Page 16 of Saxon

He peeks his head out through the door, scans, and then shoves the door open.

"Looks like your crew made themselves scarce. No sign of ’em."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Thank god. If anything happens to Emily because of me, I'll—"

"Because of me, not you."

"I brought you here."

"You wanna fight about it? I'll win. Point is, they're not here."

"Take me up to the suite, will you? I need to see that she's okay with my own eyes. I'll be in and out, I promise."

"Fine. Let's go." He eyes me. "You got a change of street clothes up there?"

"Obviously. Nothing too much more practical than this, but I've got Converse at least, so I don't have to trot around in stupid fuckin' three-inch heels." I groan. "Speaking of which, I'd better grab them. They weren't cheap."

"I'll buy you new ones. We gotta get out of this hotel."

I glare at him. "They match my dress—exactly match them, shade for shade. Do you know how hard it is to find shoes that exactly match your dress? No, you don't, because men get to put on all black and look like hot shit. So no, Saxon, I’m not leaving them. You may have money to burn, but I guarantee you won't find shoes in my size in that exact shade of green." I glance up at him. "Which happens to be the same shade as your eyes, by the way. So chill for twenty seconds while I go get them."

He arches one eyebrow. "You'd be back with them by now if you'd just gone to get them instead of running those pretty red lips of yours."

I blow a kiss at him and then jog back down the hallway to where I kicked off my shoes. I snag them and hold them by the straps in one hand and try to figure out what's missing in this hallway.

Oh, right. Three bleeding men: they're gone. The blood is there, but they're gone.

I trot back to Saxon. "So, um, the dudes you shot? They're gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" He frowns down at me.

"Well, you see, gone, in my language, means not there. As in, bye-bye. No bodies, just puddles of blood."

"Well, where the fuck'd they go? Two of ’em were gut shot, and one was shot through the knee and shoulder."

I point at the linen carts—full of bloody linen, but notably not full of humans. "Well, they're gone."

Saxon's eye twitches. "Fuck. Not good."

"Why?"

"Well, contrary to what you see in movies, if you get shot, it tends to put most people out of commission. You don’t just shrug off a gunshot wound, especially not a gut shot. Those fuckers hurt. Stomach acid does not feel good."

"You sound like you're talking from experience," I say, eying him as if I could see his scars through his clothes.

"I am. Took three to the gut during a hit gone very, very wrong. I was out of commission for damn near three months. I got lucky since the rounds missed major arteries and organs. Goddamn miracle, honestly. So, my point is, those dudes did not walk out of here on their own. They had help. Which means leaving the conference room could be problematic at best."

"So, what do we do?"

He glances down the hallway away from the door to the conference room. "Take our chances in the service corridors."

He leads the way, taking my hand in his. His hand is huge and rough as sandpaper, engulfing mine. I mean, yes, I'm short and I have pretty small hands and feet, but his hand is also just huge, even for a man his size.

Judging by what I felt up against me a few minutes ago, his hands aren't the only oversized parts on him.

Good grief, what the hell is wrong with me? I'm a horny chick, sure, and have been since…well, the ugly shit that happened to me. My way of coping, I guess, and I don't think I'm alone, although I don’t know many women other than Emily, and—shit, where was I going with this? The man has scrambled my goddamn brains with his wicked fuckin' talented tongue.

Oh, right. I'm horny. But even with the guns going off and motherfuckers getting popped left and right, all I can think about is Saxon, and his mouth, and his fingers, and his cock. And the things I want to do to him.