Sacrifice the Wicked Read Free

his synth-leather jacket. Erotic as hell.
    From ice to inferno in nothing flat.
    The useless gun hit the floor at his feet. A bell jangled, padded footsteps springing away into the dark.
    “Get off me,” she whispered.
    But her eyes went soft and smoky. Dazed.
    Simon should have stepped back.
    He couldn’t. “Christ,” he whispered, and to seal the impression—to get a taste of the woman he couldn’t shake—he closed the gap. Covered her mouth with his, claimed her soft, warm, trembling lips in a kiss that had nothing to do with anything but the need he’d tortured himself with for two long, eternal months.
    M ission Director Parker Adams froze.
    This man worked for her. Sort of. He worked for Sector Three, which was so classified even she didn’t know what they really did. He wasn’t her friend.
    He sure as hell wasn’t her lover.
    He was a witch, and she was better than this.
    But there was nothing cold about the ragged edge of lust exploding under her skin. Slow, saturating heat gathered between her legs, swirled low in her belly as his lips covered hers.
    Somehow, Agent Simon Wells, spy for Sector Three and irritating thorn in her heel, was kissing her.
    No, not kissing her. Devouring her.
    Two months of forced civility, eight bloody weeks of tension, finally snapped between them.
    His mouth was firm, aggressive. Undeniable. She gasped as his fingers slid away from her throat, up over her jaw. He dug his thumb against the corner of her mouth to coax it open, and nerves tingled to life. Her skin, her senses, her lips.
    That part of her brain that had nothing to do with common sense and everything with wild, primal abandon.
    His tongue slid between her lips, tasted her, and sensory fireworks flared behind her eyes. She shuddered. Her hands fisted by her sides; she closed her eyes because she couldn’t stand to look at the handsome angles of his face while he played her body like a fine-tuned instrument.
    And she couldn’t pull away. Didn’t want to.
    A whole other problem she wasn’t equipped to handle. Not now.
    Not when her world had turned into a cage of politics and lies around her.
    His teeth nipped at her bottom lip. Hard enough to force a shattered moan from her throat. Every torturous nerve turned to liquid flame, and just with a kiss. With the feel of his broad, leanly muscled chest against hers. His leg slid between her own, and God help her, her silk pants were so thin that she might as well have not been wearing anything at all.
    He’d trapped her. Not just between hard doorjamb and harder man, but by the sensations sweeping through her body.
    Lust. She recognized that one easily. It’d been a long time, but she knew the chemical taste of it as the secret parts of her body went soft and liquid with need.
    Fear. Fear of his touch? Fear of her own response?
    Fear of him.
    That one spiked as his fingers tightened on her chin. Holding her still, forcing her still.
    No.
    His tongue twined with hers, demanding, wet. His hips tightened against her own, locked her down, pinned her until all she could think about was the hard length of him trapped behind his jeans. So very, very close.
    No!
    Parker grabbed his sides. Felt the faintest uneven ridge under her thumb where a bullet wound had healed into a ridged, puckered scar. She’d been the first one to tend him—clean entry, messy exit, on the front and back of his left side. Courtesy of a mission she didn’t authorize. It had bled too much, but she’d done it.
    Blood. The very thought pitched bile into her chest. Gave her enough to work with, to separate herself from the unyielding assault on her senses.
    It was enough. Wrenching her mouth away, Parker jammed a thumb into the tender scar.
    Simon swore, jerked back so fast it left her off-balance, staggering into the opposite side of the doorjamb. She grabbed onto it, jerked her hair out of her face to glare at the missionary as he covered the front of his side with one hand.
    Pain etched dark edges