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Backtrack [The Huntsmen 2]
by Amber Green

Category: Erotica/Paranormal Erotica/Group-Orgy Erotica
Description: Sugar's made so many mistakes, not even the feds can save her. But with two hot young studs at her back and her kid's life at stake, maybe it's time she stops running and settles down. With the two men she's come to love. Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, menage (m/f/m, brothers sharing heroine), strong violence.
eBook Publisher: Loose Id, LLC, 2008
eBookwise Release Date: September 2008

eBookeBook

45 Reader Ratings:
Great Good OK Poor
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [129 KB]
Words: 26775
Reading time: 76-107 min.


Speaking of dallying ... She bent at the waist and brushed her hair, then slung it back and checked the mirror. Not the "big hair" effect, nothing like what she'd gotten when she'd had hair longer than her pinky finger, much less back when she'd had reason to spend time fooling with it, but--some volume. She turned off the overhead light and the bedside lamp, leaving only the little light on the dresser. Which was more than plenty.

The alarm clock the hotel provided ran two minutes faster than her watch, and said Cassio was one minute late.

Just then, he knocked. Of course him. Who else would be right here right at this minute?

She went to check, but stopped herself. Digger's guys bragged of watching the peephole, and putting a bullet through it as soon as it went dark. She stood to the side of the door and cupped the peephole with her hand.

No gunshot.

She peeked.

He looked up the walk and down, his nostrils flaring as if he tested the scent of the night wind.

She opened the door from as far to the side as she could reach. The long-ingrained caution didn't make sense here and now, but cautious habits were worth keeping for when things got close to the line.

He slid in through a minimal opening, and shut the door with his heel. He wore low boots of black leather, charcoal jeans that fit close, and fluid, a dark red T-shirt that clung to his muscular chest and shoulders, and a black leather vest. A little retro. A lot macho. His gym bag dragged heavily at its straps.

He examined her like he'd never seen her before.

She swallowed. In his Marco guise, he'd kept his eyes soft and wide to suit a boy's face. In the ER, his eyes had lost all softness. But still she hadn't thought of his gaze as sharp, or as ... hard. Dangerous. He really is looking at me like a stranger.

Without looking away from her, he set the bag on the dresser. Her eyes involuntarily followed it. The bag settled without a rattle or a bump, or any noise at all--but it had enough weight to strain at the handle.

More than a change of clothes and a shaving kit in there. But what?

I've let a strange man into my hotel room. Her throat tightened. Maybe he worked with Digger.

No! If Cassio had wanted to snatch her, he would have snatched her one evening as she'd left work. And, whatever his name, he had needed his arm reconditioned. That hadn't been fake, no matter how startling the speed at which he'd regained strength and range of motion.

Maybe he didn't see well, and the dim light was giving him trouble. Or maybe this scrutiny just meant he had never seen her as the kind of woman who would invite him to a cheap hotel room. Her face heated.

He moved closer.

She stiffened. Couldn't help it. He looked so predatory.

He stopped, head tilted to the side. His face softened. "You're getting cold feet, aren't you?"

Yeppers to that. She summoned a smile. "Only because you haven't kissed me."

"I can fix that." He double-checked the overlap on the heavy drapes. "I can certainly fix that." He turned, and paused. "You often get this reckless feeling?"

To this degree, you mean? "Once every few years. When a blue moon falls on Tuesday and the wind is in the east."

His eyes lit with amusement. He extended his left hand.

She almost corrected him: Use your right hand. It won't get strong if you baby it. But he wasn't her patient anymore. Nor was he a kid. She extended a hand, and let him take it.

He bowed to kiss her fingertips like a lord in a movie. Then he turned her hand over and kissed her palm. Softly, questioningly.

Abruptly, he turned hungry. His teeth scraped over her palm, caught a tuck of skin and nipped it, and then he licked and sucked along the lines and hollows, awakening every sensory nerve there--and she had plenty of them.

Her insides tightened. She gasped, but she didn't retreat. Instead, she found herself moving closer, as if he was the tide, sucking her toward him.

His lips brushed her cheekbone, then he rested his cheek to the same spot. Cool air brushed her neck. He's sniffing me? Should I have found some perfume?

He certainly hadn't shaved since this morning. On the other hand, he had showered. He exuded a light scent of sandalwood and musk. He tugged her a half-step closer, eliminating the awkward lean-in position, and settled her hand on his waist.

She moved her hand to his shoulder, a safer place, then felt foolish. She'd invited him here with promises, however unstated, of boinking him to exhaustion. Now she was hesitating a long way short of boinking. She rested both hands on his strong shoulders. Can't tell which one was injured at all. Of course, the vest might have something to do with that. "My hands are out of the way. You may continue with the kissing."

He laughed, the first time she'd heard his laugh; it warmed her skin like a towel straight from the dryer. "I've barely started."

He draped his arms about her, loosely, as if giving her permission to break free if she wanted. Then he pulled her just a touch closer, so she could feel his jeans against the fronts of her legs, the barest brush of his fly against hers. He was maybe an inch and a fraction or two inches taller than she was, but her legs were proportionately longer.

She touched her lips to a thin scar nicking the edge of his bottom lip. So thin she hadn't ever noticed it before.

He kissed her cheek again, then tilted his head and kissed the corner of her mouth. Then her bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth and lightly nipping, then licking as if in apology.

Not an apology. A tasting. His tongue tip, just the tip, traced hers as she tested the hint of bristle along his jawline. His hands skimmed up her body until he cupped her head firmly in both hands and tilted it for better access. His tongue delved deep. All hesitation gone, he tasted and explored, his tongue now twining about hers and now stroking the roof of her mouth in a manner that curled her toes and weakened her knees.

She moaned, digging her fingers into his shoulders. Watch out! She released her grip, and stroked his injured shoulder apologetically.

"Don't stop," he whispered into her mouth. One hot-skinned hand spread over the small of her back. "You feel mighty good."

She did? He did.

His hand stroked up her spine, leaving a heated trail of jittering, nerve endings. "How reckless do you feel, Sugar?"

"Enough to suggest we are both overdressed."

"But I want you to wear one more thing for me. One scrap of silk."

What? Something kinky. He wouldn't mention it, if it wasn't kinky. She pulled back, studying him in the shadows, and saw a playful heat she hadn't seen in a long time. With Digger and his kind, these moods might mean somebody was gonna end up hurting. But she'd seen Cassio in pain, in humiliated frustration, and in spitting fury when he'd dropped the weight bar. No matter how bad the therapy sessions got, she'd never felt the slightest hint of threat around him. In that magical forty-five minutes, twice a week, she'd felt safe. Why, though? She set the question firmly aside. "All right."

His eyes gleamed, and more heat pooled under his hands. "Just 'all right'? Not 'what is it' first?"

Because you're not stupid enough to bring out the truly kinky stuff until you see how I react to the first taste. "I don't think you're in the mood to suggest something I'd automatically refuse."

"Close your eyes, then. Tilt your head back."

She obeyed.

Close by, a zipper scraped, and something rustled. She shivered, and crossed her arms. If it's just a blindfold, that's fine. She started to say something, but she'd given him some limits and left the rest open. Okay, so I either tell him I changed my mind or I have to go with it and hope I haven't misjudged him.

Stupid. How could I have misjudged a man who convinces me he's a kid, then says he's a man? I just keep believing him.

He put something soft over one eye, and then the other, and then reached around behind her head to bind both pads with the promised scrap of silk.

Tussah, she guessed. Just like Digger used when he wanted to tickle her. For-real silk, instead of something fake that felt silky, but would slip. She could call him on this being more than one scrap, but why bother? Better to save her objections for something she disliked.

He kissed her between the eyes, just above the blindfold. "Thank you."

She tried to smile, but it would look forced, so she didn't bother. $What is your problem, Sugar? Isn't this what you asked for?

The problem is, he's treating me like a stranger. Like he's forgotten those funny faces and voices that make me laugh. Not that I could see him pull faces now. Were those just part of his Marco persona? What a pity, if he'd thought out those endearing details and layered them on his personality like an actor would take on a twitch, if they weren't part of him at all.

Like I have a right to complain about people playing roles.

He opened her buttons methodically, but not slowly. The ones above her crossed arms, then the ones below them. Then he unfolded her arms and opened the last button. He brushed his lips across the top edge of her bra cup. "I like this."

In the next room, the TV abruptly came on. Or suddenly got turned a whole lot louder. Something about the Soviets deciding to boycott the Los Angeles Summer Olympics.

Cassio paused, and whispered behind her ear. "What kind of music you like, Sugar?"

That was easy. "Reba."

"Works for me." He moved away, leaving a cold draft.

She turned to where he had been. Which way did he go? A cat in motion couldn't be any quieter. "This room doesn't have a radio."

"Does now," he said from her left, over by the dresser. The Willie Nelson/Julio Iglesias duet swirled around her, one smooth voice and one rough. "Um-hm. You got any problem with two for the price of one?"

She turned toward him, to keep his eyes off her back. That's a mighty heavy radio, if that's all you have in the bag. So what else did you bring? A honking big vibrator? Are you asking if I'd mind? Or are you for real just asking if I mind taking Willie and Julio instead of Reba? "Not when they play off each other that well."

He chuckled, warm puffs over her cheek and ear. "Good."

She flinched. How did you go from six feet away to six inches, without me noticing? "You move like a cat!"

"Far from it. Ever seen cats screw? Mrowl! Wham-bam! Hisss! Not even a thank you, ma'am."

This was Cassio, joking, making his funny voices. She relaxed.

He came closer, heat against her skin. "That's better. Now how about we let the bra go, hmm?"

She reached for his buttons, but she found bare skin. Nicely taut skin, over mounded muscles. She moved down, exploring his six-pack, finding his navel and the line of hair trailing down from just below it.

He took in a hissing breath, and caught her wrists. "Hold that thought. Especially if you ever want to wear these nice flowers again."

He reached around her to undo her bra catch, and uncovered her breasts.

The overly cooled air hit her nipples, which were already tight, and made them ache. Her belt fell open, the weight of the buckle shifting to one belt loop, and then--

He kissed her belly, as he had her palm, hungrily and with lots of tongue.

Oh, yes! She involuntarily rose on tiptoe, then grabbed him by the hair. Soft hair, clean, unfashionably short, hard to grab. "Cassio!"

"Fort," he murmured into her navel.

"What?" Even Cassio is a fake name?

"The name." He kissed and nipped upward to her breast. "But pretend I didn't mention it. That's not what you need to think about right now."

Okay. Not like it would matter tomorrow, when she was gone from here forever. Without a future, there wasn't any reason to ask for unnecessary details, much less full honesty.

He took her nipple in his hot, wet mouth, and sucked.

She went up to tiptoe again, drawn tight as a bowstring. Something brushed her ankles. Her shorts. He must have pushed them down while I was distracted. She stepped out of them automatically, balancing with both hands in his hair. She still had her underpants on. Good thing they're pretty.

Besides, she liked to have a guy totally naked before she bared the last few inches. Couldn't say why, but everything went better in that order.

The air stirred, a muggy breath of wind on her bare back, and the palm fronds rattled against the stairs. Her gut knotted. The door's open! Look out!

Before she could take breath to warn Cassio, the door shut, making no sound of its own but muting the night sounds outside.

Someone had come in. Someone as cat-quiet as Cassio. Or Fort. Or whoever. Who had to have noticed. Yet Fort merely hummed, moving from one nipple to the other.

Nausea hit, and she wasn't sure if she was swaying or standing still. It was a trap. One she'd sprung on herself. They were Digger's men, and the next thing would be a needle, or a smack on the head to keep her quiet. A sob shook her. She turned away, and crossed her arms over her breasts.

"What the--Sugar?"

"Don't hit me. Please." She hugged herself tighter. They wouldn't have bothered getting her naked--and she was all but naked--if they hadn't planned some fun before they took her to Digger. Like the men he'd sent to intercept her in Mobile--except those guys had only talked about getting her naked and having fun, their words coming in jerks from the effort of slashing those belts across her back. She'd had to take it, had to cower down until she'd seen a chance to knife the driver.

How long had this group been watching her? Didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She'd played into their hands every fucking step of the way. I am such an idiot.

She couldn't even reach her airhorn siren, which was in her pocket, which was on the floor somewhere. And professional assassins wouldn't let her grope for it. Wouldn't even let her scream. She swallowed another sob. What was she facing? How bad was it going to get before she had a chance to escape? "How many of you are there?"

A man jerked her to him and yanked down her blindfold. Cassio. His brows knotted with concern. "Two of us," he growled. "Just two! And we wanted to surprise you, not scare you to hell and gone!"

"Right," said the same voice. From behind her.

She turned. Cassio. Bare-chested, perfect. An artist's model of a man in the faint, reflected light. Cassio? She looked back at the one Cassio, in a black button-down shirt. "Twins." She wasn't sure they could hear her. She swallowed. "You're identical twins."


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