Speaking of my body…
It had tingled for a good two hours after leaving Black Knights Inc. Everywhere Britt’s broad hands had touched her, little bubbles of pleasure had fizzed and popped under her skin.
She was reminded of something her sister-in-law once said: You can’t sayhappinesswithoutpenis.
It was true. For those few minutes with Britt’s lovely hardness pressed against her, Julia had been blissfully happy.
Too bad that’s all it’ll ever be. A few stolen moments. A few stolen kisses.
Now, she wondered if she was forever ruined for others. She’d been so distracted by the pleasure he pressed on her that a nuclear bomb could have detonated in the middle of the city, and she wouldn’t have noticed until the blast melted the flesh from her bones.
And what a way to go, a little voice hummed.In the arms of Sergeant Britt Rollins.
She barely refrained from rolling her eyes at how pathetic that sounded. How patheticshesounded. Then, she got distracted from her inner dialogue when someone mentioned her name.
Glancing toward the elevator bank, she saw two men talking to Agent Stuart Brown.
Stu was a terrible flirt. Julia had turned down his invitation for drinks half a dozen times. And if he’d been even the slightest bit miffed by her refusals, she might have reported him to HR. Fortunately, after each rejection, he’d only shrugged, grinned, and gone on his way.
Now, he pointed a finger her way, and she watched the two strangers turn in her direction.
The younger man had thick, sandy-colored hair, freckled skin, and a gym-bro build. When his eyes met hers, his expression was politely interested.
The older man was the polar opposite. His black hair was thinning on top. He was ruddy-cheeked, with a physique that said he enjoyed refined sugar and complex carbohydrates. And his expression was as dark and as fierce as hell’s midnight.
Dillan came to stand in front of her. She wasn’t sure if he was being protective—which was laughable—or if he was trying to give the impressionheheld the higher rank—which was annoying but not unusual.
“Move!” She tapped the back of his knee with her toe. “You’re blocking my view.”
“What are you talking about?” His Superman profile showed the smirk he wore. “Iamthe view.”
She rolled her eyes. “What must it be like to have the audacity of a mediocre, middle-aged white man, I wonder?”
His wide jaw thrust out in pique. “Who you callin’ middle-aged? I just turned thirty-eight!”
“That’swhat offended you? Not the mediocre part?” She shook her head. “You, sir, have lowered the bar of humility so far it’s in hell.”
“Hate the game, not the player,” he returned with a toothy grin.
“The nineties called. They want their hackneyed cliché back.”
She could see his mind whirring, searching for a sufficiently sarcastic comeback. When he couldn’t come up with anything, he swung back to watch the new arrivals who snake their way through the sea of cubicles. “You know these guys?”
“Never seen them before,” she assured him.
But she knew their type.
Shewastheir type.
It was more than the JoS. A. Bank suits, the lug-soled duty shoes, and the poorly concealed shoulder holsters. It was the look in their eyes. The way they held their jaws. That certain strut that said they expected to be afforded an appropriate level of deference and respect once they reached their destination.
We really are an arrogant lot,she thought absently and then pushed to a stand next to Dillan to greet the arriving agents.
“Agents O’Toole and Douglas?” The older man asked, although his expression said it wasn’t really a question—just a courtesy.
“Who’s asking?” Dillan’s tone was imperious.
The urge to roll her eyes again was intense. Growing up with brothers, she was no longer surprised that every interaction between men somehow turned into a dick-measuring contest.
