Read Part One? Want to know what happens next? Here’s the next scene from First You Run by Roxanne St. Claire. Good stuff. Good steamy stuff. Don’t forget to read more about the Bullet Catchers.

Hot, possessive lips that tasted like ginger covered Miranda’s mouth with a kiss that blended skill and impatience and power. Jagged bricks scraped her silk blouse as she lifted her arms to pull him closer and give it right back to him.

She felt his heat, muscles, his heartbeat…and, before that kiss had gone on thirty seconds, the outline of a stiff, sizeable erection. He probed her mouth, his tongue seeking every corner, stroking and penetrating. She heard her book thunk to the concrete as he freed his hands to capture her waist, her hips, her buttocks, rocking her slowly against him once, twice. The third time, she swore she’d have an orgasm right there against the wall.

Finally, he let her breathe. But only to nestle his lips against her throat, sucking gently and, just as she’d imagined, tickling her with that hint of beard that made every hair on the back of her neck dance with delight.

She nuzzled to get his mouth. “Kiss me again.” Was that her voice begging a stranger for another taste of tongue?

He slid his hand up past her waist, caressing the side of her breast, then thumbing the nipple into a hard peak as he fulfilled her request.

When he broke for breath, she eased far enough back to see the arousal that darkened his golden eyes. He played with her nipple, torturing her with two fingers, his erection pulsing against her stomach.

“How far do you live?” he asked.

A helpless breath escaped as her pelvis moved like it had a mind of its own. Could she take this big, sexy animal to her sanctuary of a converted garage apartment? No man had spent the night there yet.

But this man, this night…

Miranda wanted him. There was no mother to hiss about the dangers of the world. No authority to warn, coddle and caution her, no voice of reason to make her stay securely at home until she was damn near thirty. She was alive, young, single, free, and juiced up on sexual attraction from a man who made a living protecting people. A bodyguard. A former police officer. What could be safer? She ran her palms down the planes of his chest, over the dips and cuts of a man who took tremendous care of his body, down, down, down until her wrists grazed his belt.

She wanted him. “I’m about a mile from here. We can walk.”

He grinned and pressed one of her hands against the huge tent in his pants. “You can walk. I might limp.”

Blood drained from her head. She’d never felt anything like that. Closing her eyes, she stroked the outline that outsized her hand by and inch or two.

“We could wait…until you, um, cool off.”

“That won’t be anytime soon.” He took a step away, leaving her instantly chilled. “And you’re shivering.”

“Not from cold,” she admitted, turning so he could help her into the jacket. He used the opportunity to plant a few more kisses on her neck and she moaned softly, tilting her head in absolute delight.

“You like that?” he asked playfully, sliding hair pins from the knot she’d created.

“I love that.” So much for her ultraprofessional hairstyle.

“Ah, there you go.” He sighed at the freedom of loose hair, then the tickle of his fingers on her scalp, and more fiery kisses on her neck. “What do you call this color? Auburn? Russet? Umber?”

“Brown.”

“Not hardly. It’s gorgeous, like the rest of you. Just beautiful.”

A glow of sensuality warmed her, a hum of sexual anticipation vibrated every cell in her body. She nudged him impatiently. “Come on, Adrien. Let’s go home.”

He bent over to pick up the bag he’d dropped, then draped an arm around her to lead them out of the narrow street onto College Avenue.

“No one calls me Adrien,” he said after navigating some pedestrians. “unless they’re mad at me.”

“Like your mother?”

“No. Not like my mum.”

The dryness of his tone surprised her. “She doesn’t call you Adrien?”

“She doesn’t call me.” He sidestepped them around another group of college students.

“Ever?” Miranda asked as he tucked her firmly into his side again.

“If you really want me to cool off fast, just keep talking about my mum.”

She sensed he wasn’t kidding. She pointed toward the treelined road of Hillegrass, the dark shadows so inviting now that she had a strong, sexy man at her side. “There’s a shortcut to my house on Regent, up this street.”

“Good on that, luv.” He picked up their pace. “Now, why don’t you give me your travel itinerary, and please tell me you are not seriously leaving town for the next six weeks.”

Maybe this was a one night stand, but at least he was making her feel like it wasn’t, which touched her.

“Yep, six weeks. And I have to leave tomorrow because I’ve been invited to an event in Santa Barbara, which I’m slipping in before a TV interview and signing in L.A.”

“Cancel it,” he said, the suggestion so quick and heartfelt she wasn’t sure she understood. “I’m serious,” he added at her look. “Stay an extra day.”

“Sorry, nothing could make me miss this seeing this place.” Not even the hottest guy she’d ever met.

“Nothing?” He squeezed her flirtatiously. “You might change your mind by tomorrow.”

She might. “I doubt it. I’ve been wanting to go to Canopy for a long time.”

“What is it?”

“An amazing real-life model of Maya ruins, on acres of private land near Santa Barbara. They have replicas of several famous temples completely re-created right down to the last detail.”

“What is it, Mayan Disney?”

“It’s Maya; Mayan is the language. But this place isn’t open to the public and that’s why I can’t miss the event. Canopy is one man’s home. Well, one woman’s, really. Doña Talíña Vasquez-Marcesa Blake, a Mexican shaman married to a very rich American who, she told me when we talked on the phone, was so worried she’d get homesick and leave that he built her a rainforest and ruins. That is Canopy.”

“Like the tops of the trees in the rainforest.”

“Precisely. And she’s evidently a fan of my book, and she’s arranged a book party with all sorts of important people. So, as flattering as your suggestion is, I’m going to Canopy.”

“Then we’ll have to make the most of this one night together.”

They held tight to each other, like lovers on a mission to get horizontal, pausing periodically to kiss and whisper. As they walked past parked cars and overgrown shrubbery, they fell into a sweet silence, with just a cool spring breeze and a steady current of sexual electricity in the air.

“Here,” Miranda said, pointing to the brown shingle Craftsman that abutted the property she rented.

“You live there?” He sounded surprised.

“I live in a converted garage on the property behind it, but it’s easier to get there this way. There are lots of convoluted, reconverted houses in Berkeley. At the end of the row, there’s a break in the hedge. This is much faster than going all the way around the front.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he said.

“Next time?” She raised her eyebrows. “You said you’d be gone before I get back.”

“You never know what life’s going to throw at you, Miranda.” His voice hinted at something ominous.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he assured her. “Just that life surprises you sometimes. I certainly didn’t expect to end my evening…” He watched her step into the narrow opening between the shrubs and an overgrown wisteria. “Climbing through bushes with a beautiful woman.” He followed her into the space, stopping to lock his arms around her and steady her feet on the twisted roots under them. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Well, I sure didn’t expect to get booed off stage and end up making out with an Australian bodyguard.” The branches forced them into a tight squeeze, and she could feel he was still hard, and his heart was beating almost as fast as hers. “But I’m not complaining, either.”

He lowered his head and kissed her gently, as though the desperation was gone now that the bedroom was no more than fifty steps away.

“As far as next time,” she whispered in between kisses, “I guess we’ll just have to see how it goes tonight.”

He groaned and reluctantly released her tongue. “You want to know how it’s going to go tonight?” He kissed her forehead, chastely. “First we’re going to have a wee spot of wine and conversation.” He eased his hand inside her jacket, gliding over her breast in a slow circle. “Then we’re going to help each other undress.” He lowered his head and licked her bottom lip. “Then we’re going to taste every single inch of each other’s bodies.” He nibbled. “With the light on so I don’t miss a thing.”

Her legs were so weak she could have fallen backwards into the trees and not cared. There was just moonlight and wisteria and the sexiest, most seductive man she’d ever met. She closed her eyes, let him touch her and kiss her and sweet talk her with his pretty, pretty accent.

“Then…” His hand tightened on her breast, his mighty erection against her. “We’ll do this.” He slipped his tongue between her lips, withdrew it, and slid in again. “That’s how it’s going to go tonight, luv.”

Dizzy, breathless, and aching with arousal, she nudged him out of the trees. “My front door is around that corner.”

As they stepped forward, suddenly he froze, going taut, sharp, and alert. He pulled away, and put one hand up to stop her from taking another step.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Do you smell that?”

She shook her head and sniffed. “Smell what? Fire? Smoke?”

“Blood.”

“Blood?” She jerked away and blinked into the darkness. “You smell blood?”

“Right around there.”

“That’s my front door.”

He went first, then stared and muttered something under his breath.

She closed the space between them and gasped, clutching her throat to keep from screaming.

It looked like black oil, slick and wet and everywhere. On her front door, over the steps and drenching the stones surrounding her entrance. Blood smeared the garage door and stained the concrete driveway. A sickening odor wafted toward them.

At the doorstep lay the bright green feathers and long stylized tail of a quetzal, its beak twisted at a freakish angle.

“Is that a bird?” he said, incredulous.

She stared, the message clear and horrifying. “It’s a sacrifice to the Maya gods.” And it warned of death.

<strong>FIRST YOU RUN</strong>

<strong>Copyright Roxanne St. Claire</strong>