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Rhodes---Engima

I feel her eyes land on my back the second I walk in the door; the way she keeps track of my movement, clocking every decision I make. She is stealthy in the way she holds herself, but full of contradictions that I don’t think she wants the world to see. I see the way she flexes her hands, the ripped cuticles likely stress-induced damage. I note how she sits at the same table every morning, seemingly reading a book and yet, for the last two weeks, she has never turned a page. Interesting.

I make my way to the counter, finding Parker like I always do.

“Hi, Parker,” I drawl, crossing my fingers that the redhead in front of me has decided to be nice today. Apparently today is not the day, not with the scowl making an appearance on her face. She’s busy behind the espresso machine, pulling shots for what I can only assume is my coffee in an effort to get me away from her as soon as humanly possible. I don’t know what I’ve done to anger the woman, beyond asking a few questions about the siren sitting in the corner.

“Don’t ask me again, Rhodes. I’m not telling you anything about her.”

Dammit . Every day, I try my best to get her to tell me something. Anything.

“Parker.” I’m thankful I’d overheard someone holler her name one day; not that it made any difference in the way we interacted.

“Don’t ‘Parker’ me. Here’s your coffee. Goodbye.”

Parker walks away, shaking her head. She’s fiercely loyal and protective, I’ll give her that. Shaking my head, I chuckle, placing the bills to cover my drink on the counter. I know the instant I walk away, Parker will return to collect them.

I move to my booth, placing my back to Amelia. I’m sure it bothers her, not being able to see me. Her gaze has lingered in my direction more than once; she’s stealthy about it—as if she doesn’t want anyone to notice. I don’t care. I want her to get riled up. I want her to get so angry, she slams the books shut and stomps toward me, her body shaking with rage. Anything would be better than the way she watches from her perch—sly, calculated. Her eyes are keen, not missing a trick. She is a puzzle I can’t solve, a language I don’t speak.

My years as a Special Operations sniper are useless against her and that frustrates the hell out of me. I pride myself on reading cues, on understanding the nonverbal dance of bodies. And yet, here is a five-foot-five dark haired enigma giving me a run for my money.

I want to know everything. What makes her laugh, the sounds she makes when she orgasms, how she takes her coffee—or if that mug is tea instead. I want to know what is going on in that gorgeous head of hers. Because she is gorgeous.

Her hair is the color of my morning coffee, tinged with vibrant streaks of color reminding me of the lilac bushes at my childhood home growing up, and those grey eyes that lure me in like a siren’s song to a sailor. I never see her in any color other than black and it suits her. The worn leather jacket seems like a security blanket, a way to ward off any sort of interaction, and black denim is painted onto her curves.

Gods, her curves. I want to run my hands over every inch of her, mapping her reactions, her moans escaping those plush lips as I worship her goddess body. I need to know how she will sound the instant she lets go, the way her lips move as she orgasms.

I reach down, subtly adjusting my now raging cock. I need to break her, to convince her to let me in, and having a hard on is not going to help my case.