Nauti Dreams (Nauti #3)

Nauti Dreams (Nauti #3) Page 4

Suddenly, she was in the dark, fighting to breathe through the agony of a hell she couldn’t accept, holding on to only one thing. Holding on to Natches’s touch.

She couldn’t let herself hold on to that memory.

Chaya didn’t bother to struggle. She could see the desire already burning in his eyes, and she knew she didn’t have a chance against him if those luscious lips actually touched hers. She would be lost in him, and she couldn’t afford to ever lose herself again.

“Don’t kiss me, Natches. Don’t do that to me. Please.”

He froze, those fingers contracting on her flesh, stroking cells that hadn’t known a man’s touch in so very long.

He had no idea how hard it was to turn away, to walk away. How she ached at night, tossing and turning in her bed, the thought of the promise in those cat’s eyes of his burning through her soul. She wanted him with a strength that terrified her.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice low as those fingers stroked against her flesh. “You’re not married anymore, sweetheart.”

His gaze wasn’t mocking now; it was somber, intense. The memories flashed in his eyes as well, and she couldn’t bear it. It connected them, made it so much harder for her to break away, to hold herself steady as she fought through the never-ending abyss of emotions that threatened to swamp her.

“Because I can’t handle you, and we both know it. Have mercy, Natches. Don’t you have enough women in your little stable? You really don’t need me.”

And there was no way she would survive it. He was wild, intense, the most wickedly alluring man she had ever met in her life. And he wasn’t the man for her. She wanted him until she ached with a force that tore at her soul, and she couldn’t allow herself to have him. This man, the one who fired her soul, who made her dream when she had no right to dream.

“That’s not a good enough reason.”

She gasped as his lips covered hers. Sensation exploded through her body; pleasure rippled and waved over her nerve endings and began to burn along her flesh. This kiss, this man, he was like nectar, like a drug she couldn’t get out of her system.

She gasped harder as her weapon dropped to the ground and she felt Natches’s hands tugging at her shirt, baring her, allowing the warmth of the sun-filled air to touch her flesh.

She told herself the perspiration was from the heat of the day, but she knew better. It was from his kiss.

Oh God. His kiss. She flattened her hands against his chest to push him away, but he wasn’t budging. His hands stroked up her back, beneath her shirt, then around, the pads of his fingers at the tender swells of her breasts, covered by nothing more than lace.

Chaya struggled with the war waging within her now. Her body, eager, desperate, it knew this man’s touch, knew his possession. Her heart, her head, was screaming out in warning.

And her body was winning.

“Ah, Chay.” He nipped at her lips. She loved that sexy little sting and lifted closer, begging for more. “There you go, baby. Show me how you can burn again.”

She breathed in sharply as his hands slid to her hips, gripping them and lifting her until she was sitting on the hood of the jeep, then lying back, his big body pressing her down as her hands tugged at his shirt.

She should be pushing him away, not baring that gorgeous body. But that was what she was doing. Baring all that hard, delicious muscle. Feeling the rasp of crisp chest hairs against her palms, the dampness of his sweat beneath.

She twisted under him, feeling his knee press between her thighs, and saw stars explode behind her closed lashes as he pressed against the sensitive flesh between her thighs.

“Hell yeah.” He groaned against her lips as he worked her jeans loose. “Burn for me, Chaya. Just a little bit. Burn for me wild and sweet, sweetheart, just like you do in my dreams.”

His voice was rough, tight with arousal, and she knew it could become guttural. That his drawl could slur his words and make him sound drunk with passion. She wanted that sound. She wanted him drunk on her.

“Natches!” She cried his name as his hand pushed beneath her open jeans and his fingers found her. Found the slick, too-thick layer of juices that prepared her for him, that betrayed her need.

That need was killing her.

She twisted, arched to him as his lips slid down her neck to her breasts. His teeth rasped the tender tip of a nipple as his free hand pulled the cup of her bra beneath the swollen mound.

Then his mouth was covering it, his lips closing on it, sucking it inside with tight, hard pressure that sent sensation ripping to her womb.

Long, broad fingers speared inside her vagina, drawing another cry from her. Flesh unused to any touch but her own since he had taken her so long ago. Too long.

She came instantly. The stretching heat, the feel of his mouth sucking her nipple, his tongue lashing her, it was too much. She exploded in a prism of light and color, his name on her lips and in her heart.

Oh God, she was never going to be free of him. And in this moment, exploding around his fingers, she wondered if she ever wanted to be.

She struggled to open her eyes, then lost her breath as she watched him. He pulled his fingers free of her, lifted them, and tasted her. Right there, beneath the sun, the breeze whipping around them, he opened his lips and sucked the taste of her from his fingers.

“Natches.” She could barely do more than breathe his name when his face suddenly stilled, his head lifting, like an animal scenting danger.

“Son of a bitch Cranston.” He was jerking her bra in place and pulling her shirt down when she caught the sound of a helicopter coming closer.

Pulling back from her, Natches let her fix her jeans, his green eyes filled with mocking amusement as the helicopter flew around the sheltering trees and came over the clearing.

It couldn’t land, but she knew who it was. The Department of Homeland Security had found her. They had nearly seen more than she could have safely gotten away with.

Natches drew farther back from her, his expression hardening. “Come on. I’ll lead you back to the main road. Then you can call Cranston and tell him to meet with me. I’ve had enough of this crap. It ends now.”

What was going to end now she wasn’t certain, but she was more than ready to get the hell out of there, away from him. Let Cranston deal with him, because she knew, as sure as she was standing there she knew, there wasn’t a chance in hell that she could handle him.

ONE

Somerset, Kentucky

October, One Year Later

Natches Mackay sat silently in the jeep and watched as Chaya Dane hauled her luggage into the hotel she had reserved in town. The Suites were just that. A nice hotel that offered a variety of live-in suites with a bedroom, a small living room, and a kitchenette for those required to be in town for an extended stay.

Chaya was registered for a two-week stay but the luggage she brought wouldn’t have kept one woman for four days. A single large suitcase, an overnight bag, and a laptop case. She was definitely traveling light.

Eyes shaded behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, he rubbed the short growth of beard at the side of his jaw and considered this new development.

It had been a year since she had been in town. A year since he had pulled the trigger and buried a bullet in his first cousin’s head. And seeing her again brought the memories he tried to suppress back in vivid detail.

Johnny Grace had been a disgrace. He had masterminded the hijacking of a missile shipment as well as the sale of the weapons, and attempted to place the blame on a young woman who his other cousin Dawg Mackay was in love with. To add insult to injury, he had then attempted to kill her when he found out Dawg was onto him.

Saving Crista hadn’t been easy, and Natches had known, as he drove to the rendezvous point where Johnny Grace was meeting his lover and coconspirator, that Johnny wouldn’t leave there alive. It was a promise Natches had made to himself. Rowdy and Dawg were family, like no one else was. If it hadn’t been for them and Rowdy’s father, Ray, Natches wouldn’t have survived the turmoil of his own life when he was younger.

People who knew the Mackays knew you didn’t strike out at one of them. All of them came running if you did. And Rowdy’s and Dawg’s wives, Kelly and Crista, were strictly hands-off. It was hands-off or Natches would go hunting.

Johnny should have known better. He should have known Natches would be waiting with a bullet for him. But the little fucker had been convinced he could pull it off without anyone being the wiser.

His death had ended the investigation. The missiles had been recovered, the prospective buyers had been arrested, and all was supposed to be right in this little part of the world. Not that Natches slept any easier at night, but he had found a measure of peace. That peace had been hard-won over the past five years, and he had been enjoying the hell out of it.

Until last year.

He watched as Chaya disappeared into the hotel. Chaya was the pet agent of Timothy Cranston, the special agent in charge of investigations. She was his gopher and shit wrestler, and as much as it grated on Natches to see her following the snide little man’s orders, he had still considered her rather intelligent. Smart enough that he had tried to stay the hell away from her.

Maybe she wasn’t as smart as he had thought. Because she was back here, and he’d be damned if any of his sources had warned him of an operation going down here.

What that operation was, either no one knew, or no one was telling him.

He rubbed at his lower lip and stared at the hotel entrance she had disappeared into. She hadn’t looked happy to be back—she’d looked worn, tired, as though she had slept about as much as he had in the past year. Which amounted to less than nothing. And she looked damned good enough to eat. Unfortunately, she wasn’t much into being a snack for him.

So why was Miss Dane currently taking up residence in his fair town again? It had to be under orders, because he’d warned her, she wasn’t safe here, least of all from him. If she wanted to keep to that cold, lonely bed of hers then she should have found another town to sleep in.

He was brought out of his contemplation when his cousin Rowdy pulled his pickup in beside the jeep. On the other side, Dawg pulled in, his black dual cab taking up space and rumbling like the powerful machine it was.

He glanced to each side, taking in his cousins as they moved from the vehicles. The wind shifted through Dawg’s black hair, which wasn’t near as long as he used to wear it, but Rowdy’s hair, an identical black, was longer.

Married life was keeping them decent in too damned many ways. Dawg had a decent haircut, and Rowdy let his grow out. Dawg was broader than the other cousin, a few years older. They were both just as damned powerful and irritating as they ever were.

And irritating they could be. Married and shackled and tied so damned tight to their wives that if a man just breathed in those women’s directions, their hackles rose. But they still came when he called, and the thought of that tugged at something inside him. One of those bits of emotion that he fought to keep buried and hidden.

As they came up beside his jeep, Natches opened the door and stepped out slowly, his gaze still centered on the building. He’d called the little girl on duty at the front desk before he arrived to make certain Miss Dane was given the proper room.

One that looked right out on the parking lot. He wanted her to see him, wanted her to know she was being watched.

“What’s brewin’, Natches?” Dawg leaned against Rowdy’s gray pickup, his arms crossing over his broad chest.

Natches lifted a brow as he took in the pressed jeans and white shirt his cousin was wearing. It was a damned far cry from the holey, scruffy appearance his cousin had before he picked back up with Crista Ann Jansen last year.

“Snazzy-looking duds there, cuz.” Natches grinned. “Crista iron those for you herself with her own little hands?”

Dawg scowled back at him, but his light green eyes, nearly a celadon in color, flared with impatient arousal at the mention of his wife.