Full Throttle(13)

Carlos! she thought desperately. Where are you?

He had to know she was missing by now, didn’t he? He and the rest of the Black Knights as well as her Secret Service unit? They had to know!

Once again, the needle slid into the flesh of her neck with nothing more than a small, almost gentle sting. Instantly, the gray was back…clouding her vision, stripping away her sense of smell, stealing her pain and fear in one blood-boiling narcotic rush.

This time she succumbed to the beckoning darkness without a fight, welcoming its cool embrace and blessed oblivion. But right before she slipped unconscious, a random yet familiar thought skittered through her fading mind. Carlos…could you ever forgive me for what I did?





Chapter Four


Downy dryer sheets and Palmer’s cocoa butter lotion…

Steady remembered thinking back at Georgetown that a young woman whose father was running for the lofty position of president of the United States should smell expensive and untouchable, like French lace and Chanel No. 5. But to the delight of his libido, Abby’s clean, fresh scent had always made her seem eminently touchable…the girl next door who shopped at the local Walmart, not Barney’s.

In nearly a decade¸ nothing had changed…

And how the hell would he know that, you ask? Well, because, stupid culo that he was, earlier today when he was sitting beside her on the sofa in her hotel room, going over the last sit-rep—situation report—with four of her Secret Service agents, he’d leaned close to brush a lock of honey-blond hair behind her ear. He’d wanted to reassure himself that she hadn’t removed the transmitters he’d given her now that the conference was officially over. Only instead of scrutinizing her earrings, bam! He got hit with a noseful of Downy dryer sheets and Palmer’s cocoa butter lotion. All the blood in his brain double-timed it down to his dick, and he could do nothing but blink at her, his mouth hanging open like a guppy, his entire being infused with…awareness.

“Carlos?” She turned to him with a pixie’s smile, her brilliant, celadon-colored eyes tilted up at the corners. “Did you swallow a bug or something?” She started pounding him on the back. “Why are you looking at me that way? What is it?”

What is it? Lust, he thought. And yearning and longing and…too many memories. He had to shake himself, clear his throat, and nod at her to leave off already with the…uh…helpful back beating. “Just, um…just checking to make sure you’re still wearing the earrings.”

She touched one of the studs glinting in her ear, her delicate wrist and long, slim fingers mesmerizing him. “Of course I’m still wearing them. I quite enjoy looking like 50 Cent.” She wiggled her eyebrows, then frowned. “Only next time, try adding a big gold chain, will ya? That’ll complete the look and—”

“Just don’t take them off,” he interrupted before she really got on a roll. The woman was too witty for her own good sometimes.

“I won’t,” she assured him, her expression turning serious. “You told me to wear them, so I will.”

What else would you do if I told you to? Sí, it was official. He was a lowdown, dirty-minded horndog. He adjusted his position on the couch, lifting his foot to rest his right ankle on his opposite knee. It was either that or give everybody in the whole damn room a good long gander at the massive stiffy he’d sprung. Dios! Talk about a hard time in Steadyville. Pun intended.

And speaking of…

It was back. His dick was as engorged now as it’d been then. Which really wasn’t any surprise considering he’d paused in front of her room an hour ago on his way to bed and that familiar, sweet scent of hers had seeped under the door only to tunnel up his nose. He thought he’d heard a murmur, or a soft scuffle coming from inside her room, so he’d stood there, head cocked, listening, breathing her in. But when no other noise sounded from behind the door, he’d been forced to move on. To carry her scent with him down the hall and into his own hotel room, into his own bed. Where visions of her soft, pink lips; long, slim legs; and lovely little breasts just big enough to fill his palms had kept him hard enough to cut glass.

“Hijo de puta!” he cursed—sonofabitch—before reaching beneath the bed sheet and the waistband of his boxers to wrap his fist around his aching erection. Staring into the darkness, watching the faint city lights dance across the ceiling as they spilled in through the gap in the drapes, he stroked himself. Softly at first, and then more forcefully. He stroked himself until his toes curled, his hips arched, and he strained for completion.