A Night of Southern Comfort Read online

  “Bastard.” She rapped her hands against his chest.

  He captured her hands and leaned down to possess her mouth in a bruising kiss.

  “See how delicious you taste?” Jack groaned against her lips. “Just like honey.”

  She freed her hands and unbuttoned his pants and removed his boxer briefs. At the touch of her soft hands on his erection, he gritted his teeth with the force it took to keep from pushing her down until he felt the heat of her mouth on his cock. This woman made him crazy but he wasn’t going to resort to desperate, Neanderthal pawing like some horny kid. Swearing softly, he bent to take her mouth again.

  “Condom.”

  Her reminder forced him to let her go just long enough to root through his suitcase for the condoms he’d packed as an afterthought. Rummaging around, he shoved aside his gun and grabbed the string of six blue foil packets. He focused on the woman in his bed removing her bra and thong.

  Yeah, six might be enough.

  Jack ripped open a package and smoothed the rubber over his hard-on before striding back to the bed. Gwyneth curled a hand around his neck and pulled him back to her for a kiss, then shoved him down. He landed on his back and remained there when she straddled him, staring down at him under a veil of thick eyelashes. He shivered in anticipation. Her expression said she’d take what she wanted and demand the same of him until they both collapsed from exhaustion. Hell, yeah. He craved the oblivion of a night of being well-used by a beautiful woman.

  She slid her hands up his chest, leaning over until her nipples brushed his skin. “This okay?”

  He nodded and laced his hands behind his head. Normally he liked to be in control and dictate the evening’s events, but Gwyneth clearly enjoyed her power and he loved watching her. “It’s your night. The first time’s all yours.”

  She smiled wickedly, leaned back and used her hand to guide his cock into her slick heat. White-hot pleasure rolled through him as he sank into her inch by inch. In an instant, his world narrowed down to the spot where their bodies were joined.

  “God, James.” She huffed out a laugh, the smile on her lips tinged with surprise. “You feel so good.”

  “It’s only going to get better.”

  She laughed. “You’re a damn cocky bastard.”

  “Only if I can’t live up to the hype.”

  “All I hear is blah, blah, bla—”

  His mouth on her breast shut her up. What he’d intended to be a lesson to his sexy, smart-mouthed bedmate turned into a reward of instant gratification that he didn’t deserve. He hadn’t been a good boy in a long time but her sweet taste burst on his tongue like the lollipops handed out by the family doctor.

  Her silky hair cascaded down her back, tickling his thighs, the light caress a thrilling contrast to the tight, wet clasp of her core. She undulated her hips in a lazy rhythm calculated to make the bone-melting pleasure last forever—or drive him insane.

  Gwyneth’s moans increased, vibrating through him in a pounding pulse he mimicked with the hard thrust of his hips. Greedy for all of her but unable to settle on one delicious inch, Jack traced the curve of a luscious breast, glided down the sleek skin of her belly, lower until his fingers found her swollen clit. At his touch, Gwyneth shuddered, losing her control over their sensual rhythm and giving him the best opportunity to take the reins.

  Rising up, Jack shifted until she was underneath him, every inch of her luscious body soft and open for his invasion. He propped himself up on his forearms, burying himself inside her body, the urge to move overwhelming. He forced himself to remain still. He loved this part. It was like base-jumping—standing on the edge, toes curled, muscles taut, adrenaline intensifying every sound, taste, smell, and touch. The precipice was a rush but the free fall was so much better.

  But he didn’t want to take this leap alone.

  As if she could read his mind, Gwyneth’s eyes fluttered open and his breath caught at the naked desire in their depths. Working as a deep-cover cop, his survival depended on him being the invisible man, but she saw him—really saw him—and he understood the meaning of regret. His choices made it impossible for him to pursue a woman like Gwyneth.

  Her voice was a ragged whisper. “Please.”

  Compelled to take what he could from their one night, he yielded to the lust that raged through him. He rode her, plunging deeper, harder, worried he was hurting her but unable to stop. Gwyneth wrapped her legs around his waist, the dig of her heels in his lower back demanding he hold nothing back.

  “Please. I can’t…I want… Make me come.”

  Her breathy plea raised goose bumps on his skin He didn’t need an explanation to understand what she needed from him. The prize was hovering on the edge of his sanity and he didn’t care what lay beyond as long as he got there. Ignoring the scream of his body when he stopped moving, he grabbed one of her hands, lifted her arm over her head and braced her palm flat against the headboard. She stared at him, her expression wary.

  “Hold on.” Jack ordered. “I’ll get you there.”

  When she duplicated the action with the other hand, Jack took a deep breath and began the deliberate descent back into madness with a series of low thrusts. He drank in the sight of her body, stretched and vulnerable beneath him. The sight of his cock plunging in and out of her tight heat switched on his autopilot, electricity shooting down his spine and settling heavy in his balls. With shallow, fast strokes he pounded into her, now desperate to hang on until he could live up to his earlier bragging.

  But damn if she didn’t test his endurance.

  Braced against the headboard, Gwyneth met his every thrust with equal force. He gritted his teeth, but focused on her face. Damned if he’d miss how she looked when she came. Just when he feared he’d break first, her orgasm, swift and fierce, hit them both like a freight train and milked him until he had no choice but to follow her over the edge.

  Gasping and covered in a sheen of sweat, they lay motionless in a tangle of arms and legs. Jack’s ears rang from the blood rushing through his body at a rate that might have killed a man with less motivation to live. But he faced the prospect of an entire night with this woman, and he’d be damned if he let something as trivial as dying make him miss a moment of it.

  And one night was all it could ever be.

  Gwyneth was real, determined, and his sexual match in every way. She was the kind of woman who could distract him from getting back to the job he needed and loved. A woman had taken his career from him once and he’d move heaven and hell before he let it happen again. In the maze of undercover assignments, he’d lost sight of himself and the last year had shown just how badly he needed the job. It was all he had.

  Banishing those dark thoughts, Jack stirred and leaned over to dispose of the condom before pulling her back into his arms. With a contented sigh, Gwyneth rested her head on his chest, their legs intertwined.

  She was the first to break the silence. “That was…”

  “Incredible.”

  “Yeah.”

  He grinned. Gwyneth raised an eyebrow. “What are you smiling about?”

  “I made you beg.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He leaned up on an elbow, prepared to argue. He’d made her beg. She’d said please. Several times.

  “I didn’t beg you to stop.” Her grin lit up her whole face with wicked intent. “I begged you to keep going. That’s entirely different.”

  He considered that. Her voice, pleading in passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. His cock stiffened and twitched against his leg at the thought that he could spend the rest of the night making her beg again.

  She kissed him, scrambling his brain. Her tongue explored the inner recesses of his mouth. He groaned as she pulled away, scooting off the bed. Grabbing his hand, she tugged him from the bed and toward the bathroom.

  “Come on. It’s my turn.”

  He circled his arms around her waist, pulled her against his body, and pressed a kiss just below h
er ear. “Your turn for what?”

  “To make you beg.”

  Sweet Lord.

  Jack watched her saunter into the bathroom as images of what she promised formed in his mind. The sound of running water and her sultry “Are you coming?” broke him out of his stupor. He stumbled toward the adjoining room, fully prepared to beg and love every minute of it.

  …

  The next morning Jack woke to the sun shining through his windows. The scent of Gwyneth and sex surrounded him in the utter stillness of the room.

  She was gone.

  A glance at the empty space beside him and a note on the pillow confirmed his assessment.

  The heaviness in his chest surprised him. What was he expecting? A quick roll in the hay before parting ways? Or was it the prospect of breakfast in bed, a few lingering moments with a fascinating woman? He’d gotten exactly what she promised, and a little more, if he was honest with himself. She’d said she was starting a new life and he’d been fortunate to catch a glimpse of the amazing woman Gwyneth would undoubtedly become in her new future. It gave him hope that his fucked-up life would somehow work itself out as well.

  Reaching for the paper left on the bed, he laughed out loud as he read the neat, elegant script covering the hotel notepad:

  You never made me beg.

  No, he’d never made her beg. She’d demanded “harder, faster” and that he “do that again, please” until the wee hours of the morning, when they’d both fallen into a sated, boneless slumber. But she’d never asked him to stop.

  She’d also never told him her name.

  Chapter Two

  One month later

  Was it possible to hate an entire room?

  Michaela observed the perfectly coordinated objects placed by her father’s interior decorator in the study of his Richmond, Virginia, mansion. Books, photographs, and awards lined the walls and shelves of the outer office, each piece calculated to present the perfect image to those Governor Eastland deemed important—or more accurately, useful to his ambition.

  When she’d walked out a month ago and moved to rural Elliott, she’d intended to never return. Her relationship with her father had never been close. After her mother passed, both she and her brother, Jeff, had been cared for by a series of well-paid nannies and trotted out like little trophies at political events.

  Her father was old-school ambitious in the tradition of the dynasties now sexily romping through history on the cable channels. Everyone and everything was kept or discarded in accordance with what would best support his perfect image. Her school, clothes, friends, and even her lovers were part of the machine. She’d had little to no control over her life. But since she refused to give speeches, Michaela had finally reached the stage of her life when she wasn’t useful on the campaign trail. She’d seen her chance to break free and struck a deal—she’d live a quiet life and do nothing to embarrass him or hurt his plans, and he’d leave her alone. The governor had agreed. When it came down to it, he didn’t give a shit about her and she was okay with that.

  The day she’d walked out of this house had been the best day of her life.

  After years of planning, hoping, and praying for the day when she could be her own person, Michaela feared the mere act of walking through the front door would place her back under his control, however temporary. But when he’d called—not a staffer on his payroll—and told her it was a matter of safety, she couldn’t refuse.

  For a public figure, death threats were a serious fact of life. So, in spite of her better judgment, Michaela canceled the appointments her physician’s assistant couldn’t cover and made the three-hour trip to Richmond.

  She wiped her sweaty hands on her dress pants and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The air was stifling but she felt cold. The mash-up of emotions curdling in her gut made her gag at the overbearing smell of furniture polish.

  Pull yourself together. Don’t let him smell blood in the water.

  Both the double doors to the inner office and the door to the hallway opened simultaneously. Through one set, her father and his assistant emerged, dressed in identical black power suits with red ties—clearly the uniform for up-and-coming assholes. Swiveling she turned toward the three unknown men who entered from the hallway.

  Her heart stopped in her chest.

  James.

  She didn’t recognize the tall, handsome blond or the older, heavy man, but she’d know James anywhere. Her body flushed with heat, her most intimate places recalling his touch in vivid detail.

  Michaela knew the moment James realized she was there. Surprise flickered across his face for the briefest moment before he schooled his features into a blank expression. Her heart pounded as he lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry. In spite of her anxiety, it was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

  Her father’s voice boomed out across the room. “Michaela, you’re late.”

  She took a deep breath and straightened her spine before facing him. “I’m here now. What do you want?”

  “There’s no need to be rude in front of our guests.”

  “I had to cancel half of my appointments today. This isn’t a social call.”

  Her father turned and gestured for the others to sit. Good Southern manners dictated that they remain standing until she sat down. She crossed her arms and stayed on her feet. Proper etiquette be damned.

  “Gentlemen, forgive my daughter’s rudeness.” With his best political smile, her father made the introductions. “This is Dr. Michaela Eastland and my assistant, Mitchell Rhodes.

  “My name is Dr. Roarke.” The words flew out of her mouth with the force of a rifle shot and the venom of a copperhead. Snapping her mouth shut, she clenched her teeth, the grinding sound reverberating through her head, threatening a migraine for later if she didn’t get her temper under control and pace herself. This show was just beginning.

  “Michaela, this is Director Burris from the FBI, and Detectives Cantrell and Landon from the Roanoke PD.”

  Burris and Landon walked forward and shook her hand while she offered them a practiced smile. James was the last to greet her and she trembled slightly at the warmth flowing from his palm as it closed over hers. He squeezed lightly and raised the eyebrow again in a silent question. She stared, hoping he understood the message in the minute shake of her head. Act like we don’t know each other. Relieved, she relaxed the white-knuckle grip on his hand when he spoke.

  “Jackson Cantrell. You can call me Jack. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Roarke,” he murmured.

  His name was Jackson

  “Nice to meet you, Detective.” Michaela turned to her father, desperately hoping her irritation masked her inner turmoil. Seeing Jackson rattled her and she needed to bring her A-game. “What’s this all about?”

  “We had a deal, Michaela,” he replied.

  The gloves were off.

  “I don’t understand.” She matched his tone, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

  “Maybe these will explain.” Mitchell held out a large folder. His lip curled in a smirk when he forced her to wrench the bundle out of his hand.

  Biting back the urge to say something ugly, she turned her attention to the folder and opened it. Photos. They were dark and poorly taken, but she understood the subject matter. Her breath caught in her throat and she struggled to maintain her look of cool nonchalance under the pressing weight of humiliation.

  In the first photo, she was in a bar, kissing a man in a tuxedo. Subsequent pictures showed more of the same in graphic, sexual detail. The final one was taken just before the doors to the elevator closed, clearly demonstrating what their intentions were as they headed up to one of their rooms. While her face was clear, Jackson was in shadow and unrecognizable. They don’t know who he is.

  Her hands shook as she handed the folder back to Mitchell. He wore a smug expression that she itched to slap right into next week.

  “I don’t understand what my sex life has to do with the FBI.” Michaela
directed her comment to Burris as the other men looked at the photos. Jackson paused at the first one, surreptitiously glancing her way. She ignored him, afraid she’d give him away. “Unless it’s a federal crime for two adults to agree to have consensual sex in the privacy of a hotel room?”

  “Only if you pay for it,” Detective Landon interjected with clear amusement.

  “Shut up.” Jackson nudged him with his elbow.

  Burris ignored them both as he handed the photos back to the governor. “You called me asking about a protection detail. While someone taking photos of your daughter is unfortunate and unsettling, it doesn’t necessarily warrant a security team. Is there more?”

  “There is this.” The governor handed over a piece of paper to Burris.

  Burris opened the folded note and read aloud. “Your daughter is a slut. Get her under control. [Proverbs 22:15].”

  Jackson looked around the group. “Anybody know what the verse says?”

  Michaela answered automatically. “Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.”

  Jackson nodded in understanding. “Spare the rod. Spoil the child.”

  “Very good, Detective.” The governor perched on the edge of his long table. “Someone thinks I’ve neglected my parenting duties and wishes to make it an issue just as the political season is about to begin.”

  Jackson bristled. “I’m confused. Are you more concerned with your daughter or your career?”

  “Cantrell.” Burris’ voiced held a warning.

  “Ah, I see I’ve offended you, Detective.” The governor laughed but his amusement didn’t reach his eyes or the tone of his voice. Anyone with any sense would back off and take cover.

  Jackson clearly had no sense. He advanced on her father, hands clenched at his side. “I’m afraid you have. I would think your sole concern would be your daughter. Someone, a pretty sick someone, is following her around and I bet these aren’t the only pictures.”

  “My daughter”—her father stood and faced off with Jackson—“shouldn’t be doing anything worth photographing.” He turned his attention back to Michaela. “We had a deal.”