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Britt Rollins was kissing the bejeezus out of Agent Julia O’Toole in the middle of the kitchen.

Scratch that.

He was kissing the bejeezus out of Julia O’Toole up against the pantry door.

They hadn’t started there, of course. They’d started behind the center island because it was there Julia had noticed Peanut. And it was there she’d suggested giving the cat a treat before leaving.

Talk about making your ding dong and your ping pongs shrink up into raisins!

Thanks to Eliza’s quick whisper in his ear before she’d made like a banana and split, Britt knew the pantry was where his brother and the frail-looking brunette were hiding.

Needless to say, he’d needed to distract Julia from her exit strategy. The first idea that had come to mind was a kiss.

He wasn’t surprised that’s where his brain had gone. He’d wanted to kiss the smart, sassy fed since she made her first Star Wars joke, and he realized she was more than a baddie with a badge.

What he was surprised by was that she’d actually agreed. More than agreed. She’d gone up on tiptoe, grabbed him by the ears, and slammed her mouth over the top of his.

Now, he was the one distracted.

In the last fifteen seconds, Julia O’Toole had become his whole world. He didn’t care about the cat. He didn’t care about the people hiding in the pantry. He didn’t even care that he was harboring a fugitive and, by association, forcing his friends and coworkers to do the same.

He only cared about the sweet, silky tongue Julia delved into his mouth. He only cared about tasting the delicious hint of coffee on her lips as she laved, sucked, and licked. He only cared about breathing in every warm, moist breath she shared with him.

They’d gone from zero to sixty in two seconds flat. From standing there staring at each other to her trying to climb him like a cat climbs a tree while he attempted to trace every inch of her body with his hungry, roving hands.

She had curves enough to make a man lose his damn mind. Her waist was narrow. Her hips were flared. And her ass? Oh, her ass was the eighth wonder of the world. Plump and plentiful enough to overflow his hands when he bent to fill them.

“God, yes,” she breathed into his mouth as he lifted her onto her tiptoes to better align their bodies.

He’d never known anything like it.

Sure, he’d known desire. He’d known craving and longing and even red-hot lust . But this thing with Julia was different. It was cellular. Molecular. Atomic.

He wanted to consume her. Absorb her. Enmesh every particle of his body with every particle of hers until there was no way to separate them or tell one from the other.

It was terrifying. And yet…he couldn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop himself from tilting his head so he could have better access to her busy, busy lips. Couldn’t stop his tongue from taking long, languid forays into her open, eager mouth. Couldn’t stop himself from shoving her against the pantry door so he could press himself fully against her, feeling all her lovely, firm curves mold into his muscled, hard planes.

Her fingers moved from his hair to his face. From his chin to his chest. Her palms were a little rough—probably from target practice. But the rest of her? Sweet baby Jesus, the rest of her was ungodly soft.

She moaned, and the sound reverberated down to his throbbing balls. When she lifted a leg to hook a heel behind his knee, the highly sensitive flesh covering his cock ached so badly he wondered if it would continue to hold the turgid length of his erection or if it would split right down the middle.

In the furthest reaches of his mind, in the part that wasn’t consumed by all that was Julia, he recalled a conversation he’d had with Boss over beers on the back patio. He’d been talking about life and love and Boss's incredible luck in approaching Becky about using her custom motorcycle shop as a cover for his newly formed covert defense firm.

“What are the odds y’all’s business partnership would grow into a romantic one?” he’d mused.

“If you’d asked me ten years ago, I would’ve said the odds were pretty slim,” Boss had replied. The fire burning in the pit had made flames dance in the older man’s eyes. “But I’ve grown more philosophical with time. Now, I believe in all that string theory stuff.”

“String theory?” Britt had frowned as he took a sip of beer. The tangy scent of hops had mixed with the smokey zest of the burning wood. “As in particle physics?”

“I leave that to Ozzie.” Boss had chuckled. “No. I’m talking ’bout the string theory of love. The idea that people are connected by unbreakable strings that transcend time, distance, and geography. The idea that what brings us together isn’t choice but fate.”

Britt had laughed. “Never would have pegged you for a Swiftie, Boss.”

“Huh?”

“A Taylor Swift fan.”

Boss had blinked. “Did I jump into a different timeline? How the hell did we go from talking ’bout string theory to Taylor Swift?”

“Because she has that song. ‘Invisible String.’ The lyrics describe everything you’re saying.”

When Boss had only stared at him, he’d hummed a few bars.

“Right.” Boss had nodded. “I think I’ve heard Fish play that on his harmonica.” Then he’d shaken his head. “The string theory has been around longer than Miss Swift’s song. I can promise you that. I can also promise you that from the very beginning, it felt different with Becky. It was like I saw her, and a hidden part of me I never knew existed recognized itself in her.”

Is that why Britt had continued to stalk Julia despite his every intention to stop? Why he’d been uninterested in any other woman since the moment he’d clapped eyes on her? And why he’d been so quick and so sure in his decision to turn down her invitation for a drink? Because a hidden part of him recognized itself in her?

The answer to that question dissolved in his head when she speared her hands into his hair, her nails biting softly into his scalp. She moved her body against his in a rhythm as old as time, and yet somehow…because it was her …it still felt thrillingly new.

He was acutely aware of every point they touched. The warmth of her womanhood breached the layers of fabric separating them and bathed his erection in humid heat. The hard pebbles of her nipples brushed against his chest, a delicious addition to the friction she created with her hips. And the soft, searching, hungry feel of her lips against his had him sliding a hand to the back of her neck to pull her closer. Closer. Closer still.

It was magical. It was maddening. It was…

Too risky!

It took herculean strength to break free from the kiss when every cell in his body cried out in protest. But he managed it with only a low, gruff grunt.

After he put a few feet between them, he could do nothing but stand there with his hands on his hips. His head bowed in surrender. His chest rose and fell with his harsh breaths.

Oh-eleven-hundred , said the hands on his watch. Get her the hell out of here before you do or say something you’ll regret , said his overheated brain. Kiss her again , screamed his excited body.

He glanced up and immediately regretted the decision.

Julia stood with her back against the pantry door, and she looked…

Like Aphrodite sprung to life. A sex goddess in the flesh.

His fingers had knocked her bun loose so that her thick hair hung over her shoulder in a silky rope. Her cheeks were flushed peony pink. Her dark lashes hung low over her half-lidded eyes. And her lips were plump and swollen from the pressure of his mouth.

“Holy shit.” She blew out a ragged breath. “That was…”

“Yeah.” He nodded when she didn’t finish her thought. It didn’t need to be finished. He wasn’t sure it could be finished since he couldn’t think of a single word in the English language to accurately describe what that was.

“I…uh…” She pushed away from the door. “I wasn’t expecting to get so carried away.”

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a grunt. Falling back on fun so she wouldn’t guess how much he was reeling, he told her, “We Southern boys may be slow with our words, but we’re fast with our seductions.”

A mischievous grin played at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, it was you seducing me ? I thought it was the other way around.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice rough. “It was hard to tell who was doing what. You know, with all the tongues and the hands and the grinding.”

“Amen.” She nodded with a throaty chuckle. Then she looked down at the state of herself and set about straightening her clothes.

“I knew we’d be good together,” she said without any hint of humility or embarrassment. “But sometimes I amaze even myself.”

He recognized the line from A New Hope and followed it up with one of his own. “Great, kid. Don’t get cocky.”

She’d lifted her arms to re-pin her bun, but his response had her dropping her hands to stare at him. “I think I might really like you, Sergeant Rollins,” she confessed with a wry twist of her lips.

His stomach took a free fall like he’d executed a HALO jump.

He should end the conversation now. He should herd her toward the door. He should wave her a fond farewell and hope he never laid eyes on her again.

Instead, he admitted, “I know I really like you, Agent O’Toole. And that’s the problem.”

“I like it better when you call me Julia.”

He swallowed convulsively. “We should probably try to keep things professional given how easy it is for us to fall into the opposite.”

“Spoilsport.” She pretended to pout, and he had to look away from the temptation of her pursed lips. “You sure you don’t want to meet me for that drink, Britt?” she cajoled, and holy crap, when she said his name like that, he wanted to throw back his head and howl. “Last chance.”

“What just happened between us”—he waved a hand between them—“proves I was right when I said we’re incapable of casual. So one drink would turn into ten drinks, which would turn into ten weeks and then ten months and—” He shook his head. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it.”

For a handful of seconds, she simply stared at him, and he thought maybe she’d try to convince him.

He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed when she hitched a shoulder and turned for the door. “Your loss, Sergeant,” she called over her shoulder before stepping into the hallway.

He watched the swish of her hair across her back. Watched the sway of her hips and the unhesitating determination in her steps. Then, she was gone without a single backward glance.

My loss, indeed , he thought as he listened to her footsteps get swallowed up by the noise of the shop.

Shaking his head, he refused to name the hollow feeling that opened up inside him at her departure. Instead, he focused his thoughts on talking down his erection.

The idiotic thing had yet to receive the memo that it wasn’t going to take a happy little trip to Poundtown. It was still hard enough to strain the denim of his fly and have him standing funny.

Not that he could blame it. Because… Jesus, god, Julia is…

Words failed him. Sexy was an understatement. Hot as hell came closer to capturing her allure, but it was still inadequate. And since he didn’t have time to write the sonnet it would take to describe the wonder of her—and since his poetic skill topped out there once was a girl from Nantucket —he blew out a steadying breath, adjusted himself into a more comfortable position behind his fly, and opened the pantry door.

Knox and the woman he’d brought with him sat huddled against the back wall. Hew sat crisscross applesauce-style in front of them, which was a little like seeing a grizzly bear twisted into a pretzel.

Britt accurately read the question in his teammate’s eyes and raised a hand. “It’s a short story titled: I needed a distraction to stop her from coming in here in search of Peanut’s cat treats, and the only thing I could think to do was kiss her.”

Hew snorted as he shoved his substantial bulk to a stand. “Pretty long title for such a short story.”

Britt waved him off and watched his brother offer a hand to Miss Greenlee.

Strange that Julia didn’t mention Sabrina when she was accusing Knox of murdering his former cellmate , Britt thought, eyeing the woman in question.

She had a pretty face and the kind of mouth that promised heaven. But her current expression looked like hell.

Knox didn’t look much better. Now that Britt had the opportunity to study his brother, he could see the stress that pinched Knox’s eyes and hardened the muscles in his jaw. Frown lines deeply etched the sides of Knox’s mouth, and there were gray glints in the stubble pebbling Knox’s chin.

Knox caught Britt staring and twisted his lips. “Yo, Captain Side-Eyes. Go ahead and spit out whatever is causing you to look at me like that.”

“The feds said you double-crossed your handlers and killed your former cellmate in cold blood.” The words tasted like poison as they dripped from Britt’s tongue.

He hadn’t wanted to believe anything Julia had told him. He knew his brother wasn’t exactly what anyone would call an upstanding citizen. But the thought of Knox killing someone stretched his credulity.

Knox had taken on a paper route when he was twelve so he’d have pocket money for cat food to feed the neighborhood strays. In sixth grade, Knox had befriended Tyler Jenkins, a kid with cerebral palsy, because none of the other punks had wanted to hang out with a little boy who scooted around in a motorized wheelchair. When their father died, Knox hadn’t batted a lash at dropping out of college to come home and take care of Britt and?—

“He didn’t do it.”

Britt blinked at the skinny brunette and watched as she vehemently shook her head.

“Knox didn’t kill my brother,” she swore in a voice that somehow sounded both watery and hoarse.

“Wait.” He rubbed at his suddenly pounding temples. “Knox’s former cellmate was your brother?”

She nodded. “His name was Cooper Greenlee. He took a bullet to the brain trying to save me and?—”

Her voice cut off as a sob burst from the depths of her chest. Huge, glistening tears flooded down her cheeks. And before he knew what was happening, she wilted.

She just sort of sunk down onto her knees, buried her face in her hands, and let loose with a sound that epitomized heartbreak.

To Britt’s astonishment, Hew fell to his knees beside her.

So, to recap, Knox and his former cellmate had partnered with the FBI to bring down a major narcotics trafficking organization. But according to the feds, Knox had double-crossed them, killed his cellmate, and gone on the run before he could turn state’s evidence. And yet, according to the former cellmate’s sister—whom the FBI didn’t seem to know about—none of that was true. Only instead of Sabrina Greenlee walking through the feds’ front door and clearing Knox’s name, she’d let Knox drag her halfway across the country.

Britt was missing something. Or, more likely, he was missing a lot .

“We need to talk,” he told his brother, a muscle twitching beside his right eye.

“No shit.” Knox nodded.