Full Throttle Read online

  There hadn’t been. And the woman had nearly regained enough of her functions to cause Umar real trouble when Abdullah finally appeared.

  Now, Umar could have forgiven Abdullah one mistake, but two?

  It’d been easy enough to order his second-in-command to put a bullet in Abdullah’s brainpan. It would be just as easy to do the same now to those of his men who were threatening to ruin all his careful planning…

  Such mind-bendingly careful planning. There had been finding the desperate hotel maid, paying off the hotel security officer and the men at the window-washing company, bribing the scarf seller at the night market, and the precise timing of the executions and explosions. Not to mention the weeks of misinformation he’d leaked across the Internet to throw the Americans off his trail and point the spotlight on the older sister. All this he had managed to do, to coordinate with the utmost precision because the stars had aligned. Because the American president was due to leave office in a few months and his daughter had dared to allow the horticultural convention to post her scheduled appearance on their website. And all this was about to be ruined by his stupid, overzealous soldiers.

  So, yes. He was going to kill someone.

  As if Allah was listening to his thoughts and granting his wish, Azahari, his second-in-command—his right-hand man as the Americans would say—appeared on the edge of the jungle. When he saw Umar aiming his AK-47 directly at his heart, Azahari cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he lifted his hands.

  “What is it, abang?” Azahari asked, calling him brother. “Why do you point your weapon at me?”

  “You are not my brother,” Umar growled, his finger tightening on the trigger. “My brother is rotting away in an American prison cell. And if you have killed that woman, if you have thrown away the only leverage I have—”

  “We were not the ones shooting,” Azahari interrupted, then lessened the blow of the insult of speaking over Umar by bowing his head in submission. He lifted a hand to include the two men now lined up behind him.

  “Then where are the ones who were shooting?” Umar demanded, refusing to lower his weapon even though the strain on his drugged muscles was immense. He hoped the young soldiers could not see him shaking. He had learned long ago never to show weakness of any kind. In his world, the weak were used most ruthlessly or killed simply for the pleasure of seeing the satisfying spurt of blood.

  “They have been carried downstream,” Azahari told him. “They were trying to follow the Americans across the Sedikit bridge when the man cut the supports and sent them falling into the river. Those that survive the current will likely be dragged back to Ipoh.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Umar growled in English, spitting on the ground to convey his disgust.

  Azahari tilted his head, not understanding.

  “There is no equivalent translation,” he explained.

  Azahari nodded, then motioned to one of the fighters. “If I may,” he said, asking Umar’s permission.

  “Indeed.” Umar dipped his chin, finally lowering his weapon.

  Noordin, another of his more reliable men, pushed an Italian-made motorcycle out of the undergrowth. Hanging over the handlebars was a black backpack.

  “It appears in his haste to escape,” Azahari said, “the American left his equipment behind.”

  A smile tugged at Umar’s lips. “So they are alone in the jungle without provisions?”

  “It would seem so.”

  Good. Very good. “Get on the satellite phone. Call the others,” he commanded. He had sent half his soldiers eastward, toward the highway, in search of the Americans while he headed west to the logging roads. “Tell them we have located the man and woman. Give them our coordinates and tell them they are to follow us into the jungle. We are going on a hunt.”

  “But the bridge,” Azahari said, “it is useless. We’ll have to go back to—”

  “Where were you born?” Umar interrupted, anticipation burning through his veins, charring away the last remnants of the drug, allowing him to stand taller, straighter.

  “I was…I…” Azahari shook his head, confused by the sudden change in subject.

  “Where were you born?” Umar repeated. “Where were you raised? What environment did you grow up in?”

  “I…” Azahari glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him, then turned back and shrugged. “Penang,” he finally said.

  “Ah.” Umar nodded. “A city boy, yes?”

  Azahari swallowed, nodding hesitantly.

  “Well, city boy”—Umar was now smiling in earnest—“lucky for you I was raised in this very jungle. Which means, as the Americans would say, I have more than one or two tricks up my sleeve. All I need is rope and a lot of fishing line. We have both in the truck, do we not?”

  Chapter Nine

  Steady was going to blame his erection on the adrenaline and not the fact that Abby felt phenomenal in his arms. She was so soft. So delicate and feminine and—

  Sí, so the adrenaline obviously wasn’t the culprit here. The culprit was lithe arms, round breasts, sweet breath, and an adorable young girl who, in the last eight years, had turned into a sinfully sexy woman.

  He had to adjust his stance. It was either that or she’d feel the hardened length of him pulsing insistently against her hip. Hello? he imagined his dick saying. Even though we barely escaped a group of crazed terrorists, and even though you’ve never expressed the tiniest bit of interest in me, I’d still like the opportunity to come out and play! So, how ’bout it, eh?

  The male sex organ was an amazing thing in that it actually lived every day in a perpetual state of hope. Which reminded him of the comment she made back in the hut concerning the extra magazine in his pocket or him being happy to see her. Then that brought to mind her statement about him never seeing her as anything other than a kid sister.

  What was she? Crazy? Or maybe she’d been too naive all those years ago to recognize the signs of ball-busting lust he’d been unable to hide. You know…the cartoonish bulging eyes and the lolling tongue. It’d been inappropriate as hell then, given her age. And it was inappropriate as hell now, given their precarious situation. But regardless of time or place, whenever he was near her, ball-busting lust was exactly what he felt. When he looked at her, when he really allowed himself to take in the wonder that was Abigail Thompson, he couldn’t help but imagine hot, hungry mouths opening over sweaty, quivering flesh. He couldn’t help but fantasize about what it would feel like to—

  “Carlos.” She pulled back to look at him. Her eyes were bright. Their color two shades lighter than the vibrant jungle around them.

  Nobody used his given name anymore. Hell, even he now thought of himself as Steady. And it was the sheer novelty of it, of hearing Carlos on someone’s tongue—on her sweet tongue in particular—that accounted for the fact that his body reacted the same way it would had she pressed her lips to his belly. At least that’s what he told himself when his scrotum tightened until it was almost painful.

  “What, cariño?” His heart beat wildly with the thrill of her nearness. Up close like this, he could appreciate how her skin shone with health under a thin dew of sweat. He could count each of the faint freckles smattered across her button nose. He could easily see how her little chin trembled ever so slightly when her eyes darted down to his lips…and held there.

  He stilled, every cell in his body coming to a screeching halt. If he were a bird dog, he’d be on point. Woof! Was it possible that she—

  “If…if I…told you something…” She licked her lips, her tongue flashing pink. Puta madre! He may have been on point before, but now his whole body was as tight as a piano wire.

  She must have noticed the sudden change in him, because her breath hitched and she quickly glanced into his eyes.

  What he saw in her expression struck him dumb. He would have expected chagrin or despair or, hell, even pity. Those were the looks she’d given him when he’d decided to press his luck and seek her out after Ro
sa’s funeral. So the hot, unbridled, unmistakable flames of lust glowing in her eyes caught him completely off guard.

  Okay, was it possible that here, in the jungle, she didn’t care about his pedigree…or lack thereof? Or was it possible the years of separation, or years of maturity, had made her realize that, when it came to the kind of chemistry they had, there was no such thing as being born on the wrong side of the tracks? Did he dare hope? Unlike eight years ago, there was nothing holding him back from giving her the full court press if he thought she might welcome it. She was no longer that naive young girl who needed to be approached gently, carefully. She was a full-grown woman, and if—

  She licked her lips again. For one wild and crazy moment, he wondered if it was an invitation. And even if it was, should he risk acting on it?

  Okay, that’s a question? Of course you should act on it! Because maybe, just maybe, it was possible to win the fair lady.

  Hardly breathing, he lifted his hands to her face, spearing his fingers into her hair at the same time he cupped her sweet jaw between his palms. Lowering his chin, his heart thundering so quickly it would’ve busted an EKG machine had he been hooked up to one, he watched her swallow jerkily. Then her mouth fell open, and her breaths came more quickly.

  Now there was no mistaking that for the invitation it was. Especially when she again murmured, “Carlos.” His body flashed hot as the sun, his dick doing jumping jacks inside his cargo pants.

  “Abby,” he whispered against her lips, not kissing her, simply allowing their breaths to mingle, to merge. In and out. In and out. Give and take. Wondering if she’d have second thoughts and stop him. Praying she wouldn’t…

  And damned if the simplicity of the moment, of sharing the air between them as they stood close, so close, wasn’t one of the most erotic things he had ever done. It was so simple, so sweet, and so fucking hot. Passion fizzed through his veins, tightening the skin over his scalp, making him tremble.

  Did she feel it? Did she have a clue what she was doing to him?

  She must have, because the next instant she moaned. It was a sound of longing…of yearning. The age-old cry of woman to man.

  He answered it.

  Closing his eyes, he did what he’d been dreaming of doing for nearly a decade. And the instant his mouth touched hers, he knew he was a goner. Not just because somehow every single one of his nerve endings had moved to his lips, but also because Abby was everything he’d dreamed she’d be. More. Her mouth was soft. So invariably soft and plump and delicious. So delicately feminine. Did he mention soft?

  He angled his head to more fully align their lips, and that’s when Abby went and shocked the ever-loving shit out of him. Because he’d always assumed, should she allow him this pleasure, she’d be hesitant, sweet but passive.

  Holy hell! She wasn’t passive. She was passionate. She wasn’t hesitant. She was hungry! Stabbing her fingers into his hair, she opened her mouth, plunged her tongue between his teeth, and proceeded to try to eat him alive.

  If she succeeds, I’ll die a happy man…

  * * *

  I shouldn’t be doing this!

  It was the second time the thought screamed through Abby’s brain. But once again, she chose to ignore it.

  Yes, she shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be kissing Carlos like her life depended on it. She shouldn’t be sucking his tongue into her mouth as if the world would end if she didn’t. But she’d wanted this for so long. Wanted him for so long. And she’d never dreamed he might want her, too. Not in her wildest fantasies could she have imagined smart, sexy Carlos Soto would be interested in her.

  Yet here he was…his thick fingers speared into her hair, his hard palms framing her face and showing her just what to do, how to kiss him. And every dart of his tongue, each hot glide between her lips might as well have been a wicked lick to the center of her sex. She burned and would have sworn on a stack of bibles she was seconds away from going up in flames. Just poof! A human torch…

  “Abby,” he whispered again before leaving a trail of hungry, hasty kisses across her cheek and back to her ear. “Dios, Abby, you taste so good.” He sucked her sensitive lobe into his sinfully knowledgeable mouth.

  She tasted good? She did? No, no. He was the one who should be on the menu of the finest restaurant. Because his breath was fresh and warm, and the sweat on his skin when she turned her head to gently sink her teeth into his wrist was sweet and delightful. He was the appetizer, entrée, and dessert all rolled into one wonderfully decadent male feast.

  He moaned against her neck when she darted out her tongue, flicking at the pulse beating heavily in his wrist. The sound went all through her, making her nipples tighten, her toes curl, and her womb contract and ache anew. It was a wanton sound. A shameless sound. The sound a man makes when he’s mindless and in need of a woman.

  She couldn’t believe it. Carlos…in need of her. Carlos…wanting her. She was surrounded by him, overpowered by him. His height. His breadth. His sheer masculinity. She reveled in the feel of the muscles in his shoulders, so large her hands couldn’t grip the entirety of them when she dug in her fingers to pull him closer, closer… He could never be too close.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed—breathed?—no more like panted when he opened his mouth over the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. Then he sucked. Hard. And each pull of his lips had her stomach dipping and whirling and tingling as if she was on a roller coaster ride. Her center was an aching void that longed to be filled. Her entire body straining and struggling for release.

  How had it all gotten out of hand so quickly? One minute she was poised to spill her guts despite the vow she’d made to her father to keep their terrible secret. One minute she was on the verge of telling Carlos everything, so he’d know exactly whom it was he was risking his life to save. But then the next minute? Wham! It was full-on, heart-melting, womb-thrumming foreplay. The kind of foreplay that led to wild, unbridled sex. Sex with a capital S and a triple X. The nasty kind. The naughty kind. The delicious kind.

  With an animalistic growl, he deepened their kiss, pushed her hard against the trunk of the tree. Then he took everything up a notch by shoving his thigh between her legs. He moved his hands from her face to her hips, grinding her sex and throbbing clit against the rough fabric of her skirt-turned-shorts.

  Her head caught on fire, or at least it felt like it did. And heat exploded through her entire body like the whoosh of flames suddenly fueled by kerosene. For a second, she thought she came. She’d never experienced pleasure this painfully intense before. It was strangely orgasmic. Yet…it wasn’t.

  No. She hadn’t come. If she had, her body wouldn’t still be thrumming, aching, pulsing.

  “Kiss me, Carlos.” She needed to feel his mouth on hers again. Needed to feed off his desire as she grew hotter, hungrier with every ticking second.

  “Show me your tongue,” he demanded, and she obliged by opening her mouth. Just a little bit. Just enough for him to see her tongue peeking from between her lips.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw, his eyes dark and hot as the jungle at midnight when he focused on her offering. “Now lick your lips,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating all around her.

  She never knew it about herself, but she liked it when he went all bossy and demanding. She imagined him forcing her to her knees and telling her to suck and stroke him and—

  Holy Moses!

  Where had that thought come from? She wasn’t the submissive sort, was she? At least, she’d never been before. But then neither had she been with Carlos before. To be that open, that trusting, she had to have the ultimate faith in her partner.

  She’d never had faith in anyone like the faith she had in Carlos…

  Doing as he instructed, she slowly ran her tongue over her bottom lip. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat before ducking his head and claiming her mouth. He sucked on her tongue, doing things with his teeth that made the fire in her blood roar anew. And he continu
ed to grind her sex against his thigh, forcefully but not ungently.

  She wanted more. Just a little more…

  Bending her knees, she rubbed herself against him. She was getting the fabric on her skirt-turned-shorts wet, and maybe his cargo pants, too. She didn’t care.

  She needed release. She needed it so badly.

  “Sí, mi vida,” he growled against her lips. “Ride me.”

  Dear. God! She’d never heard anything so sexy. It was almost enough. Almost enough…

  * * *

  Steady was ready to howl for mercy. He was totally dunzo, sunk, lost.

  Obliterated by the hungry dart of her tongue into his mouth. Annihilated by the feel of her soft, hot sex grinding against his thigh. Completely consumed by Abby, by all of her wonderfully surprising, wonderfully wanton passion. And when her little fingers crept under his tank top, grazing his quivering stomach, searching higher and higher until she skimmed over his twitching pectoral muscles, he figured she’d gone and wrecked his ever-loving mind, too.

  His nipples tightened beneath her questing fingers, and he felt her hesitate at the change, her breath sawing from her mouth into his. Then she pinched the buds and he thought his balls would explode. They ached so badly it was a wonder he didn’t sink to his knees on the ground, cupping himself.

  Somehow, someway this had gotten completely out of hand.

  It was supposed to be a kiss. One little kiss. After all, they were in the middle of a jungle filled with wild animals, being sought by a group of armed thugs, and a good number of miles away from the safety of the Thai border. Yet, instead of doing the smart thing and covering those miles as quickly as they could, they were ten seconds away from getting busy against the trunk of a tree.

  It was ridiculous. Ludicrous.

  He couldn’t stop…

  Especially when Abby reached down to grab his dick, rubbing up and down the throbbing length of him in the same rhythm she undulated her sweet hips against his thigh. Sweet Jesús Cristo, this may be the wrong time, but she was certainly the right woman and—