Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,25

a single tap away from malfunctioning.

And despite what she has probably scientifically convinced herself of, it is not something I am doing intentionally or enjoy doing.

I actually hate making mistakes…

Hate the idea of hurting her even more.

I lean against the frame of the door and lock eyes with the woman under my protection. “Strip.”

She lets the corner of her lip curl upward. “You could at least offer to buy me a drink first. Pretty sure that’s the order it’s supposed to go in.”

“It’d be dinner.” My mindless correction is filled by another thoughtless confession. “And I wouldn’t demand you strip for me. I’d be begging you to let me take it off.”

Her plump bottom lip is swiftly attacked by her teeth.

Fuck, I wish it were mine creating that assault.

Double fuck.

I wish I wasn’t wishing for that shit at all.

Blake Rothwell is a job.

And that job is not to make her come four times without really trying.

She finally releases her mouth’s prisoner to ask, “Would you be begging for anything else?”

The unexpected retort has me groaning over the numerous answers to that tricky, inappropriate question.

“Do you two need a moment alone?” Cheyenne playfully pokes pulling my mind back to the purpose of being here.

“I need you to strip, Dr. Rothwell-”

“Blake.”

It’s impossible not to grin brighter over the insistence to be more personal with her. “I need you to do that so that you and your belongings can be checked for bugs.”

“Like ticks?!”

“Like tracking devices.”

Embarrassment over the wrong guess causes her face to slightly flush. “Good. Because ticks can transmit things like Lyme disease. Although, in order to successfully do that they would need to be feasting on you for-”

“It’s okay not to finish that explanation,” Cheyenne casually inserts causing the client’s mouth to shut again.

“Whatever’s in your pockets or on your person will get scanned – or washed in covert terms – and then your bare body gets the same treatment.”

“So, you’re telling me that first I have to go all Demi Moore-”

“Her tits were great in that movie,” Cheyenne needlessly interjects.

“-and then you’re gonna TSA touch me?”

The idea of carefully caressing all of her curves – curves that make me virulent over just the possibility of another man thinking about touching them – not only ignites a low grumble in the back of my throat but prompts my cock to thump against my zipper under false notions.

Unfortunately, they are very fucking false.

We’re not going to be watching her ditch the lab coat or slowly free her perky tits from their bleak, black prison better known as her shirt.

And we’re not going to be accidentally tasting mouthfuls of the sweet stickiness between her thighs because I’m tugging her panties down with my teeth.

And we’re absolutely, most certainly not, going to tell her to put her palms on the bed, spread her legs, and bend over so my dick can do a bit of exploring on the inside while my fingers finish the job on the outside.

Additional groans grow making it even harder than it already was to speak.

“I’m gonna touch you,” Cheyenne speaks up, not soothing out the inexplicable lines of jealousy that are strung too tight. “And do all the washing. I do the laundry. It’s my job.” She doesn’t allow for questions or comments to be collected. “Empty your pockets on the dresser.”

Blake crosses over to the area at the same time Cheyenne does. My client follows the instructions while our host retrieves a tool to assist her in the process. Seeing the small select few items spread out on the space once more informs me of things I’m sure she wishes it didn’t. What a person refuses to be far from or go anywhere without says a lot about who they are and what matters to them. The fact I’m staring at a cellphone, a personnel badge, and a strange array of chewing gum further reflects the workaholic she seems content being.

Some people live for the job.

I can’t pretend I haven’t become one of them over the past few years.

“I can explain the gum,” Blake rushes to declare while Cheyenne begins to complete her task.

It’s hard to keep humor out of my voice. “No need. I know what it is.”

She twitches the tiniest glare. “Okay, but do you know what it’s for?”

“Chewing.”

“Are you being basic on purpose?”

Mirth remains in my speech. “Naci asi.”

Blake drops one hand onto her hip and smirks. “You know I don’t speak Spanish-”

“Surprising.”

“-but I have an impeccable grasp on Latin, which is the foundation