Fuck yeah, she screamed, calling him every despicable name she could muster. But her verbal abuse only made him hotter. He loved how her tongue slurred over the vowels, her lilting voice and moaning cries rising up and down like notes on a musical scale.
If he thought she’d made him hard before, it was nothing compared to the excruciating grip of her tight little hole. She kept trying to finger herself, but he wouldn’t allow it. He slapped her hand away. She hit him back and ended up coming without the stimulation.
She climaxed just from the stretch of his cock in her ass, soaking his balls, his legs. He shoved a hand between her thighs. Holy fuck, she was a squirter.
Another first for him.
His orgasm crashed into him, and he exploded like a goddamn fire hose, filling her with more come than he’d ever shot before and with such ferocity that he collapsed on the ground in a pile of exhaustion and astonishment.
Straightening, she stretched her arms overhead and rolled her neck. Thick globs of milky white slithered down her inner thighs, her perfect ass welted from his hands and coated in sand.
She wasn’t embarrassed by any of it as she turned to face him. Her posture radiated pleasure and contentment.
The image of every man’s wildest fantasy.
He’d wasted a lot of goddamn years fucking only young women.
Rylee was so far past modesty, bashful awkwardness, and indecisive teetering. Whether she was confident in her skin or mature enough not to give a fuck, she stood before him, gloriously naked, covered in savage bites, and smiled.
It was the first time she genuinely smiled at him.
Christ, he felt it.
Everywhere.
“I have a newfound appreciation for the desert. Best sex of my life.” She walked away, wobbly on her legs and sexier than ever.
What they just did, it was destructive. But the twisted, fucked-up aspects of it had made it so much more passionate. They hated each other, and he might just kill her before this situation was resolved.
But he agreed with her. She was the best sex he’d ever had.
He joined her at the rear of the Jeep and lifted the second water container, pouring it over her as she washed her body. Then she held it over him while he did the same.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. But their gazes touched and held, never shying away.
It wasn’t awkward or normal or hopeful or angry.
It just…was.
When all the sand and body fluids were rinsed away, they pulled on their jeans. Her tank-top was ruined, so she stole his shirt.
He allowed it because seeing her in his clothes satisfied some weird, territorial instinct he refused to analyze. It was too soon.
They packed up the Jeep and drove back to the house in sated silence. He didn’t shackle her. She didn’t know how to drive a manual transmission—a prediction he’d guessed accurately when he’d put her in the vehicle this morning.
Yesterday, Cole hid her truck in a storage unit and bought this Jeep in a nearby town. They still didn’t know who was watching her, if she was working with anyone, or if she was as clueless as she claimed to be.
Someone connected to NSA or black ops had put high-tech bugs in her house. That someone had an unnerving interest in who she was fucking. And now Tomas was on the list.
Was her ex-husband stalking her? Her neighbor? Or someone less obvious? Whether or not it was her intention, she’d led that someone directly to him and Cole.
That made him edgy, especially as he neared his property.
The house came into view, and he slowed, shading his eyes and scrutinizing every inch of the perimeter. Cole was still gone, as expected. Nothing appeared off-kilter.
“You’re tense.” She twisted in the seat, watching him. “Do you think we’re in danger?”
“You led trouble to my front door.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that, but I can’t figure out how or why anyone would be interested in me.”
He was interested in her. Begrudgingly. Insanely. She’d sneaked beneath his skin, and if he wasn’t careful, his attraction to her would become irreversible.
Parking the Jeep, he shut off the engine. As he stepped out, the distant purr of a motor reached his ears. He went still, his senses firing.
“What is it?” She followed his gaze to the horizon, shielding her eyes with a hand.
The engine grew closer, louder. Not throaty enough to be Cole’s motorcycle.
“Get in the house.” Pulse quickening, he lunged toward the glove box, unlocking it and removing a pistol.
She didn’t move.
“Now.” He slammed a palm against her butt, sending her in motion.
The sounds of her footsteps moved toward the door, and it slammed shut behind her. She better keep her nosy ass inside.
A black truck emerged on the horizon. Newer model. Expensive.
He concealed the gun in his boot and straightened his spine.
As the vehicle advanced, he saw only one occupant. A male driver. Texas tags on the truck. Not a local, though. The man was wearing a white collared shirt and black tie. No one around here owned a suit or drove a fancy truck.
The pistol sat heavily against his calf. If Rylee hadn’t taken his shirt, he would’ve concealed the weapon in his waistband for easier access.
As the vehicle stopped a few yards away, Tomas leaned against the Jeep, arms folded across his clawed-up chest, and waited like a bored, rural redneck with nothing but time on his hands.
A mid-thirties man stepped out and directed his mirrored aviator sunglasses at him. Lean cheeks, clean-shaved jaw, aristocratically straight nose, ink-black hair worn high and tight—all of it lent him the air of official business.
He reeked of law enforcement. Probably a small-town detective, dressing for the job he wanted rather than the dead-end job he was stuck with.
Only one of two reasons would interest him enough to drive all the way out here. Paul Kissinger or Rylee Sutton. Both missing.
Except Rylee took a sabbatical from work and claimed she told no one she was coming here. The jury was still out on whether she was lying.
“Mr. Dine?” The man strode forward, flashing his shiny, self-important badge. “I’m Detective Hodge.”
Tomas spat a wad of phlegm in the sand and glared.
“You’re the owner of this property?” The detective paused a few feet away and peered at him over his lowered sunglasses. “Are you Tomas Dine?”
“Yep.”
“I’m following up on a missing-persons report. Got a call that Rylee Sutton was spotted at your residence.”
Spotted by whom? Paul Kissinger? The bastard must’ve notified someone that the tracker on her truck stopped here. That, or someone else was tracking her truck.
“If she was seen here,” he drawled, playing the part of a moronic cowboy, “then she ain’t missing, is she?”
Any moment, she was going to burst out the front door and run off her mouth about being beaten and held captive. Then he would have to shoot the detective and bury another body.
But he wasn’t a cop killer. There had to be another way.
“I’m looking for Rylee Sutton.” Detective Hodge cocked his head. “Age forty-one. Brown hair. Gray eyes. Tiny little thing. Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous? Is that in the official description, detective?”
“Well, it’s the truth.” The detective stood taller. “Have you seen her?”