Negotiations (Close Contact Book 2)

T
he unauthorized reproduction
or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (
http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/
).

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

P
ublished
by MM Publishing LLC

Edited by Delilah Devlin

Proofread by Tina Rucci & Lynn Mullan

Cover Design by ProBook

N
egotiations

All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright 2016 by Megan Mitcham

First electronic publication: June 2016

Digital ISBN: 978-1-941899-26-7

T
o sweat dreams
.

P
aige clutched
a fistful of
Abercrombie-style
button-down and pivoted.

The college boy, who smelled of cheap whiskey, completed his decent headfirst to the concrete without taking her along for the ride.

Bobbing around his friends, who all looked as cute and just as wasted, she continued winding through the crowd. While most around her craned their necks toward the sky, mouths agape at the colorful spectacle of friendly little bombs, she kept her target in view. The Fourth of July crush of one million warm, Detroit bodies wasn’t enough to deter her lust for vengeance. It had been twenty-four hours since she’d been royally fucked and reaped no pleasure from the experience. Tonight, she would get release.

The security guard working the door of the City-County Building nodded at Paige’s badge, and she stomped through the lobby. She took the elevator to the top floor, walked down a corridor full of cubicle-sized offices, and saw the door labeled ROOF ACCESS in the distance. After the echo of two ground-eating strides in its direction, the door swung wide with a metal smack. Two Special Response Team members in full tactical gear strode into the hallway.

Black balaclavas obscured their faces. Kevlar and weaponry embellished their muscle bound bodies. At the sight of the blacked-out commandos, adrenaline shot through her veins, a high capacity round from a big-girl gun. All thoughts of fatigue from lack of sleep over the past forty-eight hours or the hour and a half it took warring through the crowd to get here vanished.

Shoulders back and chin up, she stopped directly in front of the two men.

“Donovan Wolfe?” Her voice conveyed too much.

Lock it down, Cline.

Two sets of eyes bloated. Double head shakes followed. The tallest of the two hitched a thumb toward the access door.

Paige inclined her head in a small gesture of thanks, and pushed past them.

One of the men cleared his throat.

“Sergeant Cline?”

“Yes?” Her boots slowed, but this close Paige couldn’t stop or even look back.

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“No.” The corners of her mouth turned up. “Call the medical examiner.”

Behind her the metal door slammed shut, cutting off the men’s oohs and chuckles.

Outside the cover of the building, an otherworldliness of the rooftop caught Paige by surprise. Height and whipping wind muted the wail of sirens and honking horns. A violent gust stole her breath and slapped a lock of blonde hair across her face. On any other night, she could lose herself up here. Tonight she couldn’t allow distractions. She pulled in a lungful of air and focused.

Two more SRT members occupied the tar-topped roof. One big mother stood, legs braced apart, leaning loosely against the building’s wide ledge where he studied the ground below through the scope of his SR-90. The other crouched his more meager, yet respectable frame on the sleek black epoxy, stowing his gear.

Coordination between the negotiator and the SRT funneled through the commander. So Paige had never met the elite leader of the Special Response Team she sought. Both men’s faces were hidden from view, yet she knew which of the two bore the name Wolfe. She’d heard through the department the former Special Forces officer always went the extra mile for his country. Here he was again, working harder than his men, leading by example.

Wasn’t he special.

Paige ignored the hint of respect that bubbled up and tried to hate him for it. Quickly, her rage came back in the form of a roar in the night.

“Donovan Wolfe!”

Her voice rang in her own ears, but the behemoth didn’t look up, didn’t shift in the slightest. For a split second she wondered if the wind carried off her demand before it could make it to his ears. His buddy’s eyes met hers in a flash before they returned to his gear and he packed the last of it in a flurry of movement.

Wolfe had heard and didn’t care.

Buddy stood, nodded at her and made for the door, calling over his shoulder to Wolfe, “Dios bendice, my man.”

Still the son of a bitch didn’t move.

The metal door slammed once more, closing the two of them out together. Against clenched fists, Paige fought the urge to close the distance at a run and check him into the ledge—or better yet pitch him over the side.

But no, this could be one of the most critical negotiations of her career, and she’d do it right. Hell, she’d talked a furious cabbie into surrendering himself and his two hostages this morning. How hard could this be?

* * *

H
e’d spotted
her in his scope an
hour ago
. Her cheeks flushed to a lovely pink from effort, and likely fury, as she used sleek arms and agile feet to weave through the festive crowd below. His cock had jumped when he’d watched her pouty mouth purse and thin as she worked her way toward him…as she came for him.

Primed as she was for a fight, he’d enjoy pushing her to her limits, preparing her body for his. From anger, to frustration, to lust. Unethical to the max, especially given the reason she was here, but fuck if he cared. For too long Donovan had watched through the distance of his scope, tempted by her fierce nature, innate skill, and a body made for indulgence. Even now, as she waited for him to move, acknowledge her presence, say something, he played her.

As leader of the SRT, he’d read every report of her negotiations since she’d started with the DPD. For the safety of his men he needed to know their negotiator was competent.

Time after time she’d impressed him with her calm authority in extreme stress situations. When others would have thrown in the towel, she hunkered down with bared teeth or kisses, whichever the situation called for. She peacefully resolved the entanglements of madness, weapons, and innocent lives. Though no negotiator liked to relinquish control and call for force, she executed the call without hesitation when necessary.

Regardless of all her ability in the field, he’d break her tonight. In the sweetest fashion, he’d make her come under him in every way possible.

The sound of quiet footsteps signaled triumph. After several minutes of stillness, save for the wind, she walked toward him. On a breeze came the smell of her. Coffee, Dial soap, and sex. He inhaled and held her inside him for as long as he could stand before letting her go. A high, similar to the one he’d felt after a tricky mission, hit hard in his chest and spread throughout his limbs.

A groan of satisfaction left his throat.

Paige’s reciprocating gasp echoed in his ears and stroked the length of his dick, increasing its pressure against his fatigues.

The group he’d been surveying finally dissipated. He eased to his full height, bringing his weapon off the ledge. Turning his back to her, Donovan walked one step to his bag and began disassembling the SR-90. He figured she’d stay planted where he’d left her, but the sight of gray boots made him smile behind his nylon veil. He laid the Robar down and stroked an ungloved hand down the barrel, his customary show of appreciation for the weapon which had allowed him to save many by taking a few. Her foot twitched like she wanted to kick the gun out of her way and snatch him up by the throat.

His smile grew.

In a flash, he was up. Not face-to-face, but chest to the air above her head. He towered over her and leaned into her space, crowding the air she consumed in a gasp. Her clear blue eyes narrowed to slits. His gaze followed the striking arch of her neck, and then slid back to the defiant glare—made fiercer, no doubt, by the telling gasp she’d let slip. Sergeant Paige Cline’s strength battled her awareness.

Not knowing which would win amplified the roar of his up-ticked pulse.

Donovan wanted her to retreat one step, so he could advance. Her man-crushing boots stuck to the tar. Challenge upon challenge, Paige prolonged his amusement.

Her lips parted. The sharply arched top one curled in a near snarl.

“Why would you fuck me like that?”

“How exactly did I fuck you?” He’d never had a high pitched voice, not even at pre-puberty, but now it sounded as though he gnashed gravel between meals.

Those plump lips mashed into a thin line between her teeth, when she, no doubt, realized her error in word choice. Blonde locks caressed her back and chest as she shook off the implication of his tone or maybe the annoyance he fueled.

“You know exactly why I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I get an explanation. You’re trying to railroad my career, and I won’t allow it.”

“Did you come?”

“What?” Paige retreated a step.

“You said I fucked you.”

After a silent moment she surged forward. Her pretty breasts lead the charge.

“I’ve been through boot camp, hell week, FBI training, and a shitty marriage. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than dirty talk to intimidate me. So, cut the crap.”

“Did you come?”

“This morning in the shower, but it had nothing to do with you.” A confident smirk played over her lips.

“Then I didn’t fuck you.” He canted his head.

“Oh?” The smack of palms against gently curved hips, drew Donovan’s gaze from her pouty mouth.

“No.” He let his gaze linger before dragging it up the swell of her breasts, and smooth column of her neck. “If I had, you’d have come again and again, and this morning in the shower you would have been thinking of me on top of you, inside you, filling you, pushing you.”

Her smirk fell, and her expression gaped. He watched as her eyes searched his, as her mind tried to calculate the situation and decide upon the best way to handle him.

Using the moment he’d built, Donovan stepped over his bag.

Given the option of being pushed over by his chest or retreat, she stepped back. Two steps of his and four on her part had her ass against the ledge. Startled, her gaze flew left and right, taking in the glittery skyline. Her head tilted down as she assessed the fall, and then she scanned the rooftop looking for a way out.

“Paige.” He snagged her attention. “Do you want to know why I want you under me?”

Again she searched, but this examination was internal. While he waited for her response, his gaze scoured her head to toe. Wet lips, heaving breasts, braced legs all begged for him.

After a time her glance locked with his.

“Yes,” she breathed.

He took a step closer, his hips crowding her against the ledge.

“Contrary to what you believe, I want you under me, with the SRT, because it will save lives. With the commander as a go-between for you, the negotiator, and me, the force team leader, there’s too much lag time in critical situations. It provides too much air and opportunity for things to go wrong. Miscommunication. Errors. Deaths of hostages, my men, you.”

He swallowed past the memories of comrades lost and the rage at watching her take a bullet.

“You like to go face-to-face with these crazy fucks, which works most of the time. But what happens when it doesn’t? I’m not hooked in your ear. The commander is. I need to be in the room, in your ear, in your head.”

Donovan pressed closer still.

“Come under me. We’ll work together. You’ll like it.” He emphasized his last point by grinding his hips against her.

A deep belly laugh rolled out of her mouth and her lips curved high.

“Men. You’re either threatened by us or in awe of us. The threatened ones want to control and the awed ones want to watch. You’re no different, soldier. You hate that I call the shots at a scene and see an opportunity to change that. Well, I have oodles more training in psych and for negotiations than you, and you won’t issue orders to me.”

Yes, he would, and she’d follow them. She’d beg for them.

Donovan planted a palm on either side of the ledge, pinning her in place. Her hands didn’t come up to shove him away, which he took as consent. Slowly, he leaned in, passing her lips by a whisper as he moved to her ear. Just below her lobe he bit lightly into her neck and felt the dull thud of her escalating heartbeats. The balaclava’s fabric created a protective barrier, and then friction, as he slowly scraped his teeth down her neck, over her collarbone, across her breast to her nipple.

When he bit down through the layers of fabric, she moaned and arched her slender torso against his mouth. Finding it already engorged, he slipped her nipple farther between his teeth, bit down and pulled, sliding the tender flesh through his bite from base to tip. He copied the move time and again. With each pass he intensified the pressure. With each pass her nipple hardened to a stout peak. Shit, but he wanted to taste her.

High keens rang in his ear. Moist breaths panted from her open mouth, seeped through the balaclava, and clung to his cheek. Right where he wanted her—well, not exactly, but getting there—Donovan straightened.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

Paige jumped at the barked order.

Her jaw firmed for the briefest of seconds, and then she shuddered.

“I don’t know what you think this is going to prove.”

“Maybe nothing. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want it.” He jerked his chin toward her chest. “Unbutton it.”