Running With the Devil Read Online Free

have satisfied her curiosity whether his “Johnson” had a chance at the finals.
    A fistfight broke out between two big-assed tattooed women while the sleazy object of their affections drunkenly cheered them on. The momentary distraction didn’t alleviate the feeling she shouldn’t be here for any reason. Especially not for money.
    Marissa wandered by with a Hispanic guy, blindingly white teeth set against his pockmarked skin. In his mid-thirties, the man proudly wore the colors of a motorcycle gang—and about a million tattoos. Spooky, the way his flat brown eyes raked up and down Kenna’s body like she was a particularly tasty burrito. She shook her head at Marissa, who detoured him toward the tequila bar.
    Skynyrd blared. Pool balls clicked. Video lottery machines beeped. Conversations rose and fell. The masses of people were on vacation in world-famous Sturgis during Rally Week and were in the party mood.
    Not her. She’d rather be flopped on her king-sized bed engrossed in the latest J.D. Robb novel.
    Kenna propped her elbows on the sticky table behind her while she surveyed the room.
    A gray-bearded ZZ Top look-alike swaggered by with a skinny dude sporting an orange bandana. She squinted at the table in the back where Marissa had returned and was holding court.
    Whoo-yeah. Check out the guy with the killer ass.
    A mountainous woman vigorously chalked her pool cue and blocked her view.
    Come on baby , Kenna silently chanted to the man, let me see if the front matches the back.
    As if feeling her intense gaze, the man turned.
    Kenna nearly toppled off the barstool. Mr. Killer Ass was none other than Agent Drake March.
    Shit.
    His midnight hair fell in a sexy tangle around his angular face. He’d streaked the hair by his temples gray, making him appear older and sexier, if possible. A too-small black T-shirt clung to his defined chest and abs. Tight, tight jeans hugged his muscular thighs and yep…if the bulge beneath his button fly was real, then he definitely was a candidate for the “Big Johnson” award.
    Grand prize division.
    Irritating that he’d pulled off the biker garb. But he’d never be able to hide the cop attitude. Could he? When his gaze swept the crowded room she resisted the urge to duck.
    Chances were slim he’d recognize her in a short black wig and brown contacts. She’d better not risk it.
    She twisted her creaky stool around, feigning interest in the maraschino cherry sinking to the bottom of her ginger ale.
    Less than thirty seconds later, hot breath seared the back of her neck. A sexual shudder ran the length of her body.
    “I liked you better as a redhead, Kenna,” he drawled.
    Damn if her nipples didn’t tighten. She pasted on a smile and faced him. “Well, if it isn’t A—”
    He covered her mouth with his. His big palm cupped her jaw, his thumb pulled her chin down, forcing her mouth open wider to meet his delicious onslaught. Sucking, stroking, licking, the kiss grew wetter, hotter and deeper with every arc of his talented tongue. Insistent kisses continually brushed seductively over her tingling lips and she couldn’t break free.
    After several dizzying seconds of destroying her composure, he drew back a little and murmured, “I’m not ‘Agent’ anything right now, so watch your smart mouth or you’ll blow my cover. Call me Drake.”
    “Mmm,” she purred, darting the tip of her tongue out for a quick taste of his full bottom lip. “How did you know I wasn’t gonna say asshole ?”
    “Damn, you are a pain.” He dropped his lips over hers hard, and the punishing follow-up kiss damn near scorched her tongue.
    With her body a quivering mass, nothing mattered but the way this man made her feel: like an obsession.
    Minutes, hours, days later, out of breath and out of her mind from such unrestrained passion, Kenna retreated. She pressed her forehead to his. “Stop kissing me.”
    “Stop letting me.”
    Drake’s hands slid up the sides of her head, tipping her face