Making It Right (Most Likely To #3)

He took the hint and turned around.

Jo’s eyes settled on his ass first.

Her mouth watered.

“You like?”

Damn, his ink . . . she was supposed to be looking at his tattoo.

“Oh . . .” It was an eagle, a massive statement that spread over his entire back, with wings that touched the edges of his shoulders. Jo leaned forward on the bed and reached toward him, her fingers touching the edges of the bird. “That’s . . . wow.” She stood and felt the muscles under the ink until her focus was on the man.

His chest expanded when she traced the outline of his shoulders with both hands before letting them fall to his narrow waist. At the waistline of his jeans, she squeezed. “I definitely like.”

Rocco moved quickly for a man his size. He turned and grasped her waist in his big hands and pulled her hips to his.

His lips torched hers with the first touch. He tasted like fire and a little bit of sin. When she opened to him, his indecent, open-mouth kisses became the fastest addiction Jo had ever experienced. She held on to his neck, lifted on her toes to kiss him back.

For a libido that sat dormant for years at a time, it sure knew how to fire to life when needed. Everything strained toward this Viking of a man.

His hands splayed down her waist, her back, and held on to her hips.

The erection she felt but couldn’t see didn’t appear to be one shrunk by steroids. She smiled into his kiss and started clawing at her shirt to take it off.

Rocco helped her.

He grinned as he stared, and Jo was thankful Zoe had talked her into a new bra that enhanced the parts of her that were all woman.

Viking Man trailed his lips down her jaw to the top of one breast.

She closed her eyes when she felt the bite of his teeth through the thin material. “Yes,” she mumbled more to herself than to him. He nestled between her breasts before matching a nip to the other side.

When his hands reached the globes of her ass, she lost the ability to hold still. Jo jumped up, wrapped both legs around his hips to maximize contact, and forced his lips back to hers. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he laughed as he backed her up against the bed and settled his weight once she was lying down.

Everything was a blur from there. Clothes flew, hands took their fill . . . and no, Viking Man didn’t use steroids.

There was a condom, a curse, and the satisfaction of him filling her completely. He stopped the second he was inside her.

“Don’t stop.”

“Catching my breath, sweetness.”

Sweetness. No one called her sweet.

Jo clenched every inner muscle she had and lifted her hips as much as she could with a 230-plus-pound hulk on top of her. “Breathe later,” she demanded.

His laugh was deep as he started to move. The heat of his body, the friction of his touch . . . the warmth of his kiss brought her to the first crest and had her humming after the fall.

He slowed his movements but wasn’t close to being done. “Feel better?” he asked.

When she dared to open her eyes, he was smiling down at her. Satisfied in his possession.

Jo crossed her ankles behind his back. “I’m getting there.”

His laugh was contagious before he reached to kiss her again.



Jo slid the key into her hotel room door just before four in the morning. Viking Man hadn’t stirred when she rose from his bed, quietly found her clothes, and put them back on before she disappeared from his room. The Uber driver met her at the corner, and she was back at her hotel in ten minutes.

It was better this way, she told herself, a late night dash instead of any awkward morning-after conversation. Much as she’d have liked to see what the man could do in the daylight hours, she was afraid to sit around to find out.

She showered before climbing into the hotel bed and smiled as she drifted off to sleep. The man was surprisingly gentle for one so big. She’d ache in the morning but would welcome the discomfort with memories of the night. The one sad truth was the inability to find that kind of a man who fit in her life.

The town sheriff didn’t date a man like Rocco.

She put them in cuffs and behind bars. Then again, maybe he wasn’t all that.

Who was she kidding? His Harley was more important than a home. The transient motel. There wasn’t one knickknack or sign of personality in his room, which meant he didn’t have any. Men without ties were either married and using the motel as a crash pad . . . the thought had Jo staring at the ceiling. Or the lack of ties meant he was on the move. Probably running from someone. A man the size of Mr. Viking wasn’t going to run from trouble; he’d probably avoid the law, however.

Weighing which she liked better, a felon on the run or a married man cheating . . . man, that was a rock and a hard friggin’ place. Neither suited her.

Jo punched her pillow, turned it over, and tried to push thoughts of Rocco out of her head.

Only the last thought as she drifted off to sleep was him whispering sweetness in her ear.





Chapter Four




Jo took a train down to Quantico, Virginia, from DC. She wondered, briefly, if she could get back into DC overnight and try and find Rocco again before she disappeared from the East Coast for good. The plan was to finish her training Friday afternoon, nurse her wounded everything she was sure was going to hurt, and fly out of DC Saturday afternoon.

Viking Man kept her up the first night by action, the second night by memories.

Why did she do this to herself? Why put herself out there, make her want something she couldn’t have, only to walk away somewhat satisfied but seriously desperate for more? She should probably just invest in a crate full of cats and be done with it.

Burton told her to dress in Friday casual, no dresses—not that Jo owned any—and bring a change of clothes to work out in. And her badge.

Her shoulder length honey brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a tiny dusting of blush enhanced her cheeks. Her lips sported a hint of rose, but that was it when it came to makeup. A lack of cover-up kept her from hiding the fading purple mark on the base of her neck . . . the only leftovers from Viking Man’s touch. Wearing simple blue dress pants, black shoes with the smallest heel she could get away with, and a silk blouse she borrowed from Zoe, Jo walked into the training center and approached the front desk.

The man behind the desk wore a suit and tie. His stern expression matched just about every movie she’d ever seen when it came to agents and the FBI.

Jo attempted a smile.

He wasn’t amused.

“Agent Burton is expecting me,” she told him. “Sheriff Ward.”

The man scanned her up and down. “Badge and ID, Sheriff.”

She reached into her back pocket, found her slim wallet, and presented him her credentials.