Her gaze flicked from pistol to pistol, then to the HK, then to my sagging pockets, and then the Sig on my ankle, just above my combat boots. “Maybe a little?”

  I frown. “Right. Lose the ankle holster, huh?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I mean, it’s a little obvious, don’t you think?”

  I glanced down. “Yeah, maybe a little.”

  I unstrapped the Sig and put it back, then grabbed the KA-BAR. It’d have to go on my belt, as it was too big for a pocket. I unbuckled my belt and whipped it off so I could thread the leather through the sheath.

  Of course, without the belt to hold up my shorts, they sagged, being full of magazines. The sagging of my shorts left me showing…a little skin, let’s say. Yeah, I go commando. Easy access, and more comfy. Underwear is stupid. Boxers are too much fabric, too loose, and uncomfortable, and briefs or boxer briefs are just too damn tight. They constrict my shit, and that’s just cruel. No underwear? No problem. Just my style, you know? The issue is that I was still rocking a semi hard-on from having my finger inside Temple’s pussy.

  God, she tasted good.

  And bang, that one thought had my dick going all the way hard.

  And it was sticking out the top of my sagging cargo shorts, showing the first couple of inches, and my tight T-shirt wasn’t doing much to hide it. Or, anything, actually.

  Temple’s eyes bugged out. “Oh. Um.”

  I saw the look in her eyes. Saw the way her thighs pressed together, saw the way she grabbed one hand with the other as if to keep herself from reaching for me.

  “Like what you see?”

  I’d finished threading the belt through the sheath, so I was left holding the belt in one hand, and my shorts with the other. Let go, and the khakis would be on the ground.

  “Nope.” She said this in a calm, unaffected voice, but her tongue flicked out and ran along her lower lip, and her eyes were locked on my cock.

  I sidled over to her. “No?” I let the shorts sag a little further, showing another inch of dick. “You don’t wanna see any more?”

  She shook her head side to side, but her eyes still hadn’t left my cock. “Nope. Don’t want to see it.”

  I stopped when I was a few inches away. “Remember what I said about not playing poker, Fancy?”

  Her eyes finally flicked up to mine. “Um. What?”

  “You’re a shitty liar, Princess.”

  Those eyes, man. Those fucking eyes. Blue as a clear summer sky, with streaks of green and hazel. They searched my eyes, then went to my cock, and then back up to my eyes.

  “Fine,” she huffed, managing to be irritated yet breathless at once. “I’m lying through my teeth.”

  I grinned at her, dropped the belt to the floor and let the shorts slide down another inch. “I like the truth, sweetheart. Good, bad, crazy, the truth is always better than bullshit.”

  She glanced down at my cock. “So hot.”

  “What is?”

  Her tongue slid along her lips, her eyebrows lowering as her eyes widened. “You. Everything about y
ou.”

  “You’re pretty goddamn sexy yourself, Temple.”

  She cast a long searching gaze at me, and then back down to my dick. “But this…it’s perfect.”

  “Those tits of yours are perfect.”

  My first estimation, back in the basement, had been that her tits weren’t huge, more of a decent handful. Now, though, having seen them in a little semi see through bra…those beauties were a lot bigger than I’d thought. It wasn’t the size of them that made them perfect though, it was their shape. High and firm, yet with enough droop and sway to make me reasonably certain they were all natural. They bounced and jiggled convincingly enough with every movement, and you can be damn sure I noticed.

  But this particular moment wasn’t about Temple’s tits, as perfect as they were, but about my very erect and ready to play cock.

  She didn’t even hear my comment about her tits, apparently. Or if she did, she didn’t respond. She just stared at my cock, tongue sticking out adorably, her considerable and lovely chest heaving as if she was having trouble breathing.

  “Temple?”

  She glanced up at me. “Hmmm?”

  Fuck it. Let’s see what she’d do.

  I let go of the shorts entirely, and they sank to the floor with a loud thunk. My cock was now on full display, all ten inches of him, hard as a rock, straining toward the ceiling.

  “You want to touch it, don’t you?” I asked, my voice low.

  “No.” She said this way too breathily for me to even try to believe her.

  I laughed. “Bzzzzt. Wrong answer.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  I boggled at her. “And why not?”

  She spoke directly to my penis, her hands unclenching from each other, reaching out tentatively. “I’m—I’m taking a break.”