The Hell-Raiser : Men Out of Uniform Book 5 Page 10

  She felt her nipples pebble behind the flimsy fabric of her bra and a rush of warmth pooled in her core. Her blood slugged hotly through her veins, making her conversely hurried and languid. Her pulse tripped wildly while her body felt like it was moving in slow motion.

  Mick suckled her tongue, making her bones melt where she sagged even further against him. The hard ridge of his arousal nudged impatiently at her belly, causing another wicked thrill to swirl through her middle.

  Hot, hard, male.

  It had been so long and he was so perfect. She resisted the urge to whimper and kissed him deeper, mapping the rest of his body with her hands. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers, warm and supple, corded neck and surprisingly soft skin. She inhaled his scent as she fed at his mouth, growing more hungry and needy by the second.

  Thankfully, Mick was too.

  She could feel the tension hovering around him, could taste it on her tongue, heard it in the soft groans of pleasure bubbling up his throat. His hands slid slowly down her back, as though memorizing every vertebrae, then settled warmly over her bottom and squeezed. That small amount of pressure literally made the breath leave her lungs. It was strangely possessive, which should have pissed her off, but instead merely made her moronic heart skip a beat.

  Sarah Jane pressed herself even more tightly against him, determined to eliminate even the barest hint of separation. Mick responded by holding her closer, branding her with his masculine frame. He rocked against her belly once more and carefully backed her up against a porch pole. He nipped at her earlobe and licked a path along her neck, tasting the pulse point and nuzzling her throat. Meanwhile his hands had left off her bottom and were making a determined track back up her body, along her hip, up her side. She whimpered, longing to feel the weight of her breast in his big warm palm. His mouth feeding there, licking and tasting and suckling with those talented sinfully crafted lips.

  Heat rushed to her core, coating her folds and she squirmed desperately against him, aligning herself more firmly against the impossibly large ridge straining against the front of his pants. She wiggled closer as his hand finally brushed the underside of her breast, gasping as slightest contact make her skin prickle in anticipation. Higher, she thought, her nipple drawing into a tight bud. Oh, please, just a little--

  A police siren followed by a catcall abruptly cut through her foggy, desperate lust-ridden thoughts and she sprang back guiltily.

  “It’s a good thing you’re on your porch, Sarah Jane, or I’d have to take you in for lewd and lascivious behavior,” Chase called from his squad car.

  Mortified, Sarah Jane felt her face flame. “Go away, Chase. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  He nodded toward Mick. “Is this Mr. Gorgeous?”

  Mick frowned, but humor danced in his heavy-lidded gaze, betraying a bit masculine pride. “Mr. Gorgeous? Is that my Indian nickname?”

  She chuckled. “No. Your Indian name won’t have a Mister in it.” The goofball, she thought, enjoying that pleased smile of his.

  “Chase Collins,” Chase called out to Mick. “Old friend of Sarah Jane’s.” He shook his head regretfully as though Sarah Jane was a poor testament to southern hospitality. “She seems to have forgotten her manners.”

  She harrumphed under her breath. “My tax dollars at work,” she grumbled.

  “Mick Chivers, new friend of Sarah Jane’s.” He shot her a look. “And I hope I’m Mr. Gorgeous.”

  “You the photographer?” Chase asked conversationally, while Sarah Jane entertained thoughts of throttling him.

  Mick nodded and his grin grew even wider. “I am.”

  “Oh, yeah then. You’re Mr. Gorgeous.” Evidently deciding his work here was done, Chase nodded a good evening and, smiling like the evil shit-stirring bastard he was, rode off into the night.

  Mick’s twinkling but curiously hesitant gaze found hers and he rubbed the back of his neck. “So...what sort of friend is he exactly?”

  Jealous was he? she wondered, inwardly blushing with pleasure. “The sort that gets on my nerves.” Not the answer he was looking for, she knew, but...

  Mick hummed. “That covers a lot of territory.”

  Sarah Jane decided to take pity on him. “I’ve known Chase since Kindergarten,” she said. “Other than a brief do-you-love-me-check-yes-or-no flirtation in second grade--where our romance came to a tragic end on the playground after I beat him in the fifty yard dash--we’ve been nothing but good friends ever since.”

  Mick chuckled, the deep sound resonating through her. “Couldn’t stand losing to a girl, eh?”

  Sarah Jane sighed dramatically. “It’s been a recurring problem, I’m afraid. I don’t like to lose and don’t see any point in doing it just for the sake of some boy’s pride. Ya’ll are the one’s with balls,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Use them, for pity’s sake.”

  Another chuckle sounded in Mick’s throat which quickly morphed into a long belly laugh. “Interesting p-philosophy. And refreshingly blunt. You’re something else, Sarah Jane,” he said, seemingly impressed. “Truly unique.”

  She nodded primly. “Thank you. I like to think so.”

  His laughing gaze found hers once more and the world again shrank into a more intimate focus. “I’ve had a good time tonight.” His voice was low and sincere, wrapping around her chest. “Thank you for showing me around.”

  Sarah Jane nodded, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “You’re welcome.”

  “I should probably get going. I’d hate for you to get arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior on my account.”

  For the teeniest second she considered pointing out that she could hardly get arrested for those things if she invited him in, but ultimately decided he was right. Though her body begged to differ, her mind had honed in on some long-forgotten sense of self-preservation and wasn’t yet ready to surrender.

  She nodded, playing along. “You’re right, of course. I know Tina is growing weary of bailing me out of jail.”

  He fingered a petunia petal. “Happens that often, does it?”

  “Nah,” she said. “Just often enough to keep everybody on their toes.”

  That wicked laugh again, the one that made her want to crawl inside him and never come out. “I can certainly see where you do that.” He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss on her cheek. “Goodnight, Sarah Jane. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  From inside the house, Sarah Jane heard her phone ring, which thankfully prevented her from standing on her porch and watching him drive away like a moonstruck teenager with her first crush.

  As for her really keeping people on their toes, she sincerely doubted it and couldn’t imagine anyone keeping Mick Chivers on his. Utterly laughable.

  But she knew this--hers had been curled for the better part of the evening.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mick watched Sarah Jane dart into the house to catch her ringing phone and wished like hell he could follow her. Only he wouldn’t let her answer her phone and would insist they take up right where Chase Collins had, quite irritatingly, interrupted.

  Which, on the grand scale of Stupid Things He’d Done in His Life, would probably rate right up there at the top, dethroning scoring the Headmaster’s daughter--on his office desk, no less--and sending Carson Wells over that ill-fated ridge when, as team leader, if anyone was going to take that chance it should have been him. He’d been certain--or as certain as he could be with the intel he’d been given--that the route had been safe.

  It hadn’t.

  Mick swallowed.

  At any rate, sleeping with Sarah Jane was more than beyond the height of idiocy, it was just plain wrong. He was here under false pretenses and given what he’d gleaned from her tonight, knew that he should call Huck alert him to the change and move on.

  Simply put, he should leave.

  As Payne had said, Ranger Security wouldn’t be a party to anything illegal and Chastity Walker using their services under false pretense to keep Sarah Jane
from getting her rightful inheritance was definitely breaking some sort of law. He didn’t know which one precisely, but that hardly mattered.

  Furthermore, in the event he slept with her and she somehow managed to find out who he really was--what he’d originally came here for--he didn’t have a single doubt that she’d once again end up in jail, only it wouldn’t be for lewd and lascivious behavior--it’d be for his murder, because she’d undoubtedly kill him.

  And he’d deserve it.

  This--being with her, kissing her, God help him liking her--it was all a mistake, but one he didn’t know how to correct and frankly, despite knowing all of that, didn’t want to. Mick slid into his truck, cranked the engine and reluctantly pulled away from the curb. Rather than return to the B&B, he decided to drive around town for a little while. Knowing that a homosexual ghost was probably responsible for the weird hand-on-his-thigh feeling this morning when he’d awoken didn’t exactly engender a happy feeling about going back to Clara’s, he thought darkly.

  The town square was lit with pretty antique post lights, illuminating older couples holding hands and chatting on park benches, kids playing in the fountain and the occasional trendy Millennial walking their dog. Monarch Grove night life, Mick thought, feeling a smile steal over his lips.

  Funny, he’d always been under the impression that small towns rolled up their sidewalks after dark, but this little burg seemed more interested than talking to each other than watching reality TV. If he didn’t know better, Mick would chalk up their habit to no cable, but knew that wasn’t the case. Clara had a top-of-the-line satellite system, enjoyed hundreds of channels, some of them even in foreign languages which accounted for the occasional Portuguese epithet he heard her mutter under her breath.

  At any rate, this town along with its inhabitants--particularly one dark blonde hellion with melting toffee eyes--had turned every preconceived notion he’d had about it on its ear.

  Though his grandfather had lived in Minot, Kentucky for most of his life, Mick couldn’t help but think the older man would love it here. The last time he’d visited Charlie’s old hometown, the little burg had all but died. The few businesses that hadn’t folded when the larger chain stores and such had taken up residence out on the highway had abandoned the old town square and gone into strip malls to survive. Little by little the new had eroded the old and very little had survived the so-called progress. Amazingly, Monarch Grove seemed to have been able to absorb the new without forgetting the old, a rare balance that took a special brand of people.

  Mick snagged his cell from the holder at his waist and dialed his grandfather’s number, ashamed that it had been more than three months since the last time he’d called. He’d been a wreck then, leaving the military and, while he hadn’t been able to share it with his dad, he couldn’t not share the decision with Charlie.

  His grandfather answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Gramps. How’s it going up there?”

  “Same as it always is, Micky. Slow as molasses, boring as hell, but a body gets used to it.” He paused. “How about you? Working your new job now?”

  His body wouldn’t get used to it, Mick thought, staring at the bustling activity around the square. His grandfather had always been so active, so full of purpose. “I am,” he admitted. “I, er... I don’t think it’s going to work out,” he said, giving voice to the niggling thought. Hell, he’d suspected when he’d taken the job that it wasn’t for him, but Huck had been so sure that it was the right thing, and Levi had seemed almost envious of the hire, which had somehow made him think that he was missing something they could see. And considering his own judgment had been shot to hell... He’d just said yes, thankful that anyone thought he was worth having.

  Unfortunately, Mick wasn’t sure what sort of work he was cut out for, but the security specialist field wasn’t for him. It didn’t fill a void--and though it pained him to admit it, even being a Ranger hadn’t the way he’d thought it would--but merely clocked time.

  If there was any good thing that could come out of his recent screw-up, it was the opportunity to find something he loved. Like Charlie had, Mick thought, envying his grandfather his purpose. Like Sarah Jane, too.

  “Well, you’re not a quitter and never have been--“

  Though he knew that, hearing his grandfather say it was more important than he would have ever imagined. Mick swallowed tightly.

  “--and if you ask me, I think you need to be working with your hands. You’re too much like me, Micky. Restless and miserable without a purpose. That’s why carpentry work always suited me so well. It was my outlet, so to speak. All that energy had to go somewhere, so I figured pouring it into a building was as good as any way to use it. Start with a blueprint, end up with a building, something to be proud of, tangible proof of labor, then onto the next project.” Though he wasn’t there, he could imagine his grandfather’s shrug, the wisdom in his lined face. “At least, that’s always what I’ve thought, anyway.”

  “I’ll think about it, Gramps.”

  In truth, he had to admit he’d been more content working with Sarah Jane today than he had in months, possibly longer. Breaking a sweat, feeling the weight of a hammer in his hands...it had all been very therapeutic. He’d completely lost track of time, had thoroughly enjoyed every minute. Of course, that could simply be a product of the company and not necessarily the work. Furthermore, he didn’t need to get too attached to either. He was at a crossroads at the moment, struggling to find his path, and dragging someone else along on his blind journey--one he had a tendency to screw up--was hardly fair.

  “Have you talked to your father, told him about your recent occupational change?” his grandfather wanted to know.

  Mick hesitated. “Not yet. I haven’t heard from him.” And he hadn’t called him, either. Frankly, though he shouldn’t give a damn, knowing the inevitable disappointment he’d hear in his father’s voice had prevented him from making any sort of effort to contact him. Becoming a Ranger had been the only accomplishment Mick had ever managed that had impressed the man.

  “Me either,” his grandfather said. “He and your mother must be on another one of their vacations. Probably off riding camels or looking for tigers or something.”

  Mick chuckled at the distaste in Charlie’s voice. “Riding a camel might be fun.”

  “Men ride horses, boy. Not camels. Where are you, exactly?”

  Mick rested his head against the back of his seat and smiled. “I’m in Monarch Grove, Georgia--Home of the Fried Pie Festival.”

  “You don’t say?” Charlie replied, sounding genuinely interested. “I love fried pies. Haven’t had a good one in years. Not since your grandmother passed away, anyway. Peach was always my favorite.”

  Mick felt his lips twitch. “I have it on good authority that blackberry is best.”

  “Oh, I bet that would be good. A Fried Pie Festival,” he repeated, almost wistfully. “I can’t say as I’ve ever been to one of those.”

  Mick couldn’t say he’d ever heard of one, so his grandfather had him beat. “It starts next Friday afternoon, Gramps. You should come down. There isn’t a room to be had in town, but I’ll share mine with you.” The invitation caught him off guard, but it suddenly occurred to Mick just how much he meant it.

  “Nah,” his grandfather said, albeit reluctantly. “I’ve got too much air to breathe here. Might mess up the delicate balance of things if I’m not around doing my part.”

  Mick chuckled, mildly disappointed. “Just thought I’d offer.”

  “And I appreciate it, and I’d love to see you. Speaking of which, when you do reckon you’ll be in this neck of the woods? Anytime soon? Should I change the sheets in your room? Dust off the chess board?”

  Another reminiscent smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. How many hours had he logged in playing chess with Charlie? Hundreds, possibly thousands. “Soon, Gramps,” Mick said, meaning it. In fact, when this was over, he’d go home. After all, hi
s grandfather’s old farm house was the closet thing to a home he’d ever known. That old iron bed and single chest of drawers in Charlie’s old house had been the location of some of his best childhood memories. In fact, were it not for his grandfather, he grimly suspected he wouldn’t have had any at all.

  Damned selfish parents, Mick thought. He hadn’t been that bad. What had been so wrong with him that they hadn’t wanted him? Weren’t they supposed to love him unconditionally? Weren’t they supposed to have had some sort of sentimental attachment to him? He’d read stories of mother’s who performed heroic acts of strength to save their children, but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt his mother would be the exception to the rule.

  She’d sure as hell never come to his rescue. Not once, Mick thought bitterly.

  He was an adult, old enough to reason and understand, mature enough to comprehend that he wasn’t responsible for their emotional shortcomings, but there’d always been a small part of him that secretly thought that if he was so flawed his own parents hadn’t been able to invest a little love in him, then why would anyone else bother?

  “I hope so, boy,” his grandfather said, pulling him back into their conversation. “It’s been too long.”

  Mick silently concurred, then listened to his grandfather complain about his neighbor’s fence and how he’d had to fix it for him and how the portion sizes at the diner had gotten downright paltry and how nobody took pride in doing things right anymore and that was the problem with the whole world and America, in particular. “Spoiled, the lot of them,” according to Charlie. Mick answered where appropriate and provided commentary for the better part of half an hour before he finally ended the call.