Slow Heat (18 page)

She’d barely made it to a sitting position and braced her hands behind her to help her maintain the position. Micah had inched to the edge of the bed and stripped off his shirt. She almost cried over the perfect specimen of a man he revealed to her. He stood, undid his jeans, then shoved them down powerful, muscular legs. It took him only a moment to fully undress. Micah paraded before her, showing off sculptured shoulder and arm muscles, ripped abs, a rock-hard stomach, and an even harder cock that was thick and long and jutting forward as he stepped around the bed.

Maggie didn’t give a damn if he promised her the moon and stars or a simple pebble off the beach. She rolled to her side, watched him open a narrow wooden drawer in a not-so-sturdy-looking nightstand and pull out a thin box of condoms. It looked as if this might be the first time he’d opened the box. Her pussy ignited with feverish need and she reached for him.

“I want to touch it first,” she whispered, with no idea where her sudden wave of confidence came from. Possibly knowing Micah wasn’t out sleeping around, which she surmised from the unopened package of condoms, helped. Maybe he’d just bought more, but Maggie didn’t dwell on that as much as the realization that either way, he was with her now, and she wasn’t going to decide right now how soon she would let him go.

When she reached out, Micah took her hand and held it as she wrapped her fingers around his cock. “Damn it,” he whispered.

The sense of power from just watching his entire body tense felt better than she’d ever imagined it would. Maggie brushed her fingertips over the velvety smooth, loose flesh that moved with her touch over his swollen dick.

She tried using her free hand to inch her underwear past her thighs. Micah’s breathing was coming hard and when he was ready, she wanted to be ready for him.

“Darling,” he rumbled.

For some reason she loved how guttural his voice sounded when she pushed him. As gently as he’d taken her hand and helped wrap her fingers around his shaft, Micah was rough when he shoved her hand away from him. His eyelids had been at half-mast, and suddenly they were wide open. Maggie got the acute sensation the demons that hovered under the surface of Micah’s confident exterior had just returned. His look was wild when he stared at her.

She didn’t quite yelp when he lifted her by one arm. Maggie hurried to cooperate and assist when Micah turned her, unzipped the short zipper at the back of her dress, then flipped her back to face him. He grabbed the material at both sides, pulled it off her, and tossed it to the side. He was just as rough in removing her underwear. Maggie was on fire. She loved it.

“Come here,” she whispered as she collapsed onto her back and reached for him.

Micah came to her but not exactly as she imagined. He positioned himself between her legs, grabbed her thighs, and lifted her rear end off the bed. Adjusting her where he wanted her, his cock pressed into her heat, parting her soaked folds and immediately easing inside her. He lowered his mouth to hers and as greedily as a child would take candy, she took his mouth and kissed him.

“My sweet Maggie, I promise to give you everything I have to offer.”

She didn’t have time to digest his possible meaning when he buried his dick inside her. He moved deep, filling and stretching her. Micah didn’t take his time, or slow down and worry he’d come too soon and not satisfy her. As confident as he was in every other aspect of his life, he was the same when fucking her.

Micah receded and impaled. He took her flames of passion to new heights, satisfying then creating unbearable new urges. Maggie came harder than she’d come before.

It was the first time they’d had sex, but Micah knew exactly how to fuck her. She came, then the second time exploded even harder.

“How do you know?” she demanded, panting so hard she could barely speak.

“Because you tell me.”

Micah flicked her nipple with his finger and thumb as he fused their mouths together and kissed away her ability to think. After that she lost track of how many times she came.

Even as she ran her hands over his chest, exhilarated in his coiled chest hair, and lingered over an occasional scar, her brain charged with electrified energy allowing her to think only about how he fucked her. She might have worried that she wouldn’t remember every inch of his body, but with the orgasms Micah gave her she didn’t care. And when that final release tore through her, and she stared at the flat silver medallion hanging around Micah’s neck, Saint Michael the avenger of warriors, Maggie suddenly understood the man inside her.

Chapter Seven

“I just got off the phone with Penelope.” Haley sat in the truck next to Micah.

Ben was riding with King. On cases like these, where KFA chased down and hauled in someone intentionally hiding out and trying to dodge them, King had started riding with Ben shotgun. King was teaching the kid the ropes, and his faith in Ben having his felony expunged seemed to generate incredible confidence in the kid.

“I think she’s Jorge’s aunt. I’m not sure,” Haley continued. “But Jorge left her apartment just fifteen minutes ago. He wanted money and she wouldn’t give him any.”

“He’s on foot?” Greg King spoke through the speakerphone on Haley’s cell phone, which she held in her hand.

“Yup.” Haley held her hand out toward Micah. “Slow down here,” she said softly, searching out the window. “There, building fifteen. He’s got to be close,” she said a bit louder into the phone.

“We park,” her husband announced and the truck Ben and King were in pulled to the side of the road in front of them. Tall, square brick apartments, building after building the same, spread over a few blocks. “Jones, you’re out with me.” King said something to Ben that wasn’t quite audible through the phone. More than likely he told the kid to hang tight and that his chance would come soon. Ben was lucky to have a mentor like King.

Micah stopped the truck, shoved it into park, and cut the engine. Haley was out on her side at the same time he climbed out and shut his door. Meeting her at the front of the truck, Micah searched between the buildings. Jorge couldn’t have gotten that far.

“He’s five-six, one hundred and thirty pounds, with curly long black hair.” Haley pulled out the snapshot they’d been provided of Jorge Gutierrez sent to them by the bonding agency when the man missed two court dates and wasn’t showing up for meetings with his parole officer. “Aunt Penelope, our source, says he just left the building right there,” she continued after handing the picture of Jorge to Micah. “Fifteen minutes.” She turned slowly, looking around them. “He’s small and thin. He probably can run pretty fast.”

“Only if he has reason to,” Micah pointed out.

Haley helped her husband into his bulletproof vest. Micah already had his on. He handed the picture back to Haley then stepped out from in between the two trucks. He squinted against the afternoon sun as he began walking and looking for their guy.

King came up alongside him and remained quiet as the two men left Haley and Ben at the trucks and started moving around the buildings. A shot ricocheted off the side of one of the buildings. King dove to the ground, reaching for Micah and yanking him down next to him.

“Live fire—check in.” There was urgency in Haley’s voice but she spoke softly through the speakerphone King had attached to his collar.

Instead of confirming he was okay, Micah patted King’s arm and pointed through a row of buildings with hedges lining each one. There was someone hunched against the brick building at the end of one of the rows of hedges. Instead of talking, Micah remained on all fours and tapped King’s arm again. He gestured that he was heading toward the building. King nodded, gave the go-ahead, then responded to his wife, keeping his voice low.

Micah moved in a crab-like position, hurrying to close in on whoever it was sitting flush with the building. Another shot was fired, and it sounded like an older woman started wailing in Spanish. Micah spoke more languages than he’d admit to anyone. The woman was yelling that someone had just fired a gun. She wasn’t hurt.

Someone would call 911, though, if they hadn’t already. Micah would be damned if the LAPD got credit for bringing in his man. He moved between two buildings, keeping low, and aware that the man he’d suspected as Gutierrez was no longer sitting on the ground. Micah straightened slowly when he reached the location where the man had been hiding.

Three-story, square brick apartment buildings, all identical, with even the shrubbery and sidewalks around them appearing the same, were spread out in equal distances on both sides of Micah. He stared at the ground, focusing on where it looked like the man’s heels had created crescent-shaped indentations. Glancing toward the brick wall, Micah imagined where Gutierrez had leaned against it. He would have pushed forward with his hands, slid his feet back to stand …

Micah studied the ground a moment longer, then saw it. A slight impression in the ground, and a dusty footprint on the sidewalk.

“You went this way,” he hissed under his breath, and broke into a hard run.

There was another round of gunfire. It wasn’t directed at Micah. He slowed, reached the end of the next building, and pressed his back against the rough brick exterior. He heard sirens in the distance.

“Fuck,” he hissed, and shot hurried looks to his right and left, trying to guess which way the bastard had run. Gutierrez had a partner in crime, possibly even Aunt Penelope. But Micah had seen the little prick and his ass would be in cuffs before the cops showed up.

He scanned the rows of apartment buildings in either direction. Hunting a man wasn’t a guessing game. The most experienced criminals too often made fatal errors. Micah had spent much of his career as an assassin learning what those errors were. He narrowed his focus, staring at the ground just ahead of him.

“Gotcha,” he whispered, and eased up against the closest building. Once his back was flush with the brick wall, he slowly raised his head, wishing he’d brought sunglasses. “Gutierrez, you impress me after all,” he muttered under his breath.

His gaze traveled up the drainpipe along the corner of the building in front of him. Gutierrez had made it almost to the top of the building but hadn’t anticipated the lip right before the roof, blocking his way to the top.

Micah pulled his gun from his holster, relaxed his body against the brick wall behind him, and straightened his arm as he aimed above him. Hard footsteps coming close forced his attention from his target, and at the same time grabbed Gutierrez’s focus.

“Don’t do it,” Micah called out as Gutierrez aimed a gun at King.

King had just rounded the other end of the building where Gutierrez clung to the drainpipe flush with the fourth floor. He skidded to a stop and ducked around the corner just as a bullet slammed into the ground where he’d been standing.

Micah’s warning yell gave away his presence and Gutierrez swung on the drainpipe, firing at Micah and sliding down it with skilled agility. The man had to be a gymnast. No one moved that quickly outside a four-story building without some kind of prior training.

“Give it up, Gutierrez,” Micah yelled and aimed at the man.

“Shoot, no kill!” King’s voice bellowed between the buildings.

Micah adjusted his aim and fired. Gutierrez howled, crumpling, and fell the remaining feet to the ground. King and Micah raced toward him.

“Motherfucker!” Gutierrez snarled as he rolled toward Micah. The asshole fired.

Micah fired at the same time.

*   *   *

Patty, KFA’s office manager, stared at Micah from across her desk. She sat with her back straight as a board, her fingers laced together, and her palms flat on her desk in front of her. When he was about to scream for her to quit staring at him, Patty sighed, stood, and walked around her desk. If she came anywhere near him he would tell her exactly where she could stick her drama-queen act, not caring how badly he hurt her feelings.

“You’re going to drink some coffee,” Patty announced, as if his well-being was truly her concern. “And if you don’t let me look at that arm, I swear I’m going to call nine-one-one.”

Micah stood, towering over her, and started toward the door to the KFA office. “Let King know I’ll be out back when he checks in.” He let the office door close behind him, and shut out Patty’s protests that he get back inside and let her take care of him.

There wasn’t a person on this planet who knew how to take care of Micah—well, maybe there was one. He put some speed into his walk as he rounded the side of the Kings’ home, passed their backyard, and finally reached the beach. He tucked his left arm against his chest. Micah didn’t have to bother looking to know he had a minor flesh wound that wouldn’t slow him down a bit. The level of pain was damn near nonexistent compared with other gunshot wounds and injuries he’d endured over the years. He would be fine.

What would it be like having Maggie cleanse my wounds and take care of me?

It would be ridiculous because he didn’t have
wounds,
at least nothing to worry about. It was a fucking flesh wound, a scratch that would burn for a while; then he’d be fine. Nothing to be fussed over. He needed a clear head. Letting Maggie, or anyone for that matter, fuss over him would be a distraction.

If anything, he needed a good lecture for being so damn sloppy. Micah trudged around the backside of the property fence that surrounded the Kings’ property. Standing with his back to the fence, he crossed his arms over his chest and refused to wince against the pain. He got what he deserved. King had said shoot, no kill. He hadn’t said just scratch the asshole so he could still fire back.

Micah’s grandpa used to tell him, “Let a woman get too close and you’ve got the worst distraction God ever put on this earth.” Grandpa Mulligan would stand with his legs spread, his big, burly hands planted firmly on either side of his waist, and Micah used to do his best to imitate the stance.

“You know what distractions cause, right, boy?” his grandpa would demand. “That’s right,” he would grumble and pat Micah on the head whether he said the answer or not. “Distractions cause death.”