Page 7 of Kings Against the World

Agent Strauss is smiling at Boone and his men as they fire off their drinks. It’s a smile that transforms her whole face, rounding her cheeks and lighting up her hazel eyes. It damn sure suits her better than the stoic front she put on before.

Her lips move as she speaks, though I’m too far away to hear what she’s saying.

When she turns to walk away, heat rushes me. It floods me from the inside out as I’m granted an unobstructed view of her ass in that miniskirt.

Thesameminiskirt that hadn’t covered the other server’s ass either.

It’s no different for Strauss—as she struts off to the bar, her hips sway and the miniskirt flutters. The underside of her ass in full fucking view.

I swallow hard against the tidal wave of lust that rises up. Does she realize what she’s wearing? Does she know how it looks?

I’m not the only one who’s noticed. As she turns away and struts toward the bar, Boone and his men watch her go, gazes trained on her ass.

Another kind of heat rises up in me. Different from the lust that’s rolled through me.

This heat is tense and thick like a knot in my chest. It has my hand clenching shut into a fist I wouldn’t mind ramming into something.

Maybe somebody’s face.

Anger? Frustration? Jealousy?

I breathe through it ’til it fades and I’m returning to my original question. What thefuckis Agent Strauss doing here tonight?

An idea comes to me as I’m watching her move around behind the bar. She’s set a bottle of tequila on a tray and then begun pouring and shaking mixed drinks, finishing up their order.

“I’d expect to run into Santa Claus here before I ran into you.”

She glances up from the drink she’s making with startled eyes framed by long lashes. Her lips part as if already about to blurt out an excuse. Then she recognizes who it is standing on the other side of the counter and her soft, sweet expression vanishes.

It’s gone for the usual sharp, severe glare I’ve come to expect from her.

“Mr. Gallagher,” she says. “What are you doing in Houston?”

“Thought I just asked you the same thing.”

Her cheeks hollow out slightly as if she’s biting down hard, and she sets the last drink on the tray. “I’m working.”

“Since when do you work at a titty bar?”

She blinks so slowly it makes me laugh. I never knew somebody could communicate they’re pissed with the blink of an eye, but turns out, Special Agent Strauss is full of surprises.

My question goes unanswered as she picks up the tray of beverages and then walks out from behind the counter. I spinaround on the bar stool to watch her go—and enjoy the view a second time.

If I’m not careful, I’ll pitch a whole tent in my pants.

Strauss returns to Boone and his men to deliver their drinks. More conversation that I can’t hear plays out, with the smile returning to her face and their leering no less obvious.

The tense knot I’d felt earlier returns, thickening in my chest. I’m sitting alert, pulse racing, like I’m about to rush off and do something reckless.

I just might.

Déjà Vu has no shortage of scantily clad women prancing around. The ones on stage don’t even have a g-string on as they climb up poles and go spread eagle.

But there’s something about watching Strauss return to Boone and his minions that rubs me the wrong way. Something about seeing her act like any other chick in this place as she leans in close and carefully places down their drinks.

So close her tits are right in their faces. A fucking hair’s breadth away, nipples poked out and all.

I’m gritting my teeth to the point they ache without even realizing it.

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