King Me (Forever Wilde, #7)

by Lucy Lennox

He’d underestimated Kingston Wilde. He’d taken advantage of me, used me, and cast me aside. And he would pay.

It was like he put me into some kind of trance, one I couldn’t admit to my team may have come from how beautiful and vulnerable he looked whenever I was around him. It was humiliating as hell, and I hated him for it.

“Berlin just called. The coins were in a museum air vent with a note explaining how he bypassed their security.” After she ended the call, I stood there for a moment, my jaw clenched so tightly I could hear my teeth grinding. Fucking Kingston Wilde. What the hell was his game this time?

It was one thing to steal from a museum, and quite another to steal from an art thief. The former used predictable, reasonable methods of security. The latter was wily as fuck.

I had to be the world’s stupidest law enforcement officer. Something about King’s eyes seemed to put me into a trance. When I was around him, I wanted to protect him instead of arrest him,

Up next was a short guy who looked too young to be employed by any law enforcement agency. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and a button nose. The kid was kind of cute, if a bit nondescript. “This is—” Falcon was cut off by the smaller guy. “Doesn’t matter. They all call me Mouse.” His voice was so soft, I had to lean in to hear him. The skin of his hand was just as soft, and his smile was sweet. “Nice to meet you. I’m a fan of your work.”

When he spoke, his voice was still low, but it had taken on a rough quality that went straight to my balls. It was the sound he might make late at night after someone had fucked his throat. And the fact I was even thinking that meant it had been a hell of a long time since I’d fucked anyone’s throat or any other body part for that matter.

could stand to at least fuck the man. He was gorgeous and all grumbly sexy. I wanted to know what it would be like if he channeled all his frustration with me into a good session of hate sex. And after a mission? God, there was nothing better than the feeling of being shoved facedown in a mattress and fucked hard.

She hadn’t been yelling at me out of anger, she’d been yelling at me out of fear. Out of love. That experience had borne my brother West’s favorite line. “She’s not a bitch, she’s a mom.”

Ziv shook his head. “Are you ever not flirting? I swear you could seduce a gravy boat.” “Have you ever seen the curves on one of those things?” I asked seductively. “And they live to serve. They’ll give you what you want. All you have to do is bend them over.”

“Jesus,” Falcon muttered between breaths before moving his mouth over to take my earlobe between his teeth. “So fucking hot. So pissed off. Makes me want to make you even angrier.”

“Please,” I said again. Who the fuck was in charge of my mouth? That fucker needed a ball gag.

Great, so now I had a giant throbbing boner. And I was going to have to ignore it since I was sharing a room with the boner maker.

“Is liking someone a requirement for having sex with them? Asking for a friend.”

I knew once we were no longer in bed together, the magic would evaporate, leaving us back where we started and where we’d always be. FBI agent and art thief. Two people who could never have any kind of future together.

That’s all this was. Stress relief. Yeah, keep telling yourself that… And what the fuck are you going to do when King realizes you’ve been lying to him about the crown this entire time?

“He’s better-looking in person than I expected.” Talk about a boner killer. Hearing dream guy talking about nightmare man was disorienting.

I threw on some lounge pants and fell face-first into my comfortable pile of blankets, seeking oblivion. And that’s what I got, for at least a few hours. But then I was woken up by a decidedly nonpaternal hand stroking down my bare back to the top of my ass. I jumped up with a gasp, thinking one of my grandfathers had finally descended into dementia

How was it possible this special agent who’d been gunning for me almost five years had turned out to be my dream man?

“Yes,” King muttered. “But don’t call his wife Old Lady Fowler. Ask Otto how we know.” Another voice entered the conversation. “I was drunk. That’s not fair.” I recognized Otto standing behind West.

“Since when do you serve ice cream?” King asked his brother-in-law because, yes, they’d all come with us. Nico muttered something under his breath about Stevie wearing the pants in the family. I leaned over to whisper in King’s ear. “Isn’t Stevie with the fire chief?” King flapped his hand in the air. “Yes. He wears the pants with the chief too. Stevie has lots of pants.”