ONE
Jordan
“Jordan, my beautiful Jordan.”
His lips brush gently against mine; our tonguesmove in a slow, erotic dance. I can taste my own arousalon his lips. The touch of his body against mine has meclenching with need. The rough edge of his five o’clock shadow chafes against my cheek as he nips my neck and kisses away the sting. Lifting my leg, he puts it aroundhis waist.
“Open for me, baby.”
His voice is deep and demanding. I do as I’m told andin one strong movement, he pushes forward . . .
“Good morning, Jordan! Jordan, good morning . . . Jordan, the time is five after seven.”
“Nooooooo,” I groan as his image starts to blur, leaving a throbbing ache between my legs. I squeeze my thighs together in an effort to push myself over the edge.
“Jordan, are you up?” Alexa’s stern voice comes into focus once again as I try in vain to recapture the image of the sexy man from my dream, Darian Black—a man I haven’t seen for fifteen years, yet a recurring source of my sexual frustration.
He is the catalyst that ignited this fire in my body, a burning need that apparently only he can quench. Alexa once again reminds me in a much more aggressive voice that I am running late. I grab my phone from the nightstand beside my bed and cringe when I confirm the time. I’m already ten minutes behind schedule and I can’t afford to lie in bed any longer.
I tell Alexa to fuck off as I slip out of bed and smile to myself as she indignantly replies, “Oh really, Jordan? I would never speak to you that way,” in her monotone, disembodied voice. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this argument. I make my way into my en suite, a place I usually consider my sanctuary. I spared no expense on this bathroom as it’s supposed to be my escape, a place of calm and rejuvenation. This morning, however, is not going to be one of those times. I turn on the shower and let the water heat up. Brushing my teeth, I look at myself in the mirror. The reflection looking back at me is definitely not one of a calm, well-rested person. Instead, I see flushed cheeks, glossy eyes and a mop of wild blond hair that says I should have had a way more enjoyable night than I did.
I step into the shower and I’m instantly engulfed in steamy heat that has a calming effect on me. Water shoots out of the multiple jets hitting me from all angles, relaxing the tension that has been there for far too long. I grab my favorite body wash, a refreshing blend of citrus and honey, and pour it on a bright pink loofah.
My mind wanders back to my dream; the image of Darian’s big, hard body has my nipples hardening into tight buds as I run the soapy loofah over them. My other hand, which seems to have hijacked my brain, slides down my stomach, continuing its downward journey until it comes to rest over my bare mound. I rub my slippery fingers over my aching nub and almost immediately explode, my body already primed and ready from my sexy dream. Heat and sparks shoot through my body, my orgasm so intense, it leaves me weak and dizzy. I lean against the tile for a moment as I regain my senses and catch my breath.
Jesus Christ, Jordan. Get a grip! The guy is a mirage from the past.
I just can’t seem to forget about him. With a heavy sigh, I finish up in the shower and wrap a towel around me. A quick glance at my phone tells me I have exactly forty-five minutes to get to my meeting.
Before long, my makeup is done, and my hair is in loose waves cascading down my back. I head into my closet, all the while stuck in my head over that damn dream. Keep dreaming, Jordan, I think to myself, because that’s all it will ever amount to. Okay, focus. What to wear? I need something that makes me feel sexy, yet portrays someone who is confident and strong. The sexy part is only for me; the confident, strong woman is for everyone else. I choose a white lace bra-and-panty set with pretty lavender satin bows. A lavender-and-white printed wrap dress that hugs my body in all the right places but still says “I mean business” goes over top. I accessorize with a sleek pair of white Jimmy Choo pumps. The four-inch heels make my legs look like they go on forever and give me the added height I like. I complete the look with a simple pair of diamond studs, add a spritz of perfume and I’m done. A quick once-over in the mirror, and I like what I see—a confident, fit, sexy woman who’s ready to kick some ass looks back at me. I grab my phone, toss it in my purse and pick up my messenger bag as I head down the hallway and out the door.
I’ve worked hard the past seven years, which allowed me to splurge on this apartment. It’s not huge but it has plenty of space for me, and I love it. It’s on the sixteenth floor with a breathtaking view of the Bay. It has a spacious bedroom and ensuite, a cute little office that doubles as a guest room and a chef’s dream kitchen. The best part, however, is the large outdoor terrace, a rare find at my price point. Fortunately for me, especially on days like today, it’s only a ten-minute walk to work. What more could a girl ask for?
I say good morning to David as I pass the concierge desk on my way out of the building. First stop, Starbucks. The place is always crowded but I finally make my way up to the counter.
“Hey, Jordan. The usual?”
“Morning, Jared. Yes, please.” I quickly pay and my phone dings as I move off to the side to wait for my order. My brother Jason pops up on my screen, wanting to know if I’ve checked in on Mom and Dad lately. I send him a quick text telling him it’s on my to-do list and I’ll get back to him later. Our parents, Chuck and Di, are a handful and we tag team in order to keep them in line. They are poster children for the 1970s all-we-need-is-love way of life. Needless to say, our upbringing was unique.
I note the time as the barista calls my name. Damn. Fifteen minutes until my first meeting starts—I’ve got to get moving. I pick up my latte and let out a small moan as I enjoy my first sip. I seriously don’t know how I would get through my day without it.
As I’m rushing out the door, I slam into what feels like a brick wall.
“Shit!” I yelp as my hot latte sloshes between me and said brick wall. Looking up, I see a pair of very unhappy pale blue eyes, which, I note, are attached to a very handsome but—at the moment—scary-looking face.
“Wow, I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, trying unsuccessfully to wipe my delicious cinnamon dolce latte from the front of his expensive-looking suit, which happens to be covering a noticeably hard body.
“What the actual fuck?” Mr. Brick Wall shouts, brushing at his suit as he scowls down at me. “That’s fucking hot!”
Once again, I apologize while stepping back inside the door to grab some napkins, trying to do damage control. He snatches them out of my hand as I try unsuccessfully to clean him up.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he says, shooting daggers at me.
Even though I’m mortified, his hostility is totally uncalled for. We ran into each other, after all; he’s just as much at fault here as I am.
“Whoa, dude,” I say, taking a step back, giving him a forced smile. “I said I was sorry, and in case you haven’t noticed, you are huge—you were blocking the entire doorway! You probably didn’t even see me all the way down here.” I try for a little humor, which fails miserably.
“Christ, you’ve ruined my suit!” he growls.
Okay, now I’m really getting pissed. “I think you’re being a tad dramatic. It’s not ruined, and for the record, cinnamon dolce latte wasn’t exactly the look I was going for this morning, either. You don’t have to be such an ass about it.”
I throw away the wet napkins together with my now empty cup and give him a glare. I mean, seriously, I’m the one who is now without my much-needed morning coffee. He continues to grumble and curse like I’ve ruined his life. I straighten to my full five feet, five inches and give him my sweetest smile.
“Here,” I say, pulling a business card out of my purse and shoving it into his hand. “Send me the bill for the damn dry cleaning.”
I then step around him and get the hell out of there, cursing the way the morning has unfolded thus far and praying my shit luck ends here.
TWO
Darian
I board the private jet and settle into one of the luxurious seats while I wait for Alex to arrive. I pull out my laptop and phone and set them on the table in front of me, hoping to catch up on a few emails while I wait. The flight attendant hustles over and introduces herself.
“Hi, I’m Katy. I’ll be taking care of you on this flight. Can I get you something to drink before we take off?”
I glance at her long enough to note her red hair, and age her at twenty-something. “Black coffee, please,” I say. She hurries away and I turn back to my MacBook.
My partner and I started Black Stone Investigations
four years ago after I left the FBI. I was recruited by the FBI straight out of university after completing degrees in psychology and law. I trained with them and worked as a criminal profiler for years. I wanted more control over the work I do and the people I work with, so my best friend and now partner and I started Black Stone Investigations.
My partner, Alex Stone, is a computer genius and one of the best hackers on the planet. He graduated top of his class from MIT and then spent a few years with a special forces black-ops unit. We have been friends most of our lives. Starting a business together seemed like a no-brainer since our combined skills are sought out by governments and companies around the world. We provide some of the best intel out there—hell, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say we are among the best in the world. This trip to San Francisco was to give a lecture on the anti-terrorist software that we have created.
Katy returns with my coffee just as Alex bounds up the stairs and into the cabin. She turns to look at him and smiles. “Good morning, sir. Can I get you something to drink before takeoff?”
He gives her a slow head-to-toe inspection, followed by one of his killer smiles and says, “Hello, beautiful. I’ll take a black coffee, please.”
She blushes and says, “I’ll be back in a moment with your coffee.”
He watches her as she exits the cabin, closing the curtain behind her. As he drops into the seat across from me, the smile turns into a scowl.
I chuckle at him and ask, “Where did you end up last night and what the hell happened to your suit? Did you get into a fight with a barista this morning?”
“Fuck off, it’s not funny. And if you must know, I spent the night in the company of a very lovely green-eyed, dark-haired beauty.” He waggles his eyebrows and grins. “This”—he waves his hand in front of his soiled suit—“is the work of . . . What did she call it? A fucking cinnamon dolce latte, I think. And no, it wasn’t a barista, it was a tiny blonde coffee-wielding cyclone by the name of Jordan Sinclair. She tried to take me out by smashing her hot coffee into my chest.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses her card down on the table between us as he states, “She will definitely be getting the dry-cleaning bill for this mess.”
Leaning over, I pick up the card and flip it over. I read, Jordan Sinclair, Curator, Arresting Art Gallery, followed by her contact information. I suck in some air as my heart skips a beat. No, it can’t be, I think, as I flip the card back and forth while my mind conjures up the memory of a gorgeous tiny blonde from my past.
I tap the card on the table and ask, “What did she look like?”
“What?” His eyes snap up from his suit to look at me. “Who the hell cares what she looked like, look at what she did to my suit!” he shouts as he removes the offending coffee-stained jacket like it’s contaminated.
I grin up at him. “Yeah, she did a pretty good number on it. Whatever, you have a dozen more just like it. What I want to know is what she looked like.”
“Hey!” He looks offended. “I happen to like this suit and, fuck, I don’t know. Give me a break, I just had all my chest hair burned off by hot coffee.” He slaps his chest. “I wasn’t really in the mood to check her out.”
My grin turns into a full-blown laugh. “First of all, it’s not a great loss since you didn’t have any chest hair to begin with. And second of all, bullshit—you’re the biggest player I know. She could have burned the hair off your dick and you still would have checked her out. What did she look like?”
He sits down and stares at me across the table. “Why are you so interested in what she looked like?”
I lean back and run my hand through my hair. “I knew someone with that name a long time ago, a very beautiful someone. I’m wondering if it could possibly be the same person.”
Katy returns with his coffee and advises us that we will be taking off in ten minutes. Alex sighs. “Well, her coffee hit me right about mid-chest and since I’m six foot three, I would put her at about five foot five, maybe one hundred and ten pounds.” He looks at the ceiling while he thinks and then continues. “Pale skin, long honey-blond hair, big dark brown eyes with tiny golden flecks in them, some might describe them as little starbursts.” He chuckles. “But I’m going to say it was a brief glimpse of her demon side that came out, compelling her to rip me a new one for stealing her coffee away.”
I smirk as I try to visualize that because, honestly, he is six foot three, two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of solid muscle. To say he’s intimidating would be more than fair; he’s made more than one grown man piss his pants. It sounds like this Jordan Sinclair is quite the little spitfire.
I lean forward in my seat and rest my elbows on my knees, flipping her business card back and forth. “Go on,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says, thinking. “She was fit, lean, like maybe she’s a runner, small frame, perky little breasts, legs for miles, well dressed and wearing a killer pair of heels. Got a picture forming?”
Still grinning, I say, “Good thing your chest hair was burning off and you didn’t get a good look.”
“Fuck off,” he replies, and I laugh out loud. “So, is she your girl or what?” Alex asks me.
Katy steps into the cabin to tell us to buckle up for takeoff. I lean back in my seat, placing my right foot on my left knee, still flipping that card and say, “I’m not sure, but I’m definitely going to find out.”
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