PARKER’S DESK WAS a certifiable disaster zone. So much shit cluttered the work surface that he had to push a grab bag of mismatched Star Wars keepsakes out of the way just to locate a pen. Next to the pen was a miniature lightsaber. He reached for the electronic toy, pressing a switch to make the Jedi apparatus hum to life.
Amazing. No other thought existed in his head except that.
Because he couldn’t help it, the lightsaber swung into action. Engaged in a mighty battle with the forces of evil, he waved it with a flourish and added a few sound effects. It was the middle of the day, and he was in his very impressive office doing his very important job—and playing with a lightsaber. Amazing.
Dropping the toy to the side, he reached once more for the pen and shook his head to refocus. He was a lawyer, goddammit, and needed to pay fucking attention.
Swiftly tapping on a keyboard, his computer screen lit with open windows. Searching for something, he clicked open a program and sat back with a surprised grunt when the distinctive sound of Darth Vader’s heavy, mechanical breathing boomed from the system’s speakers.
Holy fuck!
Seriously?
His eyes rolled heavenward as a broad grin broke out on his face. Angie. His hot, sexy, and very much younger than him Desert Angel shook up his previously well-ordered and staid life in ways he never expected.
The grin got twice as wide when he started putting the pieces together. She’d need help to pull off fucking with his computer’s sounds. Especially if it was done remotely. And that could mean only one thing.
Victoria St. John.
Yep, he thought with a nod. Tori and the rest of those damn Justice ladies seemed to live just for the fun of screwing with him and every other warm-blooded male in a thousand-mile radius. Individually, they were lethal, but they were scary as fuck when they got together.
Of course, a St. John would stand at the epicenter of his girlfriend’s squad of mayhem-makers. Why the hell not? Parker didn’t doubt some karmic retribution was at work, and justifiably so. He’d been a thorn in Draegyn St. John’s side and vice versa for decades.
Work forgotten for the moment, he relaxed in the enormous leather chair and spun around to gaze out the window at another brilliantly sunny Sedona day. His thoughts were already firing up a retrospective of memories—ones starring his nemesis and main competition.
That’s right. Competition. Parker chuckled at the comical notion. From the second they met for the first time, he and Drae had engaged in a duel-to-the-grave battle over which of them held the top spot in Alex’s affections.
A real laugh shot from him. Alex’s affections. Jesus Christ.
It was back in his Department of Justice days while his oldest friend was neck-deep in military shit. The sort of stuff Parker barely understood. Whenever Alex was in the States, he’d make a pit stop in D.C. It was their thing. They’d meet up as if nothing else was happening, as if they each weren’t fighting the war on terror, to have dinner, drink, smoke, and shoot the shit.
Lifelong compadres, Alex was in his DNA. That was how close they were, and he wasn’t really including the whole secret affair with the man’s little sister. So when his BFF turned up in the company of a pinup guy with a laughable name, Parker recalled being instantly bent.
What started then had never really ended. Though they openly ribbed each other and laughed about it now, a shitload of truth concealed itself in all the kidding around. They were like teenage girls fighting in perpetuity over the team captain.
They’d even come to blows on several occasions, including a particularly memorable boxing match made even classier by far too many tequila shots and way too much energy.
The truth was he and Drae shared equal parts of the Major—the man they mockingly called Big Daddy. Alex, for the most part, found their antics endlessly amusing.
Parker was the original. The Marquez and Sullivan families were closer than close, which made him and Alex brothers.
Draegyn, on the other hand, was Alex’s warrior second—a distinction Parker maintained enormous respect for. While he knew in his heart that he’d give up his life for his best friend, Drae had lived it.
Powerful stuff.
So they adopted a friendly rivalry chock full of taunts, rude language, the occasional fistfight, and a never-ending rotation of pranks.
Having Drae’s wife right at Alex’s side as his geek assistant gave the pranks a technological edge the St. John’s were presently winning. Thanks to his naughty lady.
Which brought him round again to Angie. The girl was a fucking handful and a half. Parker leaned back in his chair and smiled. A burning hot surge of pure pleasure shot to his groin. He liked it. Liked every tingle, each shudder. Hell. He even liked the nonstop female fuckery that came along with surrendering to the serious infatuation he had for his spirited lover.
Angelina Marquez was one hell of a lady. His Desert Angel was also a hellacious she-devil in private.
Thinking his wild days were well behind him, Parker found himself hip-deep in an exuberant exploration of stuff that would make the others blush. She was clever with phrases and delighted in throwing down with him verbally at every opportunity. According to her, they should leave no stone unturned to uncover their style of couple’s kink.
No, seriously. She phrased it exactly like that. Couple’s kink.
They’d been together morning, noon, and night for months, and as soon as he got his shit together and Alex got his ass back from Spain—he intended to put a massive fucking ring on it and march her badass into a church at the earliest opportunity. Time was a-wasting. He was forty, goddammit, and though he didn’t realize it until recently, Parker wanted kids. Bad.
In the meantime, he was building a house for them to live in, located on the far outskirts of Sedona, which conveniently situated them at the halfway point between his work and the Villa de Valleja-Marquez with its adjoining Justice compound.
Squeezed into his current house, because Angie had all her belongings shipped from Spain five seconds after they became an official couple, she started re-everything-ing his life. She didn’t just redecorate. She did a brutal overhaul of his pantry—throwing out anything she deemed unhealthy due to his advanced age.
Spanked her ass good that time. Right there in the walk-in pantry. She was sitting on a rolling stool when she said it. As soon as the words left her mouth, he was the one sitting, and he’d flung her across his lap as he shredded the skirt she had on, tore her panties in two, and laid down a vigorous punishment worthy of her bratty mouth.
Parker chuckled out loud. He’d duly chastised her after that, and she sat there rubbing her bottom as a pout worthy of a fucking award made her lips tremble. His Angel gave good pout. Some of the best he’d ever seen. When she found the audacity to grumble about him being a bully, he grabbed her hair and said a bunch of vulgar things suggesting a better to way to use her mouth. From there? Well, from there, she essentially gagged on his cock.
And no, she didn’t complain. Pfft. Hardly. That was the thing about her. He wasn’t stupid. Most of her brattiness occurred because she rather liked it when he doled out punishment.
They were fucking made for each other, which was why he ended up including a playroom—a couple’s kink playroom—in the new house.
Shifting to give space to the hard-on he couldn’t stop, Parker marveled for the millionth time at his unbelievable luck. Not only were they designing a playroom, but his wickedly naughty Angel also had a shit-ton of ideas and preferences at the ready.
Apparently, red was déclassé. She insisted walls painted red would be pathetic. She wanted something uniquely theirs.
What the hell did that even mean?
Well, for starters, it meant exploring a bunch of websites together that ended with them doing it right there on the floor. Few too many spanking benches and Tantra accessories for them to browse through to keep their shit together.
Plus, every damn day, she had something else to show him. The girl did research like a fucking pro. He laughed at her constantly and threatened to do the rest of the house in redneck shabby chic because all her focus was on the one room.
Twirling around and wheeling back to his desk, Parker attempted to dismiss the deluge of information pouring into his consciousness now that he’d gone there in his thoughts.
Shit. Work didn’t seem so appealing now that he was pondering black silk rope, sex swings, and crotchless panties.
Grabbing his cell phone, he went to his contacts and made a call.
“Miss me that much?” Her voice had a silky, husky quality that made his cock surge.
Witch. His witch. His Angel. He smiled.
“How’s my kitten, hmmm? Had lunch yet?”
Angie’s soft, sexy laugh went straight to his heart. “Oh, god. Kitten, is it?”
Parker growled and laughed at the same time.
“Is that a pussy for lunch reference? Or are you trying to be hip? In an old man way, of course.”
“You’ll pay for that, darlin’. I’m leaving the office,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I can’t concentrate for shit.”
He sensed her hesitation. “Should I have lunch ready?” It was a real question.
Parker glanced at the Chewbacca lunchbox she filled with snacks and treats each day. Despite her youth and natural high spirits, Angie viewed her obligation to take care of him seriously.
“You are the lunch, kitten.”
She hissed at his remark. “Liking where this is going.”
Oh, he bet she did. “When I come through the door, Angel—I want you naked and laying on the dining room table.”
“God, Parker,” she groaned into the phone.
“Oh, and Angel? Be touching yourself when I get there.”
Heavy breathing was all he heard—hers and his.
“Angel kitten—over and out.”
The call disconnected, and he leaned forward to access the intercom and contact his secretary.
“Marsha? I’m heading out. Reschedule, cancel, whatever it takes. Work your magic, please.”