Running With the Devil (7 page)

Drake shivered.

“Do you want me to stop?” Her delicate fingertips drew an idle path from his hip, up the ticklish bend in his waist to trace his pectoral. Circled his nipple. Trailed back down. While driving him insane with fleeting caresses on his overheated skin, she writhed against his back. Did the thought of him exploding in her hand make her hot?

“Drake? What’s it gonna be?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Mmm,” she hummed against his shoulder blade. “I like the way you smell.” She walked her fingers over the edge of his hipbone to his groin. No tentative touches. Kenna wrapped her hand around his rigid cock and pumped from root to tip. “I like the way you feel.”

He arched his hardness into her soft hand.

“Do you want me to tease you? Make it last longer?” Those wayward fingertips delved into the hair covering his sac. She rolled his balls between her fingers and used her thumb to stroke the pulsing vein running up the length. Then she circled the base of his cock with her forefinger and thumb and squeezed. “Well?”

“No. Don’t tease.”

Her breath cascaded over the sweat gathering on his spine. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Kenna slid her hand back up, tightly curled her fingers around his thickness and began to work him.

Pure unadulterated pleasure flooded his brain. “Ah. Jesus that feels so fucking good.”

She kissed the spot below his ear. “Imagine how good it’ll feel when it’s my wet mouth on you instead of my hand.”

“You really want to make me come fast, don’t you?”

A confident feminine laugh. Then she started a blissfully brisk rhythm that made him groan and thrust higher to meet her masterful strokes.

Twisting up to the tip. Down to the root. Over and over. No change in the pace. Her touches were oddly familiar. Kenna seemed to know exactly what he liked. How hard she could pull on his dick without making it painful. How much he craved the pad of her thumb circling the plump head with each upstroke. Each tug brought him closer to the edge. He held his breath. Clenched his ass cheeks, bumping his hips and closed his eyes, readying himself to burst in her hand.

God. It was right there. That ultimate rush of relief…

Then she started snoring.

He froze. His cock twitched at the sudden loss of friction. What the hell? How could she fall asleep at a time like this? When he was so goddamned close?

He opened his eyes. Looked down.

And saw
his
thick fingers wrapped his stiff cock, not hers.

Fuck. His stomach muscles tightened. Had it all been a wet dream?

Dawn approached, chasing away the dark shadows of the room. Drake rolled slightly, cringing when the bed squeaked. He shot a nervous glance her direction, zooming in on her form on the other bed.

She had one pillow over her head. Her spine curved toward him and he saw the Victoria’s Secret tag sticking out of her camisole. A slender, bare calf peeked out from beneath the white sheet. Good. She had her back to him. Her loud snort bounced off the cheap paneling and echoed in the small room.

He slumped with relief. She was still asleep. At least she hadn’t realized he’d been whacking off in the bed right beside her.

Talk about pathetic.

Then he realized he hadn’t moved his hand. He glanced down at his cock. The purple head was swollen and his shaft was an angry red. Unhappy with the interruption.

No shit. He sighed and yanked up his boxers. Pity to waste a good hard-on.

Looked like he really would be taking his relief in the shower by himself. Again.

But he knew exactly whose face he’d be picturing.

She cursed as she untangled the snarly red wig. After securing it on her head, she brushed the flyaway strands, scrutinizing her appearance in the bathroom mirror.

No contacts today, just heavy black eyeliner. Fake mole on her cheekbone. She’d made her nose appear thinner and longer with pencil shadowing. Red eyebrows. Bubble-gum pink lips. She removed fuzz from the sequined black Harley Davidson tank top with a lint brush. Peeled on a black spandex mini-skirt.

The door to the room slammed. Agent March had returned.

Her stomach jumped. She tossed out knee-high patent leather stiletto boots and her purse, lugging the packed bag behind her as she exited the small space ass first.

“Agent March, you think we can swing by—”

A sharp intake of breath froze the words in her throat.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Bobby stared, glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, his cheeks a charming shade of pink. He shuffled his feet with enough vigor the shoelaces came untied. “Umm…morning, Ms. Jones. Agent March had to double-check some equipment and he asked me to—”

“Stay here and baby-sit me?” She gave Bobby an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Get a bit edgy before my first cup of coffee.”

Bobby brightened. “There’s coffee in the lobby. I could get you a cup if you’d like.”

“You are so sweet,” she cooed. “Two creamers, no sugar.”

“Be right back.” He spun on his tennis shoe and darted from the room.

Kenna grinned. If it ever came down to it, getting around Bobby wouldn’t be any problem. Agent March? Damn near impossible. The man’s instincts were unparalleled.

After Bobby returned, she reclined on the bed, sipping the strong, bitter brew. She wiggled her bare toes thoughtfully. “Do you prefer red or pink polish on your girlfriend’s toenails?”

“Umm…”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed! Do you know how hard it is to keep feet and toes sexy? Especially in the summertime?” Not that she spent much time grooming her feet, but it suited her purposes to let Bobby think she was a girly girl.

Bobby blushed and stammered, “P-pink I guess.”

“So do you think this color is hideous?” She pointed her toes ballerina style. “You can’t see it from there. Come closer.” Bobby’s eyes went round with alarm, but he reluctantly sidled over. “Think I oughta paint them pink?” Kenna frowned. “Does it look like the polish on the big toenail is chipped?”

He peered down and squinted. “Which one? Left or right?”

“Either.”

“I can’t tell.” Bobby dropped to his haunches for a better inspection and warily lifted her right foot.

Of course, Drake chose that moment to barrel into the room.

“What the hell are you doing, Bobby? Giving her a pedicure?”

Bobby jumped like a spooked cat. “I-I—”

Drake’s gaze zoomed to the Styrofoam coffee cup clutched in Kenna’s hand. “Where did you get that?”

Poor Bobby froze like a trapped animal.

Kenna answered breezily, “We walked to the lobby. Why? Am I a prisoner? Am I not allowed to leave the room,
boss
?”

A beat passed as Drake stared at her. “Out,” he growled at Bobby.

After Bobby’s hasty departure, she scooted to the edge of the mattress. “You are so rude.”

“You are
so
testing my patience.” He tossed her boots on the bed. “Put those on. I’m ready to go.”

“Well, la-di-fucking-da. I’m
not
ready to go. If you haven’t noticed, I’m enjoying my breakfast.”

“I’ll feed you, okay? After you finish getting dressed.”

“I am dressed.”

“Then put on your damn shoes so we can go.”

Kenna sipped, studying him over the rim of the cup.

Fifteen seconds later, he exploded. “You purposely trying to mess up my schedule?”

Yes.
“No.” She drained the coffee and pitched the cup at the garbage can. Stretched. Checked her fingernails.

“Then put your boots on!”

“You want my boots on so badly, Agent March, why don’t you put them on yourself?”

An unholy gleam lit his eyes. “Great idea.” He dropped to his knees, circling her ankle with his big hand.

“I was kidding!”

“Never offer a dare if you’re not prepared to follow through, Kenna.”

Watching her expression, he sucked her pinky toe into his hot mouth.

Kenna gasped. Fire shot from that toe straight between her thighs.
Hello foot fetish.

Drake hungrily sucked each toe while lazily gliding his fingertips up and down her calf in a mesmerizing manner that made her very glad she was sitting down.

His eyes never left hers. Finally, he reached for the boot, unzipped it and eased her foot inside. Those tantalizing lips softly brushed the inside curve of her knee as he zipped it up. “Need help with the other one?”

“No!” How much torture could she stand? But when a very male, very satisfied chuckle rumbled against her thigh, she decided revenge would be sweeter than outrage.

Kenna shoved him. A surprised look crossed his face as he fell on his ass. As he clambered to his knees, she arched her back and spread her legs. Wide enough that nothing was left to the imagination.

His gaze zoomed to the gap in her skirt. Narrowed. His nostrils flared. “Jesus, Kenna. Are you even wearing underwear?”

“Why don’t you take a closer look to satisfy your curiosity?” she purred.

Drake crawled across the shag carpet until his heavy breath tickled her legs. He inhaled deeply and shuddered. “Wouldn’t take much for me to rip that thong aside and set my mouth on you.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Would you let me?”

“Let you what?”

“Bury my tongue inside you? Lick you until I’ve tasted every secret inch of that sweet smelling pussy?”

Kenna didn’t answer.

Taking her silence as acquiescence, he palmed her knees, opening them wider yet.

Despite the need pulsing through her, she fisted his soft hair in her hands, forcing his gaze to hers and away from her crotch. “Since you were in such a hurry, Agent March, you’d better hand me my other boot. We wouldn’t want to keep your partners waiting, or mess up your precious schedule.”

Right. What a lie. To hell with Geo and Bobby. Every pulsing nerve in her core ached for the exquisite sensation of his tongue fulfilling the decadent promises his mouth had made.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he whimpered.

He stood, wiping the sweat from his brow. “You fight dirty.”

Her triumphant smile stayed in place as she zipped up her boot. Guaranteed he’d think of a suitable payback.

Kenna stood on shaky legs and snagged her purse. “Let’s ride, Agent March.”

No mistake. Drake really did groan that time.

Motorcycles in every color of the rainbow lined the middle of Main Street as far as the eye could see. Chrome reflected in bright, shiny spots on the scorching pavement as the blistering August sun beat down.

He climbed off the bike and steadied it as Kenna gracefully swung her leg over the seat, giving him a brief glimpse of her black thong.

While she adjusted her clothing, he relived the agonizingly slow bike ride. Her bare legs sliding along his thighs. Her smooth arms locked tight around his torso. The soft swell of her breasts pressed into his spine.

God. At one point he smelled her arousal as her groin rubbed against his ass whenever they stopped. Every time he’d stepped on the gas and the Harley’s seat vibrated, her breathy moans echoed in his ear.

His dick was so hard he could’ve used it as a kickstand.

She patted her head, making sure the wig had stayed in place and slid pink sunglasses higher on her nose.

“The Back Door Saloon is about two blocks down.”

“Why are we going there anyway?”

Drake pocketed the keys. “I’m meeting someone.”

Her sharp gaze pierced him even through her dark shades. “Was this a prearranged meeting?”

“Yes. I don’t have time to explain.” Nor could he tell her what was going down. He snagged her hand and pulled her along behind him.

They wended through the people clogging the sidewalk. Most everyone wore black and the crowd rippled with energy. Heat rose from the sidewalk, making it impossible to breathe. They bypassed the Hooters tent and a leather vendor specializing in bondage gear. When Kenna stopped to check out the wide selection of cock rings, Drake dragged her away.

A leggy brunette—her size 46DDs bursting from a microscopic snakeskin bikini top—had draped a ten-foot python across her tanned shoulders. She blew him a kiss and crooked her finger at him with a come-hither smile. He shook his head. So far Sturgis had lived up to its name.

Above the entrance to the Back Door Saloon hung a sign, “Ladies: A Free Beer for a Free Show.”

Kenna’s lips tickled his ear. “I am not showing my tits to every pervert in the bar just for a free Coors Light, Drake.”

He turned so they were only a breath away. “I wouldn’t dream of asking.” He lightly brushed his mouth over hers. “And I don’t share,” he said, sinking his teeth into her fleshy bottom lip. He immediately licked away the pain of the sting, tasting the sweetness of her lipstick and the sharper taste of her desire.

They stared at one another. A smart retort was slow in coming.

Drake scanned the vicinity. No sign of Geo or Bobby. Trying to park a van near the main drag in Sturgis was worse than cruising in on a bike.

Much as he hated it, he’d have to leave Kenna alone. He couldn’t risk blowing the cover of the local DEA agent waiting for him inside the bar.

“Look. You hang around out here for half an hour or so and get something to eat. Let me do my business inside and then we’ll wander Main Street for awhile.” He fished a crumpled fifty from his left pocket and pressed it in her palm.

Those pink lips flattened into a grim line. “Why did you drag me along if you planned on ditching me?”

“I’m not ditching you. Bobby and Geo are supposed to be here but they must’ve gotten stuck in traffic.” When several beats passed and she didn’t make a smart-ass remark, he said, “What?”

“You are an asshole. And I don’t need your money.” She let the bill flutter to the ground.

Talk about touchy. Drake bent to pick it up. When he straightened, Kenna had vanished into the sea of black.

“Fuck.” Out of options and out of time, he headed inside the dark smoky bar. He’d deal with her later.

Kenna leaned against the side of the building, trying to control her temper. The man was infuriating. Not only didn’t he need her there, he didn’t want her there. Why the big hustle to get ready?

If she asked questions he’d evade. Made her want to scream. Did he just expect her to follow along with everything like an obedient little lapdog?

Yes. So far she had.

Scents of cigarette smoke, meat fried in onions and the sugary scents of mini-donuts wafted over her. Didn’t make her hungry. The greasy blend of odors made her stomach roil.

Or was her naivety causing her to feel sick?

Doubts rushed in. How much did she know about Drake March? If he was DEA, why hadn’t he shown her a badge? Wouldn’t the real DEA knock down her apartment door with a battering ram instead of arranging a fake meeting via a decoy email account?

Even Geo and Bobby’s presence could be easily explained. Hired men. Private security companies had access to the same gadgets as the government. Odd, that they called him “boss”, not Agent March.

What if none of them were DEA? What if they were members of a Miami drug cartel trying to find out how much Jerry Travis had told her about Diablo?

God. What if they’d cut her off from everyone because they intended to kill her when she no longer proved useful? What if his deliberate attempts at seduction had been the easiest way to ensure her compliance?

Despite the midday heat rising from the asphalt, her blood ran cold.

Kenna inhaled a couple of calming breaths. Deep enough to dig her shoulder blades into the cement blocks of the building that held her up.

Okay. All she had to do was get to a pay phone and call Shawnee. Shit. Shawnee wasn’t around.

She’d call Marissa. With her real estate contacts, she’d have access to a place to hide her until this blew over. Or she could help her contact the local authorities and see if Drake March or Drake Mayhaven, or whatever the hell he was calling himself, really worked for the DEA.

She cut through the mob, ignoring the vendors shouting enticements. Grilled rattlesnake? Eww. Twenty percent off “intimate” body part piercing? Double eww.

It was harder to ignore the stunning young women wearing flesh-colored pasties and thongs, posing with any man who’d pony up a cool ten bucks. How could they sell themselves…she skidded to a stop.

Omigod. She’d taken money from a strange man for the pleasure of her company. How was that different?

It wasn’t.

Before Kenna submerged herself into more self-recrimination, she caught a glimpse of a curtain of long hair, thick and shiny as a slab of black onyx. Only one person in the world had hair like that.

Shawnee.

When the woman flipped her mane back and tossed a rainbow-beaded purse over her shoulder—a purse identical to the one Kenna carried—she knew it was her roommate hustling through the biker crowd. But why?

Kenna’s pulse quickened. What the hell was Shawnee doing in Sturgis? Kenna knew she occasionally helped out a friend in one of the bars, but Shawnee was pretty mum on which one. Besides, Shawnee was supposed to be on a dig in Harding County.

It didn’t matter. Kenna was relieved to see her. She yelled, “Hey, Shawnee! Wait up!”

Shawnee stopped and turned. She looked around frantically, her gaze zooming from one unfamiliar face to another. Suspicion had drawn her mouth tight. Not once did that skittish gaze land on Kenna. A look of absolute fear distorted Shawnee’s beautiful features before she slipped on a pair of sunglasses, whirled back around and vanished into the swarm of people.

Kenna froze in the middle of the sidewalk.

Shawnee had blown her off. Some best friend.

Then it hit her. Shawnee wouldn’t have recognized her, all dolled up as biker bitch Kenna. No wonder Shawnee had panicked. Shawnee purposely kept a low profile, given her checkered past—and she was justifiably paranoid around strangers, especially avoiding the types of people with sketchy pasts much like hers.

Shawnee was probably halfway to Whitewood by now, that girl could run like the wind. So…what did Kenna do now?

Plan B. Call Marissa.

A blue pay phone shone in the sun like a beacon. Kenna hustled toward it, digging in the bottom of her purse for change. Shaking fingers punched the number to Marissa’s cell.
Please, please pick up.

“Marissa Cruz,” she said brusquely.

“Marissa! Thank God. I-I—”

“Kaye? I mean Kenna? What’s going on? Where are you?”

Motorcycle engines revved and she raised her voice. “Downtown Sturgis, at a pay phone across from the Circle S. Please. I need to talk to you in person. Is there any way—”

“Hang on.” Marissa’s words were garbled as she spoke to her companions. “Okay. I’m back. I just finished showing a building at the end of Lazelle Street, about four blocks from you.”

Relief made Kenna slump against the phone box. “Can you meet me here?”

“I’m on my way.” She chuckled. “What color is your hair today,
chica?
So I know who to look for?”

“I’m wearing the red wig. Oh and I dressed in black.”

“That ought to be easy to spot,” she said dryly. “Hang tight.” She broke the connection.

Distracted, Kenna paced. Wondering how the hell she’d ended up in this crazy situation. Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. She’d nearly made the fourth pass past a garbage can crammed with beer bottles and crumpled up food wrappers, when a sharp jerk separated her purse from her shoulder.

For half a second she froze, watching the black knit cap and leather jacket bobbing and weaving through the crowds with her purse held high above like a trophy.

In the next instant, Kenna was running after him.

Anger, fear, adrenaline, whatever it was, she seemed to be gaining on the punk. Pounding the concrete in her stiletto boots sent shock waves up from her heels through her shins, but didn’t slow her down. Keeping her gaze firmly fixed on his head, she bulled her way through the throngs of people.

Almost. Not quite. Finally close enough. Releasing a primal scream, she tackled him. An all out flying leap that knocked both of them to the hot, sticky pavement. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs.

Her knees hit first, then her forearms, then her elbows. Her face smacked into a hard thigh, but not before she saw her purse fly from the assailant’s hands and skid a few feet to her left. Despite having the wind knocked out of her, she scrambled sideways and lunged for it.

Yes! When the straps were firmly in her grasp, she looked over her shoulder.

The dirty rotten thief had disappeared.

At least the bastard hadn’t gotten away with her favorite purse. And her wallet. He’d put a serious dent in her dignity however. She slowly settled back on her knees, attempting to literally cover her ass.

“Ma’am? You okay?” A silver-haired man and his equally silver-haired female companion had hunkered down beside her, wrinkled faces heavy with concern.

Kenna managed a small, “Ooof.”

They assisted her to her feet amidst the leering crowd, who’d given them a wide berth but no offers of help.

The sweet little old lady—who sported a baggy fuchsia leather halter and matching leather hotpants—gently tugged Kenna’s Lycra skirt down from her hips. She readjusted her tank top and clucked over the scrapes just starting to bleed.

The man muttered, “Sad, when you aren’t even safe in broad daylight in South Dakota.”

“Thanks for helping me.” Kenna’s body began to pulsate with pain. Spots danced in front of her eyes, distorting her vision.

“Sweetie, you really should go to the first aid station.”

“She really ought to go to the cops,” the man grumbled.

“I’ll be fine in a minute.” She closed her eyes and staggered backwards. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

“Kenna!” Marissa’s panicked voice cut through the air. Strong hands steadied her. The familiar scent of patchouli soothed her. “Oh God! Honey, what happened?”

“Purse snatcher.” She grimaced when shooting pain zapped her in the head. “Failed attempt, fortunately.”

“Where are the police?” Marissa demanded.

“That’s what we wondered.”