Don't Look

By: Jessa Kane


His hand smooths down the back of my hair. “You come home with me,” he says, gruffly. “And I’ll let you study my nose in the light.”

I gasp, smiling up at him. “You will?”

Mick swallows. Loud enough for me to hear. “Need that age, Goldie.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Lie.”

“Twenty—”

“Lie.”

I feel my pout and there’s nothing I can do about it. “How do I know how young is too young?”

“Let me determine that.” Seeming agonized, he pulls my chair closer, like he can’t help it. I’m pressed up against his huge body. Close enough to feel the throb of that hard part of him against my high inner thigh. “Not allowed to touch you unless you’re eighteen. God help us both if you’re not.”

Relief filters into my stomach. “I’m eighteen and a half.”

“That might have been good news if you didn’t say ‘and a half.’” He drops his head forward. “Goddamn, baby. I’m in trouble here.”

“Doesn’t my age mean you can kiss me?”

“Technically, yeah.” On an agonized groan, he yanks my chair forward another inch closer. “These bloodstained hands have no place on an angel…but Jesus Christ, I don’t think I can keep them off you.”





CHAPTER TWO




Mick


I’m well and truly screwed.

In addition to the Bureau and the endless stream of cases they send me on, I’ve been focused on starting my horse breeding business these last few years. Not exactly a typical path for a guy from South Boston, which is what drove me to Montana looking for a new enterprise in the first place. Open spaces. Nature. Quiet. There’s something about walking out into a haze of morning mist and hearing nothing but wind. I can’t keep chasing down criminals forever, and I found my next act. Now if I only had time to cultivate it.

Between my law enforcement work and the ranch, I’ve had no time for romantic entanglements. There’s an occasional faceless hookup, but never the same woman twice. I’ve haven’t been in love—not even that adolescent shit most guys experience when their balls drop and they fixate on the closest pair of tits. If you’d asked me this morning, I would have told you love is for suckers. People who want a picket fence and have no ambition beyond a desk job and beige slacks.

Well, joke is on me, because I fell for this girl at first glance. Might have taken me ten minutes to admit it to myself—I’m a hardened bastard after all—but when her lower lip trembled and she told me her father keeps her locked up her in a room…I very seriously glimpsed my own personal hell. That’s right. My personal hell is suddenly Hailey being unhappy for a single second. Like I said, well and truly screwed.

And she’s a virgin.

I probably should have known when her eyebrows wrinkled in confusion when my cock pressed itself against her leg. She’s never been fucked. Never even seen a dick, if I’m not mistaken. If I didn’t happen to be sitting here when she waltzed in, someone else might have taken away the privilege of being her first. I’m extremely not cool with that. I’m ready to go headbutt every window in this bar over it, actually. Right before I slaughter every man breathing a thousand miles within her sweet, little pussy. It’s mine.

It’s. Mine.

She’s mine.

Hailey gags on a sip of beer. “Mick, can I have a Sprite?”

I don’t take my eyes off her when I bellow at the bartender. “Sprite.”

She beams up at me, and my heart starts to gallop. Damn. She’s so pretty. No, beautiful. And petite. Way too petite for this meat hanging between my legs. I’ve had trouble getting a seasoned woman to take it. She’s going to scream when I get my pants unzipped. Hello again, personal hell. The idea of scaring Hailey makes me want to jump off a bridge. Has to be done. Have to have her.

The bartender sets down her Sprite on the bar. I pick it up and hold the straw to her angel lips, my cock throbbing as she sucks the liquid into her mouth. “Thank you. Are we going to kiss now?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, lowering my mouth to hers. Even though it wasn’t the plan. And the second my tongue slides into her mouth and she gasps, I know Hailey has never even been kissed. Jesus. Sweet Jesus. She tastes like crisp lemon—like from the soda, but there’s an underlying flavor of cool mint. I can’t lick at her enough, absorbing and experiencing. Her thighs go limp on either side of my hips, as if her body can’t help softening for mine. Nature is taking over. When a man wants a girl as bad as I need this one, does chemistry prepare her body out of necessity? Or is it just wishful thinking that her pussy is getting wet for me?

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