Stripped, page 12
Still moving to the music, she arched up onto her toes as much as her heels would allow. “Did you wear that cologne on purpose?” she shouted into his ear, echoing his earlier question about her dress. He pulled back slightly, one eyebrow inching up as a smile spread across his face, seductive and slow.
She’d been keeping her arms by her sides, not touching more than she had to, but at that smile, she reached up and wound her arms around his neck. Wanting him closer. Wanting more. He dropped his hands to her hips, pulling her to him. She let out a tiny gasp when she felt him pressed against her, hard and thick beneath his jeans. She ground against him, earning a low, gruff sound from him, and felt her panties slide against her, soaked. Her clit throbbed for attention, for friction, and she rolled her hips against him again, whimpering. His hands tightened on her hips, his features tight with hunger.
“The way you’re looking at her is really good!” Suddenly Amelia was right there, almost in between them, nodding her approval.
Brooke dropped her hands back down to her sides. Shit. For a moment, she’d completely forgotten about Amelia and Jack.
Sawyer glanced around. “Where’s Jack?” He took his hands off her, and despite the heat of the bodies around her, she felt suddenly cold.
Amelia jerked her thumb over her shoulder. Brooke looked past her to see Jack dancing with two gorgeous women several feet away.
“What happened to the waitress, Celia?” asked Brooke.
Amelia shrugged. “Same thing that happens to all of Jack’s women.”
“I didn’t realize he was such a wham bam thank you ma’am kind of guy.”
Amelia shrugged again, frowning slightly. “I have a feeling he’s not the one saying thank you.” She turned her attention to Sawyer, poking him in the arm. “You’re a way better dancer than I gave you credit for. Look at poor Brooke! She’s all flushed and flustered.”
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Brooke took a step back and tugged her skirt down. Amelia wasn’t wrong; she was all flushed and flustered, and even though dancing with him and getting turned on felt good—so damn good—it wasn’t a good thing.
“I . . . I need some water,” she stammered out, turning toward the bar and pushing her way through the crowd. “God, so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chastised herself as she looked for an open space at the packed bar. She’d let herself get caught up in the moment, caught up in the act Sawyer was putting on. Let the feel of his body against hers obliterate everything else, including all the reasons they couldn’t happen.
She ordered her water, and standing over here, a safe distance away from Thunderdick Thor, all of her reasons for keeping her distance felt so much more logical. So much more concrete. He was off-limits. He was a jerk. He was a distraction. She huffed out a breath, biting her lip. She really hated that he’d been right about that last part.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered again, taking a sip of her water.
“Hey baby,” came a slimy male voice to her right. She felt fingers on her arm and instinctively jerked it away, sloshing a bit of water over the rim of her plastic cup. An overly tanned man in his late twenties stood there staring at her with a creepy grin on his face. He wore a white button down and black pants, both garments a little too big for him. He moved closer to her, his eyes hovering on her breasts. “Wanna sit on my face?”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Fuck off,” she said casually, as though he’d asked her what time it was.
The man grabbed her arm. “That’s not very ladylike. Maybe someone needs to teach you some manners.”
She’d been about to break his hold on her arm—between her black belt in kickboxing and her police training, she was more than capable of handling herself—but she didn’t get the chance. Sawyer appeared and shoved the man in the chest, sending him stumbling back a few feet.
“You heard the lady,” he said, putting himself between Brooke and the scumbag. “Fuck off.” Sawyer crossed his impressive arms over his chest and stared down at the man, not saying another word. The man stared at him for a second, but then shook his head, scurrying away and taking his probably teeny tiny dick with him.
“I had that under control. I was handling it,” she said when he turned to face her.
“You’re here with me. You shouldn’t have to handle anything.”
Their eyes met and something in her softened at the possessive, protective heat in his gaze. She swallowed thickly and took another sip of her water, needing to cool off. Because she was suddenly thinking how good it would feel to actually be with someone like Sawyer. Someone confident and protective and amazing in bed. Someone with a surprising sense of humor. A man’s man who could take care of her, in every sense of the word.
So stupid.
The corner of his mouth kicked up and he reached for her clutch.
“What are you doing?” she asked, frowning up at him.
“Looking for the douchebag magnet you must have hidden in there.”
She bit back her smile and held her clutch out, suddenly slapping it against his arm and pretending it was stuck to him. “Hey, whaddya know? It works.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling, and her insides softened, all warm and sweet like melted butter. “Nice try, but I’m not a douchebag. I’ll own up to asshole, maybe even caveman. But not douchebag.” He pointed at a greasy-looking guy in a mesh tank top who was trying to grind with various women, none of whom wanted anything to do with him. “Now that’s a douchebag.”
She cocked her head. “Agreed. Fine. You’re not a douchebag. Just an asshole caveman.”
His lips twitched. “Don’t get all sweet on me, Simmons.”
She bit her lip and smiled up at him, and then pressed her fingers to her mouth, her jumbled emotions making every word, every action feel fraught with meaning.
He opened his mouth to say something, but then Amelia was there, tugging at his arm. She had a weird look on her face and her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying. “I’m gonna head home. You’re good with the dancing, but if you need help coming up with a routine just let me know, okay? Jack’s over there somewhere, I think,” she said, waving her hand toward the far corner of the VIP area, where a grouping of couches sat. She cleared her throat and toyed with her ring. “I’ve had enough fun for tonight.”
Sawyer nodded. “We can walk you out.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I already ordered an Uber. Should be here any minute. You guys . . .” A sadness shone in her eyes and she cleared her throat again. “Have fun. I’ll see you.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and wove her way through the crowd.
“Should we go with her?” Brooke asked, frowning as she stared at Amelia’s quickly retreating back.
Sawyer shook his head. “No, let her go. I had a feeling the party atmosphere might be too much for her.”
An ache took root in Brooke’s chest as she thought of what Amelia had lost. Not only the man who’d loved her, but the entire future she’d had laid out before her. Ripped away by Ernesto Hernandez. Bringing down Baracoa wouldn’t just get justice for Ryan; it’d be for Amelia too.
“I think I need more practice,” said Sawyer, bringing her back to the present. Oh, God. More dancing was probably a really bad idea, and yet it didn’t feel like a bad idea. Nothing felt bad with him standing so close, looking at her like she was the only woman in the club. As though he could sense her hesitation—hell, he knew all the reasons it was a bad idea too—he took her hand and led her back out onto the dance floor.
He pulled her close immediately, his arms going around her waist, and it was as if they’d picked up exactly where they’d left off. Her skin warmed and tingled and an achy throb started up between her legs.
She slid her hands up his chest, then wound her arms around his neck. He was so big, so strong and solid. Even though she didn’t need him to protect her, there was something immensely appealing in the thought that he could. It made her feel . . . safe. And feminine. As they moved to the music, she traced her fingers over his smooth jaw and he smiled at her. God, he was so devastatingly gorgeous when he smiled. He turned his head and brushed his lips against her palm, sending tingling sparks up her arm.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whisper-shouted into his ear.
His hands dipped lower, his fingers brushing the top of her ass. “I know.”
It was risky—what if Jack saw them?—but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away from him, justifying somewhere in the recesses of her lust-addled mind that they were just dancing.
Right. And Mount Everest was just a hill.
Her eyes fluttered closed and she rocked against him, her clit throbbing almost angrily. Needy for him. As though he could read her mind, he slipped his muscled thigh between hers, and with his hands on her ass, ground it against her.
“Yes,” she moaned out, hoping that the music had snatched the needy sound away. The throbbing intensified, and she tipped her head back, letting him guide her movements as he worked his thigh between her legs. He gave her ass a squeeze, his palms hot against her, and she swiveled her hips, deepening the grind.
“How was your date with Jensen?” Sawyer’s voice rumbled in her ear.
She opened her mouth to tell him that it hadn’t really been a date, not in any official sense, but he chose that minute to work her up and down his thigh, intensifying the throb between her legs. Making her feel empty and achy for him.
“Fine,” she managed. She traced her hands up and down his chest, rediscovering its muscled contours with the tips of her fingers.
He gave her ass another squeeze. “Just fine? That doesn’t sound very promising.”
She shook her head. “I can’t think right now.”
“Fuck, me neither,” he growled before burying his face in her neck. He kissed the skin just below her ear and then worked his way lower, his mouth hot and urgent against her. Everything inside her tightened at the feel of his lips on her skin, and she let her head fall to the side, giving him better access. If they were caught like this, it could ruin their careers, and yet in that moment, with Sawyer’s mouth and hands on her, she couldn’t bring herself to worry. His grip on her tightened and his movements started to lose their finesse as he kissed her neck, his teeth scraping against her. He nipped at her earlobe, giving it a gentle tug with his teeth that sent sparks of need shooting straight down to her core.
“I think about you constantly, Brooke. About us,” he said, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, causing her to shiver despite the heat swirling through her. Her legs shook a little with how much she wanted him. He was the only man she’d ever met who had the ability to turn her on like this. He sucked on the spot just below her ear, and she arched into him. “You see what you do to me?” His voice was low and rough as he took one of her hands and guided it back down his chest, not stopping at the waistband of his jeans this time but letting it rest on the impressive bulge straining against his zipper. “I’m hard as fucking concrete because of you.”
He pulled his head from her neck and she met his eyes, wondering if hers were as glazed with desire as his. “Shit,” she said, rubbing her palm over the ridge in his jeans. “If someone found out about this, we could be fired, and yet I can’t stop wanting you, and I hate it, and—”
His mouth closed over hers, stealing the rest of her words with his kiss. With a moan, she opened for him instantly, slipping her arms around his waist. His tongue slid against hers, liquefying every bone in her body. He left one hand on her ass, bringing the other up to her face, cupping her cheek. She rocked her body against him, deepening the kiss, and he slid his hand into her hair and tugged gently, sending tiny zings of pleasure dancing across her scalp.
God, it was so wrong, but she would never get enough of the way he kissed. Rough and demanding in a way that she’d never have guessed she’d like. As though he was trying to claim her with just his mouth. She nipped at his lower lip, giving some of that roughness back to him, and he groaned, a deep, gruff sound that made her want to find out what else she could to do him to make him groan like that.
He broke the kiss, his hand still tangled in her hair. “I can feel how wet you are,” he said, working his thigh against her. He dipped his head, kissing her neck as she practically writhed against him. “You’re soaked for me, aren’t you, Brooke?”
She whimpered and pulled his mouth back to hers, needing more. Knowing it was a mistake, it was stupid, and risky, but unable to stop herself. The kiss was slower and deeper this time, as though they were settling into each other after the frenzy of the first kiss. Her senses were alive with him, flooded with Sawyer. His scent, his taste. The sound of those low, gruff moans as his mouth worked against hers. The feel of his solid, muscled body.
He broke the kiss again. “I’m sorry I tried to get you kicked off the team.”
His words were like ice water, instantly cooling her overheated system. What was she doing? Not only had this man tried to sabotage her career, but now she herself was risking everything she’d worked for by crossing a line with her partner.
Panic clawed at her chest, and she stepped back from Sawyer, needing some space away from him and the way he somehow managed to consume her.
“This was a mistake,” she said, not knowing what else to do but run. She turned and Sawyer’s fingers closed around her wrist, pulling her gently back toward him. He didn’t say anything, his eyes holding hers. “I have to go.” She hoped he understood that she meant please let me go. Because if he didn’t, she didn’t trust herself not to get swept up in him and do something colossally stupid. After a moment he did let her go, confusion, and concern, and lust all shining out at her from his gorgeous blue eyes.
She pushed her way through the crowd and into the cool night air, leaving the club and Sawyer behind.
Where they belonged.
Chapter Eight
That weekend, gravel crunched beneath the tires of Sawyer’s truck as he wound his way up the unpaved road, Eric Church playing quietly from the stereo as he put more distance between himself and the city and all the shit he’d decided to leave behind for a couple of days. Pine trees stretched toward the blue sky on either side of him, beams of sunlight slanting through the needled branches. He slowed as he followed the road, and the trees started to thin, the gravel giving way to dirt. A clearing rose up before him and his family’s log cabin came into view. A lacquered wood sign with the name Matthews stood at the edge of the clearing, and he smiled to himself as he drove slowly past. He remembered making that sign with his dad and his brothers over two decades ago, fighting with Hunter over getting to use the electric sander.
The log cabin, built by his father and grandfather about thirty years ago, wasn’t big or fancy. It was less than a thousand square feet in total, but it had electricity and indoor plumbing, and stood on a quiet piece of land on the southern shore of Carters Lake. For Sawyer, it had always been a peaceful, happy place, and given everything that had happened over the past month, he’d found himself wanting to come up. He needed a couple of days away from the city to get his head straight, and given that the cabin was less than two hours north of Atlanta, spending his weekend off at the lake was a no-brainer. He and his brothers all used the cabin regularly, but given his proximity, Sawyer probably used it the most. His parents still used it, but not nearly as much as they once did.
The cabin was a place that felt like home. A place where the weight of the world felt a little less heavy. Where life felt a little less complicated. And right now, that was exactly what he needed. A couple of days here would give him the space to detangle everything—the undercover op and the potential link to Baracoa, Brooke, still missing the shit out of Ryan.
He parked his truck beside the cabin and hopped out, pulling in a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was warm, but the breeze was crisp, and while the leaves hadn’t started to change yet, now that it was early October, Sawyer knew it’d only be a matter of weeks before they all exploded in color. Hopefully he’d be able to come back up for that. Keys in hand, he grabbed his duffel and the cooler full of groceries from the bed of his truck. He’d come back for the fishing gear later, after he’d settled in. He felt a welcome calm wash over him at just the thought of getting out on the lake. October wasn’t great for fishing—bass season was pretty much over, and it was still too warm for rainbow trout—but he didn’t care. This weekend wasn’t about catching something—he’d brought burgers and steak and chicken, so he and Logan wouldn’t starve if the fish weren’t biting. It was about unplugging and getting away from it all. Letting the peace of being outdoors work out some of his tension, maybe help him find some clarity.
Considering he felt like he was carrying around a metric fuckton of tension these days, a little fishing was exactly what he needed. As he walked up to the porch, he glanced out at the lake, shimmering blue and rippling in the breeze. The cabin sat on the top of a gently sloping hill, and a set of wooden stairs led down to the dock, where Hunter’s black aluminum fishing boat sat.
The breeze picked up, rustling through the black oak trees. A bluebird chirped from somewhere above and the lake lapped gently against the dock. The tightness in Sawyer’s shoulders started to melt away. This was exactly what he needed. Just him and his brother, the lake, the fish, and fresh, clean air.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, dropping his stuff in the entryway. It had been a few weeks since anyone had last been up here, so he moved from room to room, opening windows to freshen up the stale air.
The cabin was rustic, with wood plank floors, bead board walls and heavy beams crossing the ceiling. The main room at the front served as both living room and dining room, with a small L-shaped kitchen running along the back. A beat-up forest-green leather couch sat in the living room—the same couch that had been in his family’s living room when he was a kid. A simple coffee table—one of Logan’s high school shop projects—stood in front of it. A pair of worn armchairs flanked the wood-burning stove.
