Captured

2. Liam

LIAM

The despicable privilege of living through hell is knowing that you can.

Five years post-Iraq and this current job was taking candy from a baby. Not only that, but my captive was easy on the eye.

Escaping from an M1Abrams tank fire with half my face intact meant I could survive anything. The punk in his black leather jacket posed no threat, not by a long shot. I could smell his fear despite the dead animal he wore on his back as a tough-guy disguise. It didn’t conceal s**t. The way he jiggled his knee even as he attempted to hit on the smoking hot female; my escapee. This was a guy who moved through life scared shitless, and I was a dude who wasn’t scared of s**t.

Place your bets.

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity, and this guy wasn’t at all ready for the perfect f*****g storm that was coming his way. I rested with my back against the wall for a minute, and could feel the bass beat thumping at my shoulder blades, warning me that frightened animals could be as treacherous as the most powerful in the jungle. His wish to assert dominance over someone, anyone, to prove he wasn’t as weak as he looked oozed out of his pores like perspiration. His lack of self-confidence made him willing to prove himself in inappropriate ways.

Like the way he tried to lay his arm over her shoulder, uninvited. The way he still pushed when she said she wasn’t interested. These impulses of his might turn ugly, in a private setting where I wasn’t standing at his back, blocking him from exerting his will.

My pulse quickened and with clenched teeth, I tapped him on the shoulder when he moved his stool closer to hers. I anchored my hand on my hip when he jumped and reemphasized that the lady wasn’t interested. A bully can’t abide meeting someone of equal or greater strength. Nine times out of ten, a bully is a coward in disguise. Sure enough, he scuttled away from us like a crab back under its rock, and disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor. I took my place next to her.

When she spoke, it felt like warm massage oil pouring over my c**k. The thought of her stroking me with oil chased every coherent thought from my brain and drove all the blood to my groin. I hadn’t ever been this greedy for a woman.

Sure, I relieved certain biological urges at the b**m club, scratching an itch at the only social place I ever visited. I knew how I looked. For that reason it was easier to stick to myself, the only exception being the fugitives I was paid to go after. Also, the extremely occasional trip to the club where I didn’t expect more than a s****l encounter. I wanted nothing more. Women liked my brawn. My discipline. And there were ladies in the club who considered my burns a turn on, others who asked me to wear a mask. When it came to kink, it took all kinds.

I hadn’t reacted to the sheer presence, the simple sound of a female since…since I couldn’t remember. This girl would not welcome me with open arms.

For a moment, I considered walking away.

But I was a professional hired to do a job, and I didn’t shirk on my duties. No matter that my d**k was conflicted as hell.

There were several close calls with IEDs overseas, but I still had my equipment. Right now there was the jumbo-sized reminder between my legs, a sign it had been a long, dry spell since my last visit to the club and this female at my side was a painful reminder of my prolonged s****l abstinence.

Battle taught me how to read a man same as one dog sniffing another to assess threat level. Battle made me grateful for everyday things. A c**k that worked. I knew guys that had theirs blown off or damaged to the point of dysfunction. The club served one purpose: s****l relief. The soothing rainfall sound of her voice made me feel something else. I wanted to possess her, and my heart pounded in my chest at the thought.

I never tied longing to a specific female. This felt like taking off in a C17 cargo plane. My stomach plummeted every time she spoke. Just my luck, the first female to command my every senses’ attention—I couldn’t stop thinking about smelling her, touching her, l*****g her—was my ticket to making more on one job than I did in a year.

In spite of my appearance, I was a gentleman. My mama raised me right and I knew better than to stare, but what my mama never warned me about is that there would be a girl like this one whose very existence would crush my manners under her tiny foot.

Do your duty, Whittaker. They’re paying you to catch her, not wonder how small her hand would be in yours.

The yearning got worse when I followed her outside and watched as her ample tush swayed, as if soused, above the sidewalk. She didn’t strike me as drunk back in the bar. Not one bit. One tequila shot was too little to provoke the weaving walk and sexy but slurry giggles that floated out of her mouth.

That jerk must have drugged her drink, and it caught up with her slight metabolism in a snap. She fell right into my arms and snuggled against my chest, and her vulnerability, the fact that anyone could take advantage of her in this state made me want to s***k her until it burned. This was a problem. Sure, it made my job easy if she were semi-conscious. But there was no way I could fulfill the growing hunger that her proximity stirred, and it did not help matters one bit when she nestled herself in my arms.

She was an escapee, and I was here to seize her and bring her in. Just because she smelled like peach pie was no reason to lose focus.

Do my job and remind myself she had helped her father break into Bunker Inc. and stolen proprietary information.

No matter how tasty her scent, I’d ensure justice would be served, and when she was no longer intoxicated, I’d give the little fool a stern lecture on safety.