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“Not until you tell me what you’re going to do.”
“Oh, so now you’re reluctant about taking your clothes off? Wasn’t it just yesterday where you were fucking happy to strut naked around my apartment like a goddamn asshole? Take your shirt off, Dixon, and stop being a whiny baby. This is life or death.”
I comply, if only to shut her up. There’s no other reason. None. Even if her asking me to take my shirt off sends a flush of heat through my body. That heat is anger, and nothing more.
“Fine.”
“Mussing our hair up and messing up our clothes will not be enough. Bison and Destiny, they have reputations as ravenous animals. I need to leave evidence on you that suggests that maybe I…” She stops, clears her throat, and looks at me with eyes that burn with hate, with trepidation, with something else I refuse to acknowledge. “That’s why I’m putting on all this lipstick. I need to leave visible evidence, on your cheeks, your lips, your neck, your chest, that I… uh…”
Before I can tell her to go to hell, her lips are on mine.
Slow, a deep, full-bodied kiss that makes my head swim and my objections die like a sputtering engine. I forget our bickering, the mission, everything but the sensation of her body.
When she breaks the kiss, she smirks.
"That’s a start for leaving evidence," she murmurs, stepping back and admiring her handiwork — the smear of red on my face.
"Crazy bitch," I grunt out, though my voice is hoarse in a way that betrays the desire burning inside me.
She ignores my insult and starts working on creating similar marks down my neck, trailing a path with those traitorous lips that lead straight to damnation.
I can’t fight her.
I stand there, paralyzed, burning up inside.
Every brush of her mouth against my skin feels like both punishment and reward, and I'm suddenly fighting the urge to reverse our roles and mark her in return.
"We need to hurry," she says suddenly, as if she hasn't just set fire to whatever thin veneer of control I had left. “Let’s go.”
"Right." My reply comes out more gruff than intended. Then I shake my head, my senses somewhat returning at the sight of the look of triumph on her face. This damn thing was too one-sided. I can’t let her come out ahead in this contest. “We need to even things up. All it looks like right now is that you sucked me off in the back room. Which I’m sure fits for Alexandra Reyes’s reputation, but not for Destiny. Let’s make this more believable. Give me your panties.”
“My panties? Fuck you.”
“Do you want to finish this mission, or do you want to get killed? I’ll just keep them dangling from my pocket. Anyone who sees me carrying them will know. Then I’ll give them back to you once we’re outside.”
“I’m not giving you my panties,” she says. Then she stops, worrying her lip in a way that makes me fight to suppress a groan. “But you are right. I still look damn fine, while you look like disheveled bullshit. And I sure as fuck am not letting you kiss me… So…” She stops, pulls both arms inside her shirt and working them around in some form of acrobatic voodoo. When they emerge again, she’s holding her bra in her left hand. “Here.”
“How the fuck did you do that?”
“What? Take off my own bra? How can you call yourself a biker if you don’t know how to remove a woman’s bra?”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“You can cry later. Carry my bra like a good boy and let’s go.”
She races toward the door, her ass swaying in her tight jeans, and I’m sure, her tits bouncing in a way that would make me moan if I could see them.
But I can’t, because I’m hurrying to catch up to her, while clutching her bra in my right hand in a grip that is too tight, and my eyes on her ass while a serious, life-threatening concern burns in my chest.
I run my finger along the cup of her bra, my imagination going to places I know it shouldn’t.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t hate Alexandra Reyes.
And that is an enormous problem.
Chapter Sixteen
Alexandra
