Page 6 of He Is Jensen: Part Two

The DVD footage starts to roll, illuminating images of Club Zeus that flicker to a woman I recognize from photos as Layla Walters. At the obvious urging of the Clanners, she heads to the back of the club. A second later, a man flashes across the screen in pursuit.

“Jensen,” I mumble, my lips thinning in a mixture of irritation and admiration for the bounty hunter who walks both sides of the law, a man I know well and keep at a measurable distance. Of course, Jensen does not know I’m Iceman.

“He shows up where there’s trouble far too often,” JC comments dryly, having long tried to convince me to force an ICE addiction on Jensen. “We need to control him.”

“His free agent status serves us well,” I state flatly and pointedly add, “We have his resources at our disposal, and he’s not a risk as long as he’s properly monitored.”

JC’s jaw noticeably flexes, his gaze shifting to the monitors, and I have a distinct impression I’m soon to discover JC does not have Jensen as well-monitored as he should.

JC hits the remote, and another monitor flickers to life with new feed. “Tad didn’t see this footage. The manager of Zeus managed to keep the cameras inside the warehouse a secret, despite being beaten to a pulp by Tad and his goons. He’s been rewarded as you would expect.”

That means paid and paid well. I believe in extremes—learned that one from Pops. Beat ‘em until they can’t see straight when they fuck up; lots of ice cream—translation, cold hard cash—when they do well.

The warehouse feed begins to play—the two Clanners from the bar cornering Layla, teasing her with the prospect of ICE. It’s clear they plan to rape the woman, not give up their ICE. A code of conduct exists for Clanners, devised to stay off police radar, and this is not it. Our Clanner movement has been one of silence—a slow, sinuous takeover of the city.

As if reading my mind, JC says, “They will be dealt with.”

I don’t respond. JC doing his job is expected—the man doesn’t need to be patted on the head like a dog.

With interest, I watch as Jensen pockets the IDs of the Clanners, even greater interest when Tad’s men appear in the warehouse and then drop to the floor, lights out in a flash. No indication as to why. Immediately afterward, Jensen carries the woman away.

JC kills the visual and my attention turns to him. “Are they dead?”

“They were knocked out for about half an hour.”

“What weapon did this, and why don’t I have it?”

“That’s just it,” JC replies, “I’ve enhanced the footage every way possible, and there’s no weapon, at least nothing visible to the eye. Nothing about this makes sense.”

“Judging from Tad’s urgency to get the woman, I’d say she holds the trigger to whatever this is. Find her and bring her to me by whatever means you find necessary.”

Chapter five

Layla

Iwake inside a dream, trying to blink the darkness into light, but there is no light, only damnable, inescapable darkness. I inhale a surprisingly easy breath, a masculine scent teasing my senses, familiar to my dreams—the one I know instantly to mean Jensen is near. I relax into the moment, no longer fighting the darkness. I need this familiar place, this dream that has led me through darkness far worse than that of my slumber. I search for his image in my mind, seek out those teal green eyes, frustrated when it won’t come to me. Greedily, I inhale his smell again. God, I love that masculine spicy scent.

Strong arms wrap around me, and I smile at the touch, the dream taking shape in a way it never has before, solidifying. It’s as if Jensen is there, touching me, holding me. I moan at the feel of him next to me, long legs entwined with mine. His breath trickles along my lips, promising me seductive, hot kisses.

I ache for more, need more. My arms wrap around his back, my hips curling against his, the thick bulge of his erection tucked against my stomach. Never before have my dreams felt this real…this erotic. I can feel him everywhere, feel the ripple of muscle beneath his cotton T-shirt. My hands skim his back, his chest, the warmth of taut skin as I caress hard muscle. His moan near my ear drives me wild. It’s a low, masculine sound that sends a delicious shiver down my spine and tightens my nipples a moment before his fingers lace through my hair. He kisses me then, a deep hungry kiss that sweeps through me like a rain shower that turns into a raging downpour. It’s wild, unleashed. It’s my dream, and it’s going exactly how I want it to. I can’t get enough of him. He can’t get enough of me.

Somewhere in the midst of the sensual slide of his tongue, a glimmer of awareness forms outside the shadows of my dreams. I shove it aside, not ready to wake up, allowing Jensen’s tongue to draw me back into delicious escape. It’s a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, a kiss that makes love to me the way I want to make love to him.

I arch into his hips, my fingers curling on a strong jaw, rough stubble pressing erotically against my delicate skin. My other hand rests on a bare, muscular chest, with springy hair that teases my palm. But still the light threatens, and somewhere in the distance, a horn honks, permeating the soft moans that I know to be my own. The sound of that horn bounces around in my mind and fades into the pleasure of his tongue trailing mine. It sounds again. Loud enough this time that I still instantly.

My hands press to Jensen’s chest—or my dream version of Jensen—I gulp as light floods my vision then blink as I stare at the location of my hands, the solid wall of muscle sprinkled with light blond hair. My hips straddling his…and the distinct bulge of his erection pressed to the wet heat of my core.

My gaze lifts and collides with a familiar green stare. Familiar eyes framed by a chiseled face and spiky blond hair. And then there’s the ultra-sexy dimple in the middle of a chin I have a random memory of kissing. Oh God. It really is him. I’m on top of Jensen.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” I whisper.

“Feels pretty real to me,” he confirms.

My throat goes dry, my gaze scanning the light blue scuffed wall and equally scuffed nightstand that are definitely not what dreams are made of. I’m in a cheap motel sprawled wantonly across the man, and I have no idea how it happened. I try to slide off of him—more like launch myself away from him—only to find myself on my back with his powerful body over the top of mine.

“Easy, baby.” His whiskey-rough voice hums down my spine, heat following in its path, my limbs heavy with desire. “I have no idea what just happened, but I saw the sudden awareness and instant panic in your eyes. We were sleeping, when—”

“Why were we in bed together?” I demand, as a brief flash of the two of us inside a warehouse brushes my mind. A warehouse. Not a bed. “Why are we in some sleazy hotel together?” The phone slides across the nightstand and crashes to the floor. I jump, adrenaline spiking through me at not only the crash, but the realization that I’ve caused it. Memories of the lab assail me. Milton died; they killed him. Emotion claws at me. The tawdry flower picture beside the bed falls off the wall. I’m shaking, invisible, prickling spears poking my forehead. The faded picture of Las Vegas to my right clatters to the ground.