Home > Mexican Heat (Crimes & Cocktails #1)(3)

Mexican Heat (Crimes & Cocktails #1)(3)
Author: Laura Baumbach

Belatedly, he remembered the semiautomatic pistol in the glove compartment of his SUV. He’d deliberately left his piece behind, expecting to be frisked entering the club; he hadn’t really anticipated trouble that night. But that was no excuse.

He’d been foolhardy. He deserved to get popped just for being stupid.

And the odds of that fate were good because he could feel the outline of the other man’s shoulder holster and gun pressing into his back. The good news was he hadn’t already pulled his weapon and blown Gabriel’s head off.

In fact, now that Gabriel considered it, although the other man’s hold was effective, it wasn’t particularly…professional. It wasn’t even genuinely threatening though the full weight of his assailant had landed across his back, forcing the air from his lungs in an oof. The most immediate danger seemed to be to Gabriel’s dick, which was trapped between his hips and the rounded edge of the hard surface.

Warm, tequila-laced breath danced across the cheek not rammed into the desktop. The scent of sandalwood soap and clean sweat teased his nose. Gabriel squirmed until the feel of a thick cock pressed against the back seam of his jeans froze him.

This was…different.

“Listen,” he got out. “The door was open, and I saw the paintings. I’m not trying to steal anything.”

No response.

Torn between the fear that he was really in trouble and the illicit thrill of being trapped and helpless in such a compromising position, Gabriel forced himself to remain still. When nothing further developed, he tried to turn his head to see his attacker, but a rough-velvet cheek landed on his own cleanly shaved one, immobilizing him.

“Hey, asshole,” Gabriel managed. “You hear me?” He gave one angry heave, which the other suppressed without much effort.

“Uh…something you want to say to me, asshole?” he inquired with an effort.

A genuinely amused chuckle rumbled out of the chest pressed into Gabriel’s back and a low, honey-coated voice interrupted him just as he was getting started. There was a shift of hips and the thick rod riding the crease of Gabriel’s jeans slid over him in short, slow strokes. Rubbing his bristled jaw over Gabriel’s cheek, the man teased in a seductive growl, “Speaking of asses, pequeño asno elegante, I must say, yours is very fine.”

That lean jaw moving against his own, those deep, smooth tones—that sexy trace of Spanish accent—vibrated through Gabriel’s whole body, tingling all the way down his spine to his tailbone.

A tongue traced the edge of Gabriel’s ear. His cock jerked at the touch, desire rippling from his groin directly to his brain, flooding out common sense, reason—self-preservation—and Gabriel found himself pushing back, craving that increased contact. He closed his eyes, biting his lip, feeling the answering hard heat through their clothing—too much clothing.

The man chuckled, a deep, slightly breathless laugh. “So you want to tell me what you’re doing in this private office, gringo?

Besides offering up this pretty ass of yours?”

The laugh, even more than the words, recalled Gabriel to himself and his situation. His eyes snapped open. What the hell was he doing?

“I told you what I was doing. I was admiring the art collection.

If you don’t want people in here, then don’t leave the fucking door open. It’s a public place. An open door is an invitation to enter.”

Unimpressed by this speech, his captor said softly, breath warm against his ear, “Possibly. Or did you think I was in here? Were you following me? I think maybe you were, gringo.”

Say what? Gabriel made another attempt to free himself, but he could buck and pitch all he liked; he was just wearing himself out. Expelling a frustrated breath, he made himself relax once more on the hard surface. His breath fogged the glossy wood beneath his cheek.

“You’re out of your fucking head…”

But of course he knew now. Only one man in Club Madrone that night had reason to think Gabriel might be looking for him.

Well, two men counting Benny, but this powerful build and confident voice in no way belonged to that skinny, whiny weasel.

Gabriel renewed his struggles, nearly levering himself up from the desk, before giving in to the greater weight and strength forcing him back down.

Body tense, Gabriel waited, ready for whatever the next move was.


And there it was: that honeybaked chuckle again. It drove Gabriel frantic.

“Whatever you’re thinking, dick head, forget it because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I don’t know who you are, and I wasn’t fucking following anyone.”

The hard shaft against his ass pressed closer, and Gabriel involuntarily flexed his hips, rubbing himself over the desk edge and then back against the bulge snuggled into his crack .

God. Please, please. Yes. Jesus, please some kind of release…

Hot breath scalded his neck and cheek. The man said silkily in his accented English, “Madre mios. You, my ferocious little one, have a gutter mouth a demon would be proud of.”

Little? Little?

“Fuck. You.” Incensed, Gabriel tried to headbutt his captor, only to have a forearm bear threateningly down on the back of his neck. Face smooshed against the slick wood again, he found breathing increasingly difficult.

He jerked as teeth nipped at his nape, the sharp sting startling a shudder out of him. The man gave a satisfied grunt.

“I think”—there was a deliberate pause—“I’d prefer it the other way around.”

Gabriel tried to remember exactly what he’d said, and hissed as he was unexpectedly hauled off the desk. Hands momentarily free, he lashed out, managing to land a couple of hard but largely ineffectual blows at the other’s head. A second later his arms were yanked behind his back, wrists pinioned by one large, capable hand.

Christ, this guy’s strong. Gabriel felt a flicker of genuine alarm.

Even if he really wanted free, he wasn’t sure he’d manage it.

Once again he was manhandled over the desk.


Fingers threaded his hair, caressing, curling through the long strands. “So soft,” the big man murmured. “Like a kitten.”

“K-kitten? I remind you of a goddamned kitten?” Gabriel stuttered his indignation. He didn’t want tenderness, didn’t want caresses. He tossed his head, but the questing fingers merely clamped in his hair, demanding stillness.

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