Wicked All Night by Shayla Black Page B

shook her head, biting her lip and casting her gaze down again. “No.”
    â€œOh, beautiful . . . We’re going to have so much fun.” He grabbed her ankles and spread them wider, helping her anchor her heels on the edge of the counter, toes pointed down, leaving her pretty cunt completely open for his stare, his tongue, his cock.
    Best breakfast ever, and he couldn’t wait to dive in. He was on his last condom, but after this, he’d somehow manage to drag himself out of her pussy long enough to feed her and run by the drugstore. After that, all bets were off.
    Ready for a feast, he ran a finger down the inside of her thigh, skirting ever closer to her sensitive, swollen center. How fascinating to watch her folds grow slick and flush and pouty for his attention. Every part of her was beautiful.
    He dropped his towel and took a few sidesteps over to his jeans, carefully removing the condom without disturbing the gun. Rachel watched, her breathing rapid, her lids heavy, her lips rosy and parted, her legs spread wide. When had he ever seen a sight more gorgeous? No doubt, he was a lucky son of a bitch that she was all his, at least for now.
    And the thought crept back in that if he played his cards right, she could be his forever.
    His teasing mien fell away. The inner caveman roared, wanting to break free, to claim, to take, to mark. He’d never, ever felt anything like this, but he wasn’t about to fight something that felt so right.
    Decker stuck the condom wrapper between his teeth, ready to tear it open, roll it on, and sink so deeply inside her that she’d never think about walking away.
    The thought was spinning in his head. Her heavy breaths, his pounding heart, the gravity of the moment—it was all broken by the ringing of a doorbell.

Six
    RACHEL GASPED AND STIFFENED, THEN SCRAMBLED OFF THE counter. Decker snagged his towel from the hardwood floor and blocked her. No way was she answering that door or talking to anyone unless it was someone’s ninety-year-old grandma. And even then, he intended to frisk her for weapons.
    â€œAre you answering the door in nothing but high heels?”
    Panic flitted across her face, then she cursed. “No.”
    â€œGo put some clothes on. I got it.”
    â€œYou don’t have any clothes either,” she screeched.
    Decker pointed to his jeans on the table, then turned her toward the hall, urging her back toward the bedroom with a little slap. “Go. You expecting anyone?”
    â€œNo.” She jogged down the hall, carrying her shoes. “No one ever rings my doorbell, especially this early on a Sunday morning.”
    Frowning, he watched her disappear into her room, then snagged his gun and jeans, putting the latter on and palming the former. He shoved the condom in his pocket again. Whoever stood on the other side of the door was going to get his nuts blown off if Decker deemed him unfriendly.
    All kinds of pissed off for being cockblocked, he stalked down the hall. “This better be nothing.”
    When he reached the door, he tore it open to find a man of average height with hazel eyes behind round glasses, a checkered shirt, and khakis. He had nondescript shoes and an even more blah cut of hair in an unremarkable color somewhere between blond and light brown. The only thing worth mentioning was the scowl on his face.
    â€œWho are you?” the stranger asked.
    Decker slanted him a menacing glare. “Who are you?”
    The scholarly, sharp face told him the guy was a few years older. The hint of paunch suggested this dude was more sedentary. The permanent vertical furrow between his brows said to Decker that the stranger scowled a lot. He lacked a coat, so it wasn’t like he could hide a shoulder holster. The piece might be tucked into the small of his back, but . . . The man’s hands looked too soft to be lethal.
    Whoever this was, Decker didn’t think he was threatening.