Page 23 of Used

Laurel wakes fully in an instant, jerking out of my hands and sitting up. Covering her bare chest, she looks around wildly, like she’s trying to remember where she is and how she got here.

That look on her face is not good. We never got into how she actually got involved with the FBI. One wrong word from her could cause a world of trouble.

Recalling the night before and all the ways she sighed my name though makes me smile. Fuck it. No regrets.

I’m out of bed, barely, when they bust the front door in with a ram. I don’t roll my eyes, but I’m close. I stand in the bedroom doorway to give her time.

They blaze in with guns raised and order me to the floor. Looking over my shoulder to be sure she’s not naked, I clock the sexy bedhead, the Guinness t-shirt with my cum crusted on the collar, and a pair of black drawstring sweats she’s fumbling to tie.

“Get down!” they bark at me.

My eyes do a Jack Nicholson stare before I drop onto my hands like I’m about to do a push-up, then lower myself the rest of the way.

They bang through the apartment, looking around.

“Wait,” Laurelyn says as they grab her, haul her up, and hustle her out.

My muscles tighten. I don’t like them taking her, or touching her period.

Special Agent Milt Schager leans over me. “Well, hello, Mr. Patrick. Or should I call you Trick?”

“Mr. Patrick’s fine.”

He glares at me. “Only Trick to the girls you damage?” To the others, he says, “Get him up and cuff him.”

“He’s naked.”

“So?” Schager demands, throwing a towel on my back.

“So I’m not cuffing and perp-walking him out in a towel. Get up and get dressed, Patrick,” the other agent says to me.

I rise and head to my dresser, surprised they haven’t bothered to confiscate the holstered gun that’s resting in plain sight on the top of the chest of drawers. After pulling on jeans and a sweater, I can’t resist fucking with them. Grabbing the holster, I start to strap it on.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Suiting up. I’ve got a concealed carry permit.”

Guns rise and point at me.

“Set down that firearm,” an agent shouts.

I turn, smirking. “If I’d wanted to use it, I would have.” Extending an arm, I offer them the gun. “You sure you’re FBI? You guys seem too sloppy to be feds, andwaytoo slow.”

One grabs the gun and bags it, while another cuffs me. Knowing they’d like an excuse to take me down to the floor, I don’t give them one. Instead, I keep pace as they pull me across the apartment and into the upstairs hall.

Shoving me into the elevator, they’re agitated. I take it from the few exchanged words that they thought they’d find Laurel in ropes or chains, weeping and desperate.

In the lobby, the building’s superintendent looks terrified. He’s still in a bathrobe.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Trick! They didn’t give me a choice. They dragged me out. I didn’t have a choice.”

“It’s all right, Alvin. You’re fine.”

“Shut up,” the agent snaps, and it’s not clear who he’s talking to.

Alvin shakes his head, covering his mouth a second. “I’m sorry, Mr. Trick. I’ll call Mr. C right away.”

“You’ll call no one!” Schager snaps.