There’d been times I hadn’t been able to get in contact with ESP, times I’d had to miss key check-ins, and times I had to spend my cash on bribes instead of food.
By the end of the mission, I was starving for more than just a decent meal. I was starving for sleep in a comfortable bedinstead of a blanket-covered pallet in a run-down warehouse, time back home with my family, sex with any man who would have me, and affectionate touch, if I could get it.
My plan was to head to Rabbit Island for a couple of weeks after my debrief in the office. Back home, Mav and Beau would feed me, I’d be able to roast in the white-hot sand of August, and I could get as many hugs as I wanted. My sister, Becca, would probably even agree to give me a shoulder rub as long as I binge-watched whatever show she was into while she did it.
As for the sex, I wasn’t willing to wait. As soon as I got to the airport hotel in Amsterdam, I headed to the bar to grab a bite to eat and scroll a hookup app before even checking out my room.
I got lucky as soon as I took a stool at the bar. The man finishing his drink next to me seemed just as eager for attention as I was. As soon as I finished my meal, he invited me up to his room.
Fuck. Yes.
“Let me close out,” I said, gesturing to the bartender that I was ready for my check.
The man gave me his room number and excused himself to the restroom. As soon as the card machine spat out a receipt for me to sign, I heard a familiar voice behind me, filled with surprise.
“Jett?”
I turned and nearly fell off my stool. “Locke? What are you doing here?”
His eyes devoured me, roving up and down my body as if taking inventory or making sure everything was where it was supposed to be. When his eyes returned to mine, they were filled with heat.
Locke Maris and his frown were absolute catnip to my touch-starved, normalcy-starved self. I wanted to inhale the fuck out of him and ride the high as long as possible.
I quickly signed the receipt, so distracted I probably signed my real name by mistake, before grabbing my backpack and Locke’s hand and pulling him into a nearby alcove half-hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain.
And then I lunged up and kissed him, full on the mouth. My hands clutched at his suit jacket lapels tightly enough to pull him off-balance. He slapped one hand on the wall and reached the other around my back to hold me close.
His mouth stayed on mine, kissing me back with as much pent-up desperation as I had after ten months of celibacy and sacrifice.
“Please take me to your room,” I begged. “Please.”
I didn’t want the handsome stranger from the bar. I wanted familiarity. Someone dominant enough to make all the decisions so I didn’t have to think. And someone whose presence overwhelmed me enough not to leave room in my head for anything else.
Locke pulled back and studied me. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
At that point, I would have said whatever I needed to say to get him to agree. “Yes.”
I didn’t even feel guilty for the lie because it wasn’t one. I’d just spent the better part of a year in life-or-death trouble. I was troubled to the edges of my teeth. And right now, all I wanted was to leave it behind for a night.
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, pulling my hands off his lapels and straightening his jacket. He placed a hand on my lower back and steered me toward the elevators, taking my ratty backpack out of my hands and throwing the strap over his shoulder.
Within moments, we were in a large suite with walls of glass probably overlooking something impressive. I didn’t care. All I wanted to overlook was Locke Maris, preferably naked.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he demanded as soon as we were alone behind a closed door.
“Nothing, I just…” I blew out a breath, feeling more vulnerable than I cared to admit, even to myself. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
He studied me while setting my bag down, pulling off his jacket, and laying it neatly on the back of a chair. “You look awful. Where have you been?”
I let out a weak laugh. “Thanks. Way to romance a guy.”
“Is that what I’m trying to do?” He crossed his arms. “Funny. I wasn’t aware.”
“I want to be fucked,” I said, needing to keep this from turning into a conversation about me and what I’d been through the past almost year. I avoided sounding whiny, but only just.
His nostrils flared. “Not happening. Tell me why you’re in Amsterdam.”
Was I still Jethro Davis, go-go boy from the Candy Bar? Or was I allowed to be Jett?
