Badass: Deadly Target (Complete): Military Romantic Suspense by Leslie Johnson, Elle Dawson Page B

spot, then I need to make a call.”
    I nod and step back, missing his warmth immediately. My teeth begin to chatter, and he moves around me, picking his jacket up from the floor. “Here, wear this,” he says as he holds it for me to slip into, his scent wrapping around me like a blanket. “Wait a second.” Facing me again, he rolls up the sleeves until my hands are showing.
    “Thank you.”
    He pushes my hair behind my ear. “You’re welcome. It’s chilly in here, but I also think you’re in shock. It’ll take a little time to wear off, but you’ll be okay.”
    He peers closely at my face, in the dim light filtering through the dirty windows. “Your lip is bleeding again.” He reaches up to my mouth, his thumb wiping the blood away, his fingers a soft caress on my cheek.
    I lick my lip and feel the cut I’d gotten when the huge man slammed me against the wall. Jax stiffens, and I look up at him. His eyes are locked on my mouth. Slowly, I withdraw my tongue and look away before I hurl myself at him.
    He turns and picks the bank box and my bag up off the floor. I want to protest, insist that I’ll carry them. But he reaches out his hand, wanting to gather me to him too. Very slowly I take it, my fingers linking in his. Seconds later, he’s pulling me behind him up a set of clanking metal steps.
    On the upper floor, Jax leads me into a small room, looks out the window and shakes his head. He leads me to another one and does the same thing.
    “What are you doing?” I ask.
    “I noticed a fire escape outside.” He leads me to a third room and looks out. “Yes, here it is. We’ll hunker down here. At least it gives us a couple of escape options if needed.”
    I look up at him. “Do you think we’ll need them?”
    He studies my face. “We’ll think of the best and plan for the worst. I’m a ‘safer than sorry’ kind of guy.” He then gives me an apologetic look. “I need to frisk you,” he tells me and lifts up a hand when I begin to protest. “If I’m going to protect you, it means turning my back on you at times. I won’t do that unless I’m sure you aren’t carrying.”
    I stare at him, knowing what he’s saying makes sense. “Well, do I get to frisk you right back?”
    He smirks, that damn dimple popping with the lift of that side of his mouth. “Sweetheart, I’ll straight out tell you I’m carrying. I’m in possession of two guns at the moment and there’s a knife in my sock.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a gun from his waist, then bends and pulls another one from an ankle holster, then a knife from a sheath. Holding the weapons out to his sides, he lifts his arms. “But if it makes you feel better, have at it.”
    Oh, that twisty thing twists lower in my stomach now, spiraling between my legs. I’m not entirely sure, but I think my clitoris spasms and I have to force myself not to squirm. I lift my chin and step forward, patting him down his sides like I’ve seen done on my favorite crime shows.
    Holy muscle. I can feel the ripple of it under my fingers as I touch his front and his back. When I bend to pat down the sides of his legs, I’m face to face with his zipper. I groan and focus my attention back on his legs, patting up his left one until I’m at the crotch. Damn. He’s carrying alright. The outline of his weapon visible now, snaking down his leg. And it’s growing.
    Jumping back to my feet, I practically shout, “You’re clean.”
    The smirk is back, but he doesn’t even try to hide his obvious erection. Instead, he tucks the other weapons back into place. “Face the wall, legs spread,” he says.
    I swallow and do as I’m told. My eyes roll back in my head as his large hands begin the pat down just below my arm pits, his fingertips barely brushing my breasts. Down they go, past my waist, down my hips, down the outsides of both legs. There, they encircle my left ankle and move up that leg. Up past my calf, my knee, moving up my thigh. I fight not to groan