Shades of Grey (21 page)

He pulled out of her and lay by her side, holding out one arm so she snuggled next to him. “And what was I up to?”

“Goading me out of feeling vulnerable.” She dragged a fingertip over his erect nipple.

“Vulnerable? You? Never.” He smiled and kissed the top of her head, her damp hair sticking to his lips.

“Exactly. I mean, I never get vulnerable.”

“Or embarrassed.”

“No.”

“Even when you’ve said something’s embarrassing, you don’t really mean it.” He fought hard to keep from laughing.

She swatted his chest playfully. “No. And, just like you said, I’m stubborn and will always see things in black and white.”

“Hmm. Maybe you want to think about that last one again.”

She lay silently for a while, teasing his nipple, placing soft kisses to his chest every so often. Then, “Okay, yes. I’ll admit it. I see
some
shades of grey, all right?”

“Only some?”

“Yes, only some, so don’t push it, mister.”

Epilogue

From the fence he’d crawled under as a wolf the night Clark had shot him, Travis stared out over the ranch. A bright spring sun bore down on him, warming his face and bare arms, giving his surroundings a comforting hazy glow. Everything looked tidier now, the grounds well maintained, the bordering fences fixed and repainted, the bushes pruned, their previously unruly leaves and branches shorn away. The house looked damn good, too, the inside renovated in the space of two months, the outside boasting a fresh coat of white paint. It could almost be a different building, what with the new tiles on the roof and a sturdy front door that had proved its worth over the winter just gone.

They’d worked hard and long to get this place to the standard it should be, replacing all the old furniture with new, Sarah finally clearing out her daddy’s bedroom and converting it into an office. She’d learned to let go this past year or so, to see shades of colour, let alone grey, as she battled to accept that things couldn’t be done as fast as she wanted or exactly how she’d envisaged.

She’d come a long way.

Come a long way in the bedroom, too.

Travis’ cock stiffened as he thought of how she’d changed since that night when he’d first spanked her. God, he’d thought her a spitfire then, but she’d shown him she had more mettle than he’d imagined.
She’d
become the dominant one, ordering him around, telling him where she wanted his cock, his hands, his tongue.

And, Christ, he loved it.

Loved her.

He glanced down at his wedding ring, glinting from a slant of sunlight. Their trip to Vegas had been a blast, the wedding ceremony one hell of a touching affair that had brought a lump to his throat and the sting of tears. She’d made his life complete, and, apart from their usual ribald banter and small arguments, they got along just fine.

Life had settled into a nice pattern the last fortnight, all the building work complete and things going back to them just running the ranch. He still had a lot to tell her about himself, about the pack he’d left behind years ago after his parents had died and how he’d remained alone until meeting her, but they had years ahead of them for that. His wolf didn’t faze her at all, and when he sloped off some nights to shift and run until his lungs hurt, she didn’t question, didn’t probe. It seemed she’d taken him, wolf and all.

He sighed with contentment and shoved off the fence, striding over the grass towards the empty paddock. The men had gone home an hour ago, tired out from a week of heavy work, looking forward to a restful night out at Macy Jo’s. He winced at the thought of that sweet woman and shrugged off the heavy feeling he always got when he recalled that time. He couldn’t change anything that had gone before but could sure as shit change the future, making it so his woman never went through anything so horrific again.

Reaching the house, he stood outside and gazed at it, double-checking that everything really had been addressed. Confident it had, he walked around the side and entered through the kitchen door, replaced from the one he’d fixed before with a mahogany barn door so that Sarah could keep the top part open when she worked about the room while still retaining her privacy with the bottom half shut.

She stood at the sink, hands submerged in dirty water. She turned as he strode towards her, smile transforming her already beautiful face into something even more stunning.

He loved her so much it hurt.

“Hey,” he said, that one word incredibly hard to speak through the lump in his throat.

“Hey yourself,” she said, taking her hands from the water along with a potato and peeler. She placed them on the drainer and dried her hands on a towel. “You satisfied?”

He nodded. “Everything’s been done.”

“Just like I said.” She smiled then glared at him from lowered lashes, her stern look designed to make him see he’d worried for nothing.

“But I’m not satisfied.” He rubbed his chin and stared at the floor, narrowing his eyes in thought.

“Oh, hell. What’s wrong now? I thought I was the picky one? What have they done that isn’t up to your standards?”

He looked up, walked over and stood before her, settling his hands on her waist. “They’ve done fine. I just said I wasn’t satisfied.” He raised his hands and cupped her breasts.

“Oh.
That
kind of satisfied.”

“Yeah. That kind.”

She went on tiptoe and kissed him, sliding her hands through his hair to cradle his head. His cock hardened and he kissed her back, pushing his erection against her lower belly.

She eased away. “Hey, watch it down there. Damn thing’s so hard you could do some damage.”

“I want you to do some damage,” he said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Bedroom.”

Coming Soon from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

Forced Assassin

Natalie Dae and Sam Crescent

Released 23
rd
July 2012

Excerpt

Chapter One

Bishop. He rolled the word around in his mind, testing whether it fit. He quite liked it as names went. It wasn’t a bad one, better than some of the others he’d had, but it wouldn’t be his for long enough to matter anyway.

They never were.

He stared across the hotel dining room, with white cloths draped over round tables big enough to seat six, to the woman sitting in the far right-hand corner. She hadn’t clocked him watching her since yesterday—or at least he didn’t think she had—and ate her Beef Wellington in delicate morsels, gaze fixed into the far distance as though she had a lot on her mind. And she would have, if other marks were anything to go by.

He looked at his own plate, the food there unappealing, and wished he’d opted for the Wellington himself. A pork chop, undercooked, the fat around the edge soggy and unappetising, seemed to mock him, the mashed potatoes next to it just as sloppy, just as stomach-churning. He pushed his plate aside and reached for a glass of water, catching a glimpse of his reflection due to the harsh lighting from the chandeliers.

Bishop sighed. He appeared in sore need of sleep, those dark circles beneath his eyes the bane of his life. The inch-long scar on his cheekbone from an assignment last year had at last faded from deep pink to a paler shade, but it still marred his otherwise handsome face, still reminded him he’d failed.

The one who got away…

He grimaced, placing his glass on the table, turning it this way and that for want of something to do. Occupying his mind on occasions like this were always difficult—he watched, he noted, he waited, over and over again until his mark did what he’d been told they would and he had to finish them.

A lock of his black fringe caught on his eyelashes, and he shook his head. Focusing on the woman again, he wondered why she’d been chosen for the job. That long auburn hair of hers would get in the way if she didn’t tie it up, and her slender figure brought forth thoughts of a ballerina rather than an athlete who could cope with running for her life if the need arose. It would, too, if things went to plan, and she’d be running from Bishop, lungs straining, leg muscles screaming.

That’s if she ran. He might get lucky and catch her before she had a chance to flee, but things rarely worked out like that when he was on a job. He had to fight for the end result every time, fate or Lady Luck poking her big nose in, stirring things up so he failed to get an easy ride.

He laughed. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden a woman. Relationships were few and far between in his line of work. It was pointless trying to have one, his long hours, days away from home—weeks, sometimes—didn’t bode well for keeping a woman happy. Still, he had his right hand, and that had been enough. Until he’d set eyes on Fallan Jones. Was that her real name or was she hiding the same as him? He shouldn’t care, hadn’t in the past, but then his marks weren’t usually so bloody…attractive.

Fallan. He rolled that name around too, liking it more every time it echoed in his mind. He imagined calling it out when he came, when she clutched him to her, legs clamped about his waist, crossed at the ankles, heels driving him deeper inside a cunt he imagined would be tight. Soaked.

His cock twitched—the last thing he needed if Fallan got up and left the dining room. He willed it not to grow fully erect, thankful when it didn’t. He needn’t have worried. It looked as though she was going for three courses tonight. A waiter whisked her plate away, and another came by with desserts on a trolley laden with sweet delights.

She ought to be on that trolley, sweet delight that she is.

No, he mustn’t think of her like that. She was a mark, nothing more, someone who needed taking out before she did any more damage.

She pointed to a high mound of profiteroles, and the waiter spooned several into a white dish, pouring melted chocolate over them with such skill the brown liquid didn’t dribble down the side of the jug. With the bowl before her, she nodded her thanks and the waiter moved away, pushing the trolley out of the dining room. Odd, that. He usually visited every table.

Suspicion took hold, twisting in Bishop’s mind, a nasty coil of barbed wire that pricked all his senses, putting him on high alert. He stood, casually tugging the hem of his black suit jacket, and walked across the room to the doorway the waiter had gone through. The trolley stood in a corridor, abandoned, all shelves below the top covered with another of those white cloths. He smiled, thinking of every bad action film he’d watched, where a gun-wielding man hid behind the material, ready to pounce.

Double doors with circular glass at the top let him know the kitchen lay behind them and that he didn’t have much time. Someone would come out of there in a minute, plate-laden hands held aloft, food piping hot, steam billowing like London fog. He sidled up to the doors and peeked through one of the windows, noting the busy staff in their sauce-stained white uniforms going about their business.

Letting out a sigh of relief, he went back to the trolley and lifted the cloth on one side. Desserts, the same as those on top, filled the two lower shelves—muffins, cheesecakes, and some pastry confection that had God knew what in the middle—but nothing else. He crouched, that barbed wire poking him some more, and shifted a few plates around.

A small jewel bag lay under the lip of a large plate, the requisite black velvet, a drawstring bunching the neck tight. He picked it up and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket, standing to settle the cloth back in place. His heart rate accelerated from him having bagged the prize so easily, and he thought about the coming days he would have for free time as a result.

One of the kitchen doors swung open, startling him, although he hid it well. The waiter who had pushed the desserts out here stared at him, mouth dropping open at the same time his gaze raked over the trolley.

“I took a wrong turn, it seems,” Bishop said, his voice, through years of practise, coming out steady and bold.

He turned abruptly and strode back into the dining room, using his peripheral to check whether Miss Jones was still wading through her profiteroles. She’d finished and sipped a wineglass half-full of water, staring his way. Bishop reached his table and retook his seat, ready to make a swift move if the need arose. He’d chosen this table for the French doors behind him that led out onto a terrace, the edges lined with square marble planters, flowers a riot of colour in the centre and ivy hanging over each corner, the final leaves on each vine kissing the wooden deck. The terrace gave way to a vast lawn, its outskirts boasting tall conifers. This place, in the middle of the English countryside, was the perfect hideaway for what Miss Jones had been contracted to do. For what he’d been contracted to do.

The waiter barged through the doorway, trolley in front of him, and made straight for Fallan’s table. He conversed with her, and anyone watching might think nothing untoward was going on, him taking her empty bowl and placing it on the trolley top. She didn’t widen her eyes, nor did she exhibit any telling body language. She smiled, nodded, and twisted her wineglass around by the stem.

Oh, she’s good.

As the waiter walked away, his strides clipped, his head darting this way and that until his gaze landed on Bishop, Fallan rose. She smoothed down her short black dress—a ridiculous outfit considering the nature of her job—and picked up her red clutch bag from the table. She tucked it under her arm and made her way towards him, hips swaying, those legs of hers going on forever. Lush, full breasts shamelessly sat above a low neckline, giving every man in the room more than an eyeful, and, Bishop suspected, a few lecherous thoughts.

She appeared unaware of the attention she gained—definitely not a woman who knew how appealing she was, how incredibly alluring, and pretty in a sophisticated way—and walked past him without a glance. Her perfume lingered in her wake, a combination of flowers and something spicy he couldn’t work out, and he took a deep breath, imagining how intoxicating that aroma would be in a sex-heated room. Cloying. Erotic. Sexy as hell.