Chapter 1

ChapterOne

Why werethe hottest cops always the biggest assholes? Especially Feds. Giant men in well-cut business suits in alleys were almost always federal agents of some kind. At least on television. And television never lied. I glared up at the dark-haired man in the mirrored sunglasses.

“I will not ask again. Why are you here?” His sharp jawline flexed, grinding his teeth at my mere presence.

“I already told you,” I said, fisted hands planted on my hips, but not stepping forward to get in his face. Though, I very much wanted to. “I was reading a text and didn’t see you.”

“Are you finished texting?”

I flushed at what I imagined was a mocking tone, even though his voice stayed level. “Yes.” That text had the potential to solve the problem of my dwindling finances. Hopefully my distraction when reading and responding to it wasn’t about to result in a new problem. I still wasn’t clear what had happened; I’d been cutting through the same alley I had a hundred times before, when a tall, burly man smacked into me, causing me to spin around and hit Federal Asshole.

“ID.” The man held a hand out.

“You first.”

An eyebrow rose above the glasses.

“Who are you to order me around?” I challenged.

Without speaking, he reached into the inside jacket of his dark-blue, pin-striped suit. My heart rate spiked and I had a moment to consider if I’d misjudged the scenario. The man withdrew a two-sided passport book and a badge, instead of the gun I feared. He flashed the badge and flipped the book open to show me the identification card.

“US Marshal?”

“That is what the badge says.”

“Jax Smith.” A chuckle slipped out. “That doesn’t sound like a real name. What are you doing in tiny Sandy Creek? We’re not even that close to Atlanta.” Actually, we were, but I wanted answers. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something made me doubt my initial assessment, and his badge saying otherwise. I’d need more information to figure out exactly who he was.

His kissable lips thinned into a displeased line. “Federal task force.”

Wait, kissable? Some random man in an alley could not have kissable lips. No matter how kissable they were.

“That I am not at liberty to discuss,” he elaborated, though I hadn’t asked.

I refocused my irritation. “My apologies, Marshal Smith,” I said, my words clipped but civil. “I was checking texts on my phone, not paying attention—which isn’t like me. I got spun a bit by the first man who ran through.” Why was I explaining myself to this guy? “And then you hit me.”

“I did not hit you,” the marshal disagreed, sliding his badge back into his pocket.

“Wait.” I pointed at his pocket. “I’d like to get a picture of your badge and ID with your name and number.”

Marshal Smith scoffed at the request. “You helped my fugitive escape,” he sidestepped.

“I did not!”

“I say you did, and now you are refusing to show requested identification. Perhaps I need to take you down to the station for an interrogation.”

“What?” That couldn’t happen. The text that had gotten me into this trouble was from the recruiter. She’d let me know the company I’d interviewed with was moving forward with a background check prior to making an offer. I couldn’t take the chance this shithead would put something official in the system. All because I got disoriented by men playing chase.

“ID, then.” Smith stood tall, his hands clasped before him. His relaxed stance belied the almost palpable energy flowing off him. He looked like private security, with his mirrored sunglasses and suit barely containing the linebacker-wide shoulders.

I swallowed past the knot in my throat. “Um, okay.” Several long seconds followed while I fumbled in my purse. “Here.” My hand shot forward, driver’s license framed by my fingertips.

“Melanie Morrison. Dark brown hair. Hazel eyes. 5’9”. 130 pounds.” His eyes raked me up and down, no doubt comparing what he saw with the statistics.

“Yes, that’s me,” I needlessly confirmed, rubbing my damp unoccupied hand against my jeans.

“Why are you nervous, Miss Morrison?”

“Mel,” I said without thinking and then wanted to kick myself. Like I would be friends with this hulking neanderthal. Kissable lips be damned. “I’m not nervous,” I lied. Of course I was nervous. The federal agent was dicking me around. If he put a note somewhere he shouldn’t, my tax accountant job would go poof. I dropped my license back in my purse, heedless of where it fell, consumed by the thought that I had to turn this around.

“We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” I tried an uneasy smile, but it felt forced and unnatural on my face.

“Have we?” His inflectionless voice gave away nothing.

“Yes. I promise that I am not connected to your fugitive. In any way, shape, or form,” I over-enunciated. “Truthfully, I wasn’t paying attention and… got in the way of your chase.”

“Indeed.”

I opened my arms wide. “What can I do to convince you that I wasn’t involved? Then we can go along our merry ways.” My voice ended in a slight sing-song cadence, like I was trying to cajole him. Yeah, that wouldn’t be suspicious at all.

“There is one thing.” The marshal stepped toward me.

I withstood the desire to step back in response. “What is it?” Anything so I could get on my way.

“Give me your bag. Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” he ordered.

“Wait, what?” A quick glance showed me we were alone in the alley. I cut through this alley all the time and never saw anybody here. That was what I liked about it. Usually.

“The fugitive was carrying something he was not supposed to have. If you do not have it on your person, you will be free to go.”

I considered my options. Let him search my purse and frisk me. Or refuse and risk being brought to the station. I didn’t have what he was looking for, so what was the harm? Jax Smith, the US Marshal, was obviously power hungry and got off on lording it over the little people.

“Or I could take you down to the station.”

His again inflectionless voice—and the fact that he seemed to read my mind—freaked me out a little bit. Okay, a lot. I needed this new job. Student loan payments for graduate school were about to start. Putting a well-paying job at risk over a few minutes of demeaning discomfort didn’t make sense for my analytical mind.

Fuck it.

I thrust my purse at Marshal Smith and spun around.

“Hands against the wall.”

I leaned forward and placed my hands at head-height but wider than my body. The brick wall was rough and dirty, but didn’t seem to have any unknown substances on it. That I was aware of anyway. The zipper of my purse sounded. I strained to hear, my heart in my throat at what would be next. A few agonizing moments later, my purse landed with a thud about a foot from my shoe.

“Hey,” I objected, turning my head to try to see him. There might not have been unknown substances on the wall. But the ground? I shuddered to think what my leather purse landed in.

“Head straight.” His voice startled me at its closeness, hot breath on the back of my left ear. A sweet, yet musky scent enveloped me.

I whipped my head back toward the wall and my body tensed. What could he really do? It was late morning. This wasn’t typically a well-traveled alley, but surely we wouldn’t stay alone.

A hand lifted my hair and dropped it over a shoulder before two hands rested at the sides of my neck. Fingers ran along the neckline hem of my blouse, cupping my shoulders before moving over the short sleeves. I was not a small woman, but his hands completely encircling my biceps made it seem like I was.

The hair on my arms stood at attention with the movement. My mind clutched at the unexpected silkiness of his fingers. I distracted myself with consideration of what lotion he used to get such silky soft skin.

His hands released my arms. His palms warmed my shoulder blades through the shirt fabric, and he slid his hands down my back with firm pressure. Those powerful hands rested a moment at my waist before sliding over my stomach, under my untucked shirt.

“What are you doing?” I whispered. He had my full attention now. My nails scratched at the wall in response to the unwanted desire pooling in my belly.

“Searching everywhere a small object could be hidden.” His gruff voice sounded against my ear again. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I admitted.

The marshal’s hands continued their upward motion, stopping at the bottom of the swell of my breasts. Fingers played with the edges of the bra’s hem, like with my shirt. Hands slid up over the fabric of my bra and cupped both of my breasts.

A gasp escaped. Should I scream? I’d agreed to this. No sanctioned search would go like this. Right?

“Women hide objects in bras,” he responded to my gasp, oblivious to my frenetic thoughts.

His hands squeezed and released my breasts multiple times, his thumbs circling my raised nipples, hard as fuck from the attention.

Oh my god, what was wrong with me?

The marshal released my breasts, his hands sliding back down, never leaving my skin. When he reached my waist, this time he didn’t stop. Instead, he continued over the top of my jeans to grip my hips.

Hands skimmed the sides of my jeans before circling to cup my ass. His large hands massaged my ample backside, his fingers focusing on the edges of the back pockets, perhaps probing the hem as before.

I bit my lower lip as his hands reached around to stop against my pelvis. Two hands lay flat against the front pockets of my jeans. A quicker check of the front hems and then his voice in my ear.

“Spread your legs wider.”

Before I could protest, his right hand cupped my vagina over my jeans, while his left hand returned to cup my ass cheek.

I moaned. The rhythmic movement was creating a wave of heat within me.

“Females can hide objects in their vaginas.”

What? No. I wanted to cry out. He surely wasn’t intending to do a cavity search. I would never consent to that.

Except the rising wave of desire suggested otherwise.

“I am feeling for edges through the fabric of your pants.” The bastard’s voice remained inflectionless. How was that possible?

At his words, his fingers pushed harder against the heat of my slit through my jeans. My fingers clawed harder at the wall I leaned against. The marshal’s other hand released my ass and moved to lie flat against my stomach. He pushed against me, one hand still massaging my pussy through the jeans, the other holding me in place by my stomach.

Light pulsed at the edges of my vision and I wondered if I was having a stroke from his ministrations. My head dropped as his pelvis ground against the upper swell of my ass, pushing my pussy into his probing fingers.

My panties had to have been soaked by now, desire winning the war with terror. A bulge grew in his pants as he rubbed against me. That bulge vibrated against my upper ass, distracting me from my question of whether he would cum on me. When the bulge became two bulges, I jerked in surprise at what now felt like two penises. What was that? One penis remained pushed against my upper ass, and the other—was it another penis? Or some kind of kinky toy I’d never known about?—slithered in his pants toward my asshole. I jerked again, toward the wall this time, putting distance between the freaky bulges and my holes, thankfully covered by clothing.

The marshal said nothing in response, and soon the flashing lights I saw in my peripheral vision faded.

“You are free to go,” US Marshall Jax Smith said, his palms skimming over my heated skin as he released me. I remained where I stood, confused and aroused, with my hands still against the wall, listening to his boots on the ground as he walked away.

What the fuck?!