Storm: (Blood Legion MC) (Bad Boys of X-Ops Book 3) (3 page)

“Okay, hawkeye. You can stop casing the joint now.” Walker slid a glass into my hand.

I drank a deep slug of the whisky. “Just taking the usual precautions.”

This shindig did not in any way resemble the Louisiana fais do-do I’d nearly forgotten. Fiddles and banjoes and gumbo and high-octane drinks on tap. This swank party was all champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres and top-shelf alcohol.

“You know what?” Walker raised his glass. “You need to start getting laid on the regular.”

“Probably your final chance before your upcoming op.” Justice cruised up, adding his unwelcome advice.

“Beg to differ. There’ll be plenty of cherries to pick off and fuck hard at the MC. Always are.” I swirled the liquid coating the bottom of my glass.

“With Blaize watching your every move?” Bane had wandered over.

With his trigger finger pointing, Justice said, “Fuck that. There are plenty of
English roses
right here. Bet most of ’em would drop their panties the second you broke out your southern drawl.”

Granted, Justice had a huge track record scoring chicks—in the wrong place at the wrong time, before he’d been
reformed
AKA
married
—but I had no probs getting any woman I wanted into my bed either.

I scanned the scene. He was right. There were plenty of babes I could easily take to my hotel room and screw until their voices turned hoarse from screaming my name, begging for more of my cock. Two women? Three? Four? Yeah. I’d done that. Hadn’t even given those honeys a second thought. I took them. Made them come.
Fucking
loved
making them come
. On my mouth, my fingers, my hand, my cock, over and over. But. But . . .

The only woman I wanted in my bed now was Blaize Carmichael. She was one hell of a firecracker. Talented. Respected in our business. Experienced in the field. Fully operational. Fully fucking hot.

Cornflower blue eyes. Luscious blowjob lips. Fiery red hair. And the fact she could control Walker, Justice, Bane, and me?

She was a goddamn miracle worker with a side of
suck-my-cock.

I kept it totally professional with Blaize. Tried to. She was the boss lady. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t invaded my dreams, corrupted my easy-fuck lifestyle, reduced me to a stuttering, simpleminded fool.

“I don’t envy you. This is one of the best days of my life.” Walker picked Jade out in the crowd, and he was absolutely riveted to her. “Yeah.
I’m gonna get her knocked up so I can keep her out of the field. Be nice to have a woman waiting at home for me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Pretty sure Jade won’t get knocked up until she wants to be.”

“Tilly and me are thinking about it.” Justice puffed up like the cock of the walk.

“I can’t stand these two anymore,” Bane muttered. “With all the happy.
Fuck.
”

“Copy that,” I said. “Too bad
we
can’t stand each other either.”

“Rog that.” Bane knocked his fist to mine.

Maybe it was time to let bygones be . . .

Yeah.

Screw that.

Still had a bullet with Bane’s name on it and a scar to prove it.

Walker managed to redirect his attention from his missus to us. “No Blaize at
my
wedding.” He complained.

“That’s because she’s probably getting geared up for her mission with Storm. And I’m more popular.” Justice bragged.

I would’ve popped him in the ribs, but Walker got there first.

“With a chastity belt strapped to her.” Bane colluded.

Cunt.

All the guys joked about Blaize and me. The bastards even put bets on that shit. They also knew it to be true.

I wanted the woman with an intensity I couldn’t shake.

And in less than twelve hours I was headed back stateside.

For a mission with her.

Alone.

Gonna Get Nada Pussy in NOLA

SITREP: EN ROUTE TO Louis Armstrong Airport. Commercial flight. Complete and utter bullshit.

First class. Fuckin’ A. I didn’t fly first class. I
flew
the frickin’ birds and choppers used to transport my team and me to every single stateside or far-off international hot zone. For a man made of nerves of steel, I was feeling a little bit jumpy. I wanted to be in the cockpit. Not helping matters was
Mizz Blaize Cahmichael
who sat right next to me, making
my
cock hard.

And she was wearing some kind of classy sexy perfume that sent my senses into overdrive with its floral spicy scent.

I glanced at her quickly.

That deep red hair was pulled back in a strict bun. She dressed in her regulation uniform of body-skimming suit hugging all her curves.

She sighed and rolled her neck.

I pushed my shoulder closer to the window, contemplating snapping the blind up and down to expel some energy.

I tried not to encroach into Blaize’s space, but first class or not, there was no goddamn room for me to spread my thighs, and my shoulders were folded in tight. I wasn’t stupid enough to pull an arm stretch, shoulder hug, canoodle move on Blaize, although I was tempted.

So very tempted.

At least if I’d had my Sigs, I could waste the spare time cleaning the pair of P226s. But no. Since we couldn’t come right out and state who we were—because we didn’t really exist on record—no guns allowed on board the flight. Another reason to be irritated.

With a low curse I pulled out my phone.

I skimmed through the photos on the camera roll, studying the key players of one of the most infamous outlaw motorcycle gangs in the United States. Running guns and smuggling coke. The American Dream. A side of murder by the dozens, full-blown street fights, and a prostitution ring just for shits and giggles.

The CIA hadn’t been able to nail the Blood Legion MC. The ATF had ended up looking like chumps with their limp dicks in their hands, the cockless wonders.

This mission was a last ditch effort to bring the Legion to their knees. Bring ’em down. Lock ’em up. Wipe them off the face of the one-percenter map.

I looked at the photos on my phone for one last trip down bad memory lane before I swiped the files. This was a new cell. I didn’t even have Justice, Walker, or Bane in my contacts. During this deep cover mission, Blaize and I would maintain almost complete radio silence with T-Z.

Burn
. Could’ve been so-called because of the road rash creating a grisly terrain up one whole side of his face, making him look like a third degree burn victim. But that wasn’t the case at all. His roadname was Burn because he liked to torch his victims.
Burn
them alive. We all joked about Walker and his bad plastics habit, but he was nothing like Burn. The man was a straight-up sadist.

And he was just the road captain.

Kouto
was the Legion sergeant at arms, his name meaning
knife
in Creole. With skin as black as rich soil and an even blacker heart, he preferred blade work to make his kills
—
and sometimes Voudou. He handed out the kill orders and kept the ranks in line.

The MC treasurer? A fucking dude named Angel. Ridiculous roadname, except it was actually his real name. Blond. Handsome. Pure looking, and he had no rapsheet whatsoever we’d been able to discover. Blaize didn’t think that meant the kid was an innocent.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The Blood Legion was made up of hardened road warriors, mindless murderers, conscienceless killers. Angel was twenty-two years old. Too young to be an officer in this bloodthirsty band of badasses, but this was the only legacy his dad, the legendary founder of Blood Legion, had left him.

Then there was Venom—pure poison. At least the cunt was appropriately dubbed. He was president. He’d maintained his three and a half year reign at the head of the gang by outsmarting every club coup, outsider takeover attempt, by evading John E. Law—or by bribing and buying off the authorities. He was the brains. Business savvy except when he was busy shoveling blow up his nose. Or maybe the coke was what gave him the edge.

The Legion traded high-powered rifles in return for smuggled cocaine from Los Reyes de Guerra cartel in Mexico City. And if a few unpapered Mexican girls happened to be delivered with the coke? They became the club’s whores for hire.

New Orleans was where I’d grown up, or near enough. Just outside
la cité
along the majestic Bayou Lafourche. I was Cajun through and through, but I’d cut bait a long time ago.

Cranking my neck, I hit the kill button on my cell.

Then I glanced at Blaize again.

Big fucking mistake.

My nerves started jangling, my palms sweating, and, when she turned toward me, the full impact of her gorgeous face momentarily stunned me dumb.

I was almost always tongue-tied around Blaize, which was really interesting and
really
irritating. I’d certainly never had a problem with the ladies before. All it took was a hooded glance, a half-formed smile, a touch of what Walker liked to call my
Cajunese
drawl.

Blaize undid me with her mere presence so much I could barely form words, let alone think of a coherent phrase to engage her in conversation.

“How was the wedding?” She clicked off her phone, took off her glasses, and rested her hand near mine on the shared armrest between us.

“What?”

“Walker and Jade? London?” A small frown puckered her forehead.

I swept my gaze over her face. Fuck me. Blaize this close up was even more of a knockout. I tried to make my mouth work. Too bad I was on the verge of drooling.

Her lips were even juicier looking. Plump. Blowjob-swollen.

“
Huh
?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck.

“The. Wedding.”

Clearing my throat, I aimed my eyes away from her face, her body, her big baby blues. “Oh yeah.
Bien, bien
. They got hitched without a hitch. Not even a gun or knife in sight. No tangos or bogies.”

“I wasn’t asking for a SITREP, Storm. I just wanted to make sure they’re happy.” She touched my wrist, and the muscles in my forearm flexed hard.

My voice dropped to a hoarse tone as hot sensation fired in my groin. “Well, they left the reception before anyone else”—for the obvious reason: they’d been ready to jump each other’s bones again—“but Walker sent some photos from the honeymoon.”

I licked my lips, looking at Blaize’s fine-boned fingers on my skin that burned to her touch.

She’d never touched me before.

Berated me?

Check.

Scolded me like a schoolboy?

Rog that.

Told me off until I wanted to drag her skirt up over her ass, pull down her panties, and sink to my balls inside her.

Copy.

Blaize pulled her hand away. “Where’d they go?”

I chuckled. “Hawaii. Like he said they would. No more Middle East minefields.”

Blaize’s laugh came out full and throaty. And the sultry sound did nothing to diminish my hard-on. Hell, I gave myself kudos for making my cock stand-down from fully-fucking-ready for most of our flight. With a few words from her, a touch, her laugh, I’d lost all control of the bastard thing.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it.” She started unpinning her hair.

Why the hell was she doing that?

I watched helplessly—choking on my tongue—as coils of russet red tresses feathered to her shoulders and down her back, and I had all I could do not to plunge my nose into the fragrant curtain.

“I had a weekend meeting with Lawless,” she said, fluffing out that incredible red-sun-filled mane of hair.

I faced her head on, scowling. “Ambassador Lawless?”

“The one and only.”

“What’s with you and old Lawless anyway?”

“Old? Are you jealous, Storm?” She locked eyes with me.

I slouched in my seat. Would’ve, anyway, if there’d been enough room. All I ended up doing was getting uncomfortably torqued into a corkscrew position of my big arms and long legs.

“I don’t get jealous.” I steamed under the collar.

Hell yes, I’m jealous. I’d seen her and the old coot at Justice’s wedding . . .

She arched an eyebrow, silently calling me out on my bullshit.

Then she patted my leg.

Patted. My. Leg.

The contact felt good, but the clear implication was I was just a nice guy who happened to work for her. Besides, what I really wanted her to pat, touch, stroke, and suck was little farther up.

I stared down at her fingers, tensing my muscle.

She removed her hand, exhaling a breath. “You want to know what’s between James and me?” Blaize studied me, her hands in her lap.

“Nope.”

Bullshit
.

“You know I’m very adept at reading people, right, Storm?” A slow smile spread across her lips.

I grunted in reply.

She took a sip from her glass of ice water. “Since I’m asking for your complete trust on this mission, I’ll give you mine.”

I pretended to study the fluffy cloudscape outside the tiny oval window of the airplane, like I wasn’t gagging for every morsel she might throw at me.

“James was a top-level negotiator for Delta Force with the counterterrorist unit. He taught me everything I know about talking down a perp. Facing the enemy. Staying strong.” She glanced away, but not before I caught the haunted look in her eyes.

She quickly cleared the shadows of a past she’d kept well hidden with a firm smile. “We’ve been close friends ever since. I knew his wife quite well before she passed, and of course Tilly.”

I straightened up in my seat. “You were Delta Force?”

“Didn’t say that.” Crossing her legs, she leaned back against the headrest. “Let’s just say I was SOF and leave it at that.”

Riiight.
Special Operations Forces, and I wasn’t supposed to be impressed? Women in the military had a rough road. Not that I was Joe Machismo, but that shit was fact. Women in the elite military forces? A goddamn
rocky
road not many had followed—not yet, because apparently gender equality was still up for debate with some dumbshit politicos.

Obviously not when it came to Blaize.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.

I’d taken a simpler route to T-Zone. They weren’t the first
agency
I’d worked for.

Watching Blaize from the corner of my eyes, I cursed the mysterious woman even while I gave her well-deserved props for being ballsy as fuck.

She closed her eyes, humming softly beneath her breath.

I ruminated on her intel for a bit, wondering if I could somehow feed Justice the info so he could do another cyber-ops job on Blaize’s background. All we knew was she’d been a highly successful field operative—but not which agency or military branch she’d worked for, although I was one step closer to solving the equation.

We had it on good authority, and from our own experience, the woman was detail-oriented, she knew how to motivate, she was well ahead of the curve when it came to national and international terrorism.

And of course, she was smokin’ hot.

The smokin’ hot aspect was gonna be a big issue for me.

“Look, Miss Carmichael—”

“I think you better start calling me Blaize, don’t you?”

Shifting around in my seat, my shoulders stretching from one side to the other, I scowled. “I have some serious concerns about you coming into the Legion with me.”

Her eyes opened and she hit me with the haughty stare she used when she didn’t give a good fuck what me or any one of the other dudes thought.

I tried again. “You do understand the MC is a male-dominated world. So you can’t be callin’ the shots.”

“I’m well aware of club politics, Storm. But just you remember, behind the scenes, I’m still your boss lady. That
is
what you and the guys call me, right?” She lifted her chin, peering down her nose at me.

Not exactly what I called her. More like wet dream. Hot bitch.
Ride my hog
, honey.

I sat taller, topping her by at least a head. “You can tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better.”

“I don’t have any problems sleeping at night. Do you, Storm?”

Oh yeah. Definitely. When she was involved in the above-mentioned dreams. I had plenty of problems. The hard, throbbing,
wanna come in her pussy
problems.

“Have you ever been on a bike before?” I asked.

Blaize snorted. “Yes, Storm. I have been on a bike. I’ve been on a dirt bike. I’ve commandeered a tank. I can ride horseback, bareback, and I know how to drive a car in reverse through busy city streets. I did that training too.”