The Beach Alibi Page 5

  The white lights overhead were glaringly bright, the floor industrial linoleum, the walls tinted just enough to be called off-white instead of snow. A set of swinging doors at the end obviously led into the kitchen.

  Kelly John pulled her behind him into the short end of the corridor's "L", and backed her into the wall. His mouth came down on hers hard.

  It was almost an assault. A desperate connection she wasn't sure she understood. She wondered if he did, but such won­dering didn't stop her from kissing him back, from opening her mouth the way he seemed so insanely to need.

  He pressed into her, his penis already thickly erect, al­ready greedy, already seeking a fit. His tongue thrust into her mouth, his lower body thrust forward, and she spread her legs as far as her little black dress allowed.

  Kelly John groaned and eased away, and she knew in that moment what had passed between them had nothing to do with the truth of why they were here.

  A banquet chair cushioned in red velvet had been left toppled near the rear exit. Kelly John righted it, sat, turned her to scoot up and straddle his lap—a feat that wasn't ac­complished without a major adjustment to her hemline.

  By the time she settled onto his legs, her arms around his neck, her cleavage at mouth level, she could feel the cool air on her bottom as well as feel the heat from his thighs. She could also feel how very, very wet she was.

  He slid his palms upward from her knees until he reached the tops of her stockings and her garters. He stared, his breathing rough and shallow, stared until she feared the vein at his temple would burst.

  He closed his eyes then, dropped his head back until it hit the wall. "Emma?"

  "Yes?" Her voice cracked on the one simple word.

  "Is that all you're wearing under that dress?"

  "The garter belt, you mean?"

  He nodded, eyes still closed.

  "No."

  His lashes fluttered. His eyes slowly opened. He growled out, "What else?"

  "A diamond stud in my navel."

  He groaned, bit off a succinct, "Fuck me," that wasn't a request but a curse.

  Her grin felt sly as it slid across her mouth. "I dressed with the cause in mind."

  He opened one eye, lifted one brow. "The cause?"

  "Anything to help."

  "Christ, woman." Again with both closed eyes. "This kind of help and we might as well forget the whole thing."

  "How so?"

  "You're supposed to be saving me, not killing me."

  She wanted to laugh but held back. "Oh, is that all?"

  "All?" He lifted one of her hands away from his neck, lowered it to his lap, wrapped her fingers around his thick shaft and squeezed.

  Only then did he open his eyes. "Like I said. You're killing me."

  She couldn't help it. She squeezed again. He was long and full and she wanted him. And so she let him go, took his hand in hers, and showed him quite clearly that he wasn't the only one hurting.

  He hissed back a sharp breath, slicked a knuckle through the folds of her sex, brought the finger to his nose to smell, to his mouth to taste. Then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her.

  She opened his jacket, curled her fingers into the silk of his shirt, went to work on the buttons because she was going to die if she didn't touch him.

  One button, two buttons, three buttons, four was all it took before she could feel the soft dusting of hair over his pectoral muscles.

  He'd crushed his mouth to hers, but she wasn't having any of it and tore away, kissing and biting her way down his throat, tonguing the dip beneath his Adam's apple, breathing him in.

  He let her have her way for a few seconds more, and that was it. Holding her shoulders, he forced her up, sliding the fabric of her dress down her arms far enough to bind her— and to expose even more of her cleavage.

  His eyes flashed as he held her gaze, as he slipped both hands beneath the scooped neckline and lifted her free. She watched his jaw tic, his temple throb.

  And then he finally looked down.

  He said things so raw, so coarse, yet so incredibly sexy that she blushed. The heat rose like a fever; she felt it on her skin and deep between her legs in a copious release of mois­ture.

  Thank God it was dark outside and his pants were so very black.

  It was when he leaned forward and pulled her nipple into his mouth so sharply and sweetly that she knew she was lost. She cried out before she could call back the sound.

  He quickly released her, covered her mouth with his, and swallowed the rest of the desperate whimpers that refused to be quieted.

  This time he kissed her softly, gently, his lips catching hers, his tongue and teeth uninvolved. It was a lover's kiss, not one for show, not one for an audience, not one for a camera.

  Her stomach tumbled, and she eased away. "Kelly?" "Emma?"

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. "This is going to sound incredibly stupid, but are we in the right place?"

  His smile encompassed the whole of his face. "Got car­ried away and forgot that part, did you?"

  "As a matter of fact. . ." She left it at that, knowing full well he knew that she had—and all that implied.

  He nodded. "Trust me. You're exactly where I need you to be."

  "If you're sure," she said, wanting to read more into his statement than was probably wise.

  "I'm sure," he said, his hands on her thighs as he slouched back on his spine. "You know, I don't think I've ever had a woman wet my pants before."

  She groaned. "I'm sorry. I should've warned you. Or at least worn more than I did."

  He bit off one curse that was worse than the one he voiced. "Jesus H. Christ, Emma. Are you fucking kidding me? You're hot and you're gorgeous—"

  "And I'm a mess."

  He slid his hands higher, reaching beneath her dress and spreading her juices like he would finger paints. "A mess that I can't wait to lick up."

  She held her breath, her hands on his shoulders, her arms pressing her bare breasts together. He caught her clitoris and squeezed.

  "I want to taste you here." He slid the pads of two fin­gers along the inside walls of her slit, circled her vaginal en­trance, and pushed deep. "I want to eat you up and fuck you with my tongue."

  She nodded, she shook her head, she closed her eyes as he pulled out, eased back, again and again and again, increas­ing the speed and depth of his thrusts until she felt nothing but his fingers, and the tight spiraling heat in her core.

  "Stop, please," she begged, opening her eyes once he no longer teased her. She panted a bit, gritted her teeth, whis­pered, "Not yet. I'm not ready."

  A dark brow went up. Blue eyes twinkled. Dimples to die for appeared. "I hate to disagree, but I have the wet spot proving otherwise."

  Cocky bastard. Arrogant, cocky ass. Damn him for being right. She moved her hands away from his shoulders, braced them on his thighs, made sure both of her nipples were gum-drop hard, and leaned forward.

  "It's hardly fair that I have all the fun," she said, pleased to see he wasn't the god she'd been thinking, but a typical man brought to a state of mindless drooling by a little bit of flesh. "Kelly?"

  "Emma?" he replied like a drone, looking up.

  She made sure she had his attention, then asked, "How real do you need your alibi to be?"

  He held her gaze for an interminable minute, one during which a war raged in his eyes, one fought between the will of his body and that of his mind.

  It was obvious who won, and who lost, when he said, "I don't have a condom."

  She didn't believe him. He was trying to spare her from something. Involvement. Embarrassment. She didn't know. She didn't care.

  She wanted him because she wanted him and that was all that mattered.

  The tapes were being made to save his life. As promised, they would be grainy, snowy, a low quality capable of iden­tifying no one but Kelly John thanks to Tripp Shaugh­essey's editing skills. He'd promised as well to angle the camera remotely and conceal her f
ace.

  Not all of her would be so obscured, however, and Tripp would see while working his editing magic. A fact she'd known and accepted when agreeing to this Mata Hari role. Making a vague fuzzy sex tape was, after all, all the rage.

  As much as she wanted to make love to Kelly, she could live with that. She could live with anything as long as he gave in and filled her.

  "I have condoms. In my purse." She canted her head, in­dicating her beaded clutch on the floor. And then she arched a brow. "Unless you're too camera shy."

  Seven

  Camera shy? That's what she wanted to know? If he minded showing off his dick on a videotape?

  He narrowed his gaze, studied her face, read what he could of—and into—her expression. No, that wasn't what she was asking at all. She was daring him to let her seduce him.

  And not a one of the arguments he'd given himself had yet to convince him to tell her to pack up her playthings and go-

  Without breaking the lock he had on her gaze, he reached down for her purse. When he handed it to her, she straight­ened, her amazing tits bouncing into place.

  Goddamn, but he couldn't wait to get her into a bed where he could show his appreciation of her assets properly. The thought sent his balls on another colorful rampage.

  He swore he was going to burst.

  Still, exposing her this way was unnecessary. For all the thoughts of blue balls and dying, he could wait.

  She, however, seemed to be of a full-throttle mind, and held up the packet she'd pulled from her purse. "Shall I?"

  He bit down hard on the imagined feel of her fingers. "We don't have to do this, Emma."

  "I know we don't have to." Her eyelids fluttered. "I want to. I want to more than you probably know."

  Oh, he knew. He was wearing the evidence. He shifted beneath her, holding onto her ass, which was barely cov­ered by the hem of her dress.

  He wanted to ask why, but at this point he didn't care about any of her reasons. He was a guy with a hard-on for the woman in his lap, and he was going to say yes no mat­ter. But not without doing his best to protect her.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, cocooning their bodies in the darkness inside. Only then did he reach for his belt buckle and zipper. Only then did he lift his hips, lower his pants, and let her set him free.

  Her eyes widened, and he took the condom from her fin­gers and rolled it on. She scooted forward, raised her hips and her dress, settling the fabric around her waist and giv­ing him the most glorious view of her garter belt and the sweet pink flesh of her sex.

  "You're killing me here, Emma. You are fucking killing me."

  She laughed softly. "Has anyone ever told you that your mouth would put a sailor's to shame?"

  "You should hear what I don't say," he said as she reached between her thighs and spread herself open, showing him exactly where she wanted him to bury his thick, aching dick.

  When he stared too long because he couldn't get enough of looking, she took him in her hand and guided him into place. He held onto the edges of his suit coat so that noth­ing got in the way of watching as she stretched open to take him inside.

  He slid deep and settled, throbbing inside her, jaw tight, head pounding, fists crushing the fabric of his jacket into wadded, wrinkled balls.

  But he kept his eyes wide open, and he drank his visual fill of this gift that only he could see. The tape would show nothing more explicit than Emma's bare breasts—an R-rated movie at best, fuzzy and indistinct.

  And that was the last cognizant thought to cross his mind, because that was when Emma planted her hands on his knees, leaned back, and began to ride him like a trick pony.

  She lifted her hips, lowered them, slid up and down the length of his shaft until the head of his cock was all of him she held inside.

  He watched it all. Every slick stroke. Every centimeter she stretched to take him in. Every bit of it. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the picture of her gorgeous sex swal­lowing him from balls to tip.

  Yet nothing could have prepared him for the look on her face when he finally tore his gaze from their joined bodies. Her eyes were glassy, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue pressed to the edge of her teeth.

  She'd given herself to him completely, was taking from him all that she could. He thrust upward; she caught her weight in one hand, used the other to play her clit as she came.

  She pressed her lips together, squeezed her eyes shut. Her contractions gripped him, his gut clenched, his abs con­tracted there in his open fly. He felt the vibrations of her si­lenced groans along the length of his cock.

  She was finished, and now it was his turn. He released one corner of his jacket, cupped her head beneath her pony-tail, and pulled her into his kiss. He needed her mouth to swallow the sounds bellowing up from his throat.

  Needed her mouth as much as he needed her tight mus­cles milking his cock.

  God-blessed-damn. He shot it all, thrusting once, twice, Emma squeezing and stroking, her free hand now playing nasty between their legs.

  She fondled and fingered, and he opened up to her in ways that he'd never done with another woman. In ways, until now, he'd never thought he might like. He liked. A lot. She was fearless in her exploration.

  And it was a long, long, long time before he let her out of his lap.

  Hank Smithson had tired of pacing his office hours ago. Hell, he'd tired of pacing his office years ago, dad-blamed truth be told.

  In fact, he'd pretty much tired of everything, doing no more these days than sitting back and letting his boys have all the fun.

  Without his Madelyn around giving him a reason to keep his hands out of SG-5's fires, he saw no reason for things not to change.

  And there was no better time than now. He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty P.M. Kelly and Emma would be on their way to dinner.

  And that meant Tripp Shaughnessey would be editing the images from the theater and the bar, images he'd cap­tured with a few strategically located antennas borrowing bounced wireless feeds.

  Hank didn't necessarily understand the workings of all the equipment his boys used. But he did understand that each and every one of them knew what they were doing.

  And that was enough for him.

  He stepped from the perimeter carpet that served as a sound buffer onto the tiles comprising the biggest part of the floor and made his way through the blacked-out ops center to the one desk in the horseshoe-shaped workstation still lit up like Times Square. Once there, he cleared his throat.

  Tripp switched off the screen he'd been hunched over and swiveled his chair around. "Hank, hey. What's up?"

  Hank nodded toward the dark monitor. "Things looking okay with Emma and Kelly?"

  Tripp blinked, blushed, stammered, and stared before snapping out of it. "Uh, yeah. It's going fairly damn well for K.J., I'd say."

  "Good, good." Hank rolled the butt of his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "He's getting what he needs then? To make this thing go away?"

  "Oh, yeah," Tripp said. "End of the night? I think he'll have gotten exactly what he needs."

  At the sound of the safety door opening, Hank and the now distracted Tripp both turned to see Julian Samms walk in.

  "How're things going for K.J.?" he asked on his way to his desk.

  "Right as rain," Tripp answered once Julian had ad­justed his sling and situated himself in his chair. "What are you doing back here?"

  "Katrina kicked me out." He flipped the switch for his main monitor, left the others dark. "She's on deadline and told me either I got my ass out or she was on the first flight back to Miami."

  "Women," Tripp said. "Can't live with 'em, can't use 'em for a down payment on a new car."

  "Depends on the dealership," Julian said and chuckled.

  Hank did, too. He'd been having a hell of a good time lately watching his boys fall under the spells of a few good women. The team was mellowing out, settling down.

  It was the
perfect opportunity for him to get back to doing the things he'd been doing before a one of the boys had been born.

  Emma savored the weight of Kelly John's palm in the small of her back as they followed the hostess to their table.

  The light in the restaurant cast a pale amber glow over the room, each individual table illuminated by a small brass lantern centered in a fall-colored dried floral arrangement.

  The intimate gentlemen's club ambience suited Emma's mood. She was strangely exhausted, and at the same time mellow. An obvious sex hangover. One curable only by sleep or by food.

  She slipped into the booth the hostess indicated. The seat was a hunter green leather, and she sank deep and sighed.

  Keeping her wits would've been so much easier sitting in one of the high-back club chairs at a table in the center of the room. Here she was, instead, fighting the temptation of sleep.

  Kelly John slid his big body into the opposite seat, and the cozy space closed like a wool blanket around her. She loved the way it took him a minute to settle, adjusting the tails of his coat at his hips, his forearms on the table's edge as he discussed a pricey bottle with the wine steward.

  Yet another glimpse into who he was. One that fit with the culturally urbane image of James Bond, yet seemed strangely anomalous when considering he could discuss Burgundies and Bordeaux with the same mouth capable of cursing a sailor under the table.

  He caught her grinning like a schoolgirl with a crush when he glanced her way once the steward had gone.

  "What?" he asked, the edge of his mouth tilted upward.

  "What, what?" she asked in kind, tempted not just to sleep but to kiss him.

  "You're staring."

  She shrugged, teased. "I like looking at you. Have me ar­rested if it's that big of a problem."

  This time he was the one staring, the one seemingly struck dumb by the concept that he made for tasty eye candy. Hard to believe of a man with this one's appeal to women.

  She'd be surprised if he didn't have a woman in every port. And then it hit her, and she had to admit a bit of dis­like for the idea of having become one of many.