Page 50 of The Witness

I was burning up. On fire. Each stroke added to the conflagration. Michael leaned down and took my mouth in a fast hard kiss. He followed me into the inferno, ripping our mouths apart to utter his own guttural cry.

Time stopped as the flames of our orgasms slowly flickered out

It may have only been for a few seconds, but it felt far longer. Our panting drowned out the TV in the other room, the hum of the air conditioner, and anything not inside our bubble of afterglow.

I closed my eyes and tried to imprint this feeling of boneless surrender on the fibers of my being. The way the bed seemed to lift me up while Michael’s weight pressed me down. Held firmly in a cradle of euphoria, the ultimate in relaxation.

He nuzzled my cheek and rolled to lie on his side. “I hate to ruin this, but…”

“Then don’t.” I turned to face him.

“Damn, you are a siren, an inescapable distraction.” With a resigned sigh, he tangled his hand in my hair and kissed me until I was breathless. “We need to plan for tomorrow. There are a million things to do. Gunter will want your floor plan of the boat asap. And we should eat something.”

“Ugh.”

I cuddled into his arms and wished the embrace would last for days. I’d have loved to start all over, return us to the fevered haze of passion. But playing the sexy ostrich with her head in the sand wasn’t smart.

In an impressive show of responsibility, I wiggled free of his arms. The doubts I’d tried to ignore flooded back to the forefront as the haze of sex and satisfaction cleared.

“Is this going to be a problem? A distraction?” I sat on the edge of the bed and turned to look down at him. “Shit. Will this get you fired? If people find out.”

I should have thought of all this before. The sex has been outrageously good, but if it might mess with his concentration or ruin his career, then we shouldn’t have indulged. I like a big O as much as the next lady, but I’m not trading my life for one or a dozen.

“I won’t get fired. Or distracted. I’d say it will work the opposite way. Raise a primal instinct to protect my mate.” He pushed me back into the pillows with a roar and playfully bit my neck, then licked up the side of my cheek.

“Gross.” Oh, hell no. Time to use my insider knowledge. I curled my fingers into claws and dug into his ribs.

“Sabrina… No. Not fair.” My lion squealed like a stuck pig.

I doubled down, laughing as I tickled him. The moment of play was another welcome distraction from the shit storm coming my way tomorrow. Too bad it was only temporary.

Chapter 23

Michael

Ihated the plan more than ever now that I was living it.

I settled deeper into the curved cream leather sectional on board the Jabberwocky. Sabrina huddled at my feet, her eyes closed and hair unbrushed. She was doing an excellent imitation of a woman drugged up on ketamine. We’d decided it was the most practical lie to tell Sandoval’s men. It let her act as a biddable prisoner without raising suspicion. And anything that kept her from getting punched, slapped, restrained, or otherwise injured worked for me.

There were about a dozen men on Sandoval’s boat, armed with everything from knives to guns. And the marina office where the PNR officers waited was too far away for my liking.

I’d have taken a kick in the balls from Derek Sawyer to have him and the rest of the Smith Agency team here to watchSabrina’s back. I told Gunter I had no faith in this plan or the PNR. But here I was, about to try to get Sabrina killed.

Sandoval paced before us, explaining how his affiliation of criminals worked. It sounded like a complicated pyramid scheme of respect and fear kept the organization in power.

“I think allying with a motorcycle club offers interesting opportunities. Transportation. Maneuverability. And the intimidation factor. Yes, I’m warming to the idea, Mr. Dumas.” Sandoval poured us each a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice from a crystal pitcher on the nearby table.

“My club will be happy to hear that.” I took the glass and set it on the coffee table. The overpowering sweetness of the juice paired unpleasantly with the tension roiling my gut.

On board his boat, Sandoval had relaxed and talked more freely than he had at the party last night. Hopefully, the Cubans were recording this because some details he was spouting off would be helpful when law enforcement finally stepped up and dismantled his organization.

The listening devices the Cubans had lent us were world class. Mine was embedded in my belt buckle and Sabrina’s in a small charm on a cheap-looking necklace she wore. It was some of the best tech I’d ever seen. Simon would love to have these gadgets in his Smith Agency toy chest.

“Good. We can set up a meeting for you with my lawyer, Preston Maschmeyer, in Miami when you return. He is my point person in town. He will get you started with something small. Maybe gun running?”

I nodded.

“Well then, I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Cuba.” He gestured toward the exit with his mostly empty glass of juice.

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