Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“Stop pissing off the front desk,” he said without looking up.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He finally looked at me and scowled. “Don’t give a fuck if you’re having fun, Hawk. If she quits because she gets sick of dealing with your shit, you’ll be the one sitting at that desk. Unless you're dead.”
Nothing in his expression suggested he was joking. But I decided not to dwell on that.
“Won’t happen,” I assured him. “She loves working for me.”
“She doesn’t work for you, asshole. She works for me,” Midnight growled as he leaned back in the chair, fire burning in his eyes so briefly I wasn’t sure I’d really seen it.
“Close enough.” I dropped into the chair across from him, my muscles loose but my senses sharpened. “What’s the job?”
He slid the black folder across the desk. “Protection detail.”
My brows pulled together in irritation. “You pulled me off a critical interrogation for glorified babysitting?”
Midnight’s expression held a dark warning, and I pressed my lips together to avoid saying anything else.
As an enforcer for the club, I outranked him, but just barely. Here, though, he was my superior, and I respected the chain of authority. Plus, Midnight didn’t put up with shit from anyone. Only Fox and Maverick—our prez and VP—knew his background. Or anything that wasn’t surface-deep. To the rest of us, he was a mystery. All we knew was that he’d worked in security of some sort. He was cold, calculated, and deadly as fuck.
His tone was even and low. “If I put you on trash duty, then that’s what you’ll do, Hawk.”
I nodded.
“Besides, it’s not babysitting when it involves family. She’s Lainie’s friend.”
That shut me up. Lainie was the younger sister of our treasurer, Phoenix. And the best friend of Savage’s old lady, Tamara.
I’d take a bullet for Lainie. No questions asked. Same way I would for Tamara or any of the other women my brothers had claimed as their own. They were protected. Cherished. Nonnegotiable.
If this friend meant something to Lainie, I’d do it. But I wasn’t happy.
“This is more than bodyguard duty,” Midnight continued. He gestured to the client file. “Gemma Moffitt. Boudoir photographer. Women-only. Keeps her work encrypted and locked down, but someone cracked her system. Stole files.”
I opened the folder and flipped past the summary page.
The first image hit me like a fucking sucker punch.
A small, square ID photo in the top corner. Warm brown eyes. Heart-shaped face. Cute, pert little nose. And full, soft lips made for sin.
A thick toffee-colored braid draped over her shoulder, drawing my eyes to voluptuous tits that had my cock turning hard.
Her features had a natural softness, but something sharp was behind her gaze. A spark. Confidence and warmth wrapped in curves that made my blood go hot.
What the fuck?
I swallowed hard and flipped to the next page. There were copies of the stolen images. I studied them with an almost clinical eye. They were tastefully done—soft lighting, silhouettes, implied nudity. I looked for commonalities among them, a possible clue as to why these particular photos were chosen.
Then I reached the last one, and I felt like someone had clocked me in the solar plexus.
It was her.
Holy fucking shit.
Her head was thrown back, facing away from the camera. But I didn’t need her face to be visible to recognize that body.
My cock hardened instantly, my libido reacting like it had been waiting for this exact moment to come alive again.
I hadn’t felt this in years. Not a flicker of interest. Not even a twitch. The guys assumed it was because I hadn’t gotten over my ex, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I’d realized years ago that she wasn’t meant for me.
I’d been young and dumb back when we got engaged. Hell, it hadn’t even been my idea. Our moms had basically planned the whole thing. If we hadn’t had the longest engagement in the history of my hometown, I probably would’ve been miserably married to her now.
My years-long dry spell wasn’t me pining for her. I just hadn’t been drawn enough to a woman to put any effort in. But Gemma made my mouth water and my cock throb painfully.
My hands curled into fists as I stared at the photo. She was draped across a vintage couch wrapped in a loose white silk robe that barely clung to her shoulders. The tie was cinched just enough to draw attention to her narrow waist and wide, round hips. One leg was bent, and the robe parted just enough to show miles of smooth skin all the way to the edge of her lace panties.
Holy hell.
Her tits strained against a matching bra, the robe slipping down just enough to expose more creamy skin. The cups of the lingerie were so low I could almost see the dark area around her nipples.
I flipped back to the first page and looked at the face that I knew, without a doubt, belonged to the body in that last picture.