Heat: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance

  Five years ago, that cocky, egotistical a**hole played me like a fool and broke my heart.

  Hudson Banks; the dominant, tattooed, womanizing, ex-Marine-turned-billionaire who runs God-knows-what at my late father’s company.

  Oh, and he’s sexy as all f**k, and he damn well knows it.

  He’s like a gasoline fire; a scorchingly hot disaster, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to get burned.

  I’m on track to be the youngest New York State Senator ever elected; the bright, gutsy, good-girl media darling. Except my campaign funding just went dry, and it looks like the only solution is coming from the last person on Earth I’d ever want to take anything from. Oh, and it turns out bad-boy, tough-guy Hudson will be shadowing me 24/7 after he makes it clear that he’s in charge of “protecting the investment."”

  Yeah, just perfect; a reckless, irresistible d*ck like Hudson Banks is the last person I need being “in charge” of anything to do with me.

  Especially when I still can’t forget the taste of his lips or the feeling of that massive hardness I know he’s packing between his legs. It’s not fair that he’s even hotter now than he was back then. It’s not fair that those smoldering, arrogant eyes and that cocky, panty-melting grin still make me warm in places they shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not fair that five years later, I still can’t get him out of my head.

  So it looks like I’ve got two races on my hands: the one for election, and the one against the burning heat threatening to tear us both apart. But on the sprint to the finish line, what happens when the man who has everything comes up against the one thing he can’t have?

  Author’s Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons

  Cover Photo: FXQuadro/DepositPhoto

  Cover Design: Aubrey Irons

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.

  This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and all acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.

  Dedication:

  To my husband, for indulging me in my wild ideas and giving me wings to fly.

  To K, for being incredible.

  To Lee, for demanding that I dream.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  Contact

  About The Author

  An Excerpt:

  I grind into him, whimpering into his mouth as I feel his body hard against mine and feel his hands slide down to cup my ass. I’m shoving aside the voice inside my head that’s screaming at what a terrible idea all of this is, trying to smother it as Hudson smothers my mouth with his lips. I shouldn’t be kissing him like this, or moaning into his mouth as his hands grab my ass, or arching my back and rocking my pelvis against the thick hardness of his cock pressing at the front of his pants. No, I definitely shouldn’t be doing any of those things; not here, not now, and definitely not with Hudson Banks.

  “We- we shouldn’t be doing this!” I whimper out, moaning as he sucks my earlobe between his lips.

  “We should definitely be doing this,” He growls softly; “I can’t even tell you what I wanted to do with you the last time we were up here,” He says hotly into my ear, sending shivers through my whole body.

  Oh, I want to know everything he wanted to do with me; everything he wants to do with me; “Show me,” I whisper out, my voice heavy with lust, and I’m shocked at my own words even as true as they are.

  He’s yanking my prim and proper jacket off of me, and I’m shrugging it off my shoulders as I moan into his kiss. “Well, this, for one,” He tears my conservative blouse apart, sending the buttons scattering and making me gasp at the ferocity of him as I arch my back towards him as I feel his hands sliding over the thin lace of my bra, making my nipples pucker into hard points under his touch. His mouth slides down my neck, nipping at my skin as he kisses over the tops of my breasts. I whimper as he yanks my bra down, baring my nipples to his hungry eyes, and then I cry out as his lips wrap around one rosy nub; his tongue darting across and sending jolts of electricity shooting through my whole body.

  I arch my back and thrust my chest out towards him, gasping as his mouth sucks at my sensitive nipples; “Th- that’s all you’ve been waiting five years to do?” I moan out, biting my lip as my hands running up the muscles of his arm. He answers with his hand sliding up the inside of thigh, and I whimper as he pushes my conservative skirt up around my waist as his fingers find my heat.

  “No, Princess,” He says with heat in his voice as he brings his head up to stare into my eyes; “That is far from the only thing I’ve wanted to do to you for the last five fucking years.”

  He growls as his fingers slide beneath the edge of my soaking wet panties and slide through my folds. “God, you’re so fucking wet for me,” he husks into my lips, and I gasp, my hands clutching at his arm muscles as he pushes a finger inside. I kiss him with a ferocity as I feel him curl his finger inside of me, stroking that special place just inside and making me whimper and moan for him. No one has ever spoken to me like that before, and the barbaric animalism of it has me desperate for more.

  “Take off your shirt for me,” he says thickly, punctuating his words with a curl of his finger.

  “Jesus, are you always this bossy?” I say with a grin as I begin to pull the torn blouse from my shoulders.

  “Bossy?” He pulls back from lips with hungry grin on his face; “Princess, I have not even begun to show you bossy.”

  “They’re fucking what?!” I almost drop the glass of champagne in my hand as I feel the floor practically drop out from beneath my feet. My campaign manager Donald’s face is impassive and steely - pretty much like it always is even in crisis meltdown situations like this - with his bushy grey eyebrows furrowing slightly like they do when he’s got news for me neither of us want to hear.

  “They’re pulling out, Reagan; entirely.” I see him reach out of habit for the phantom pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that hasn’t been there for five years; the frown in his eyebrows deepening.

&
nbsp; “All of it?”

  He sticks a pen between his lips instead of his old vice and glowers at me; “Every damn penny.”

  I swear fiercely under my breath, clenching my hand tight and digging my nails into my palm as the reality of the situation hits me like a wet blanket; “How fucked are we?”

  Donald tenses his face; he hates when I swear, especially in public and especially in public when there are cameras everywhere. “Lower your voice, Reagan” He mutters through the pen in his teeth, looking at me like I’m an ill-behaved child in that way that drives me crazy. In the movie version of my life, Donald is the kind and sagely grandfatherly type who guides me along a path of adorable metaphors and teary-eyed life lessons to victory. In reality, he’s cold, calculating, and robotically efficient at keeping me in line with his battle plans. But then again, kindly grandfatherly types doling out anachronisms like they were candy don’t win elections; robots do.

  “They were forty percent of our campaign.”

  I can feel the breath leave my lungs as the room spins around me; my lips moving soundlessly as my brain searches for the words to possible use here. This simply can’t be happening; not after we’ve worked so freaking hard to get to where we are.

  Donald glares at me as he furiously chews on his poor pen; “Maybe next time, you’ll stay on the damn speech I give you instead of going off on one of your ‘save the world’ tangents, Reagan. You know they’re going to jump down you throat for that kind of things because-” His phone beeps and he frowns, trailing off as he shakes his head and mutters at whatever’s just popped up, but I can pretty much take my pick of what he was going to say anyways: “because I’m a girl”, or “because I’m the youngest person to ever run for the State Senate of New York”, or my favorite, “because I’m the daughter of the late William Archer; billionaire philanthropist/ arms dealer, depending on who’s opinion you ask.” To most people, I’m either the next great American Dream for politics, or a nut-job, which plays nicely to the split media opinion of eager-eyed media darling or poor little rich girl, depending on which new station you like to watch. I hang my head; running was one thing, but dropping out like this is going to be a news anchor joke for years.

  “So this is it then? We’re done, just like that?” I can hear my voice from outside my body, my ears ringing and my jaw clenching in that way Donald always tells me not to do in front of cameras because it makes me look aggressive. I look down at the trembling glass of champagne in my hand, suddenly wishing it was the size of a movie-theater cup.

  “What?” My campaign manager takes the mangled pen from his mouth and briefly wrinkles his face at it, as if just noticing how gross a habit it is. He looks up at me, a stony look on his face; “No of course not,” He snaps, a bit more condescendingly than I need right now; “We’ve been approached by another new donor who sees a lot of promise in our campaign.”

  I feel myself exhale for the first time in what seems like an hour and start to shake my head; “Well Jesus, Donald, you scared the living-“

  “Now, you aren’t going to like it, of course, but try to let go of personal baggage for once,” He interrupts me, his voice low as he glares at me; “Try to remember that this is about more than just you?”

  Instantly, I narrow my eyes as suddenly every one of my gut instincts start to tingle at the look on his face and the tone in his voice; “Donald-” I start to shake my head, my jaw clenching as I feel the anger and the heat rising in my cheeks; “No, absolutely not! It’s not even an option!”

  Even though we’re off in the corner of the big open gallery of the museum where we’ve been throwing the now seemingly-useless campaign fundraiser, people around us turn to stare at my outburst. Donald shushes me again as if I’m some child acting out; “It’s our only option, Reagan.” He huffs, “Look, we all get that you don’t want your Father’s company’s money, but it is the only move here.” Donald’s rolling his eyes at me in the obnoxiously patronizing way that makes my blood boil, and for the eight-hundredth time, I have to remind myself that he’s really good at this job, otherwise I’d have blown up in his face and told him where to stick it a month ago.

  “Now, there’s a man here from Archer Holdings to meet with you, and he’d like to talk with you-”

  “Ms. Archer, they need some shots with some of the museum trustees.” I’m still shaking my head furiously, my mouth open and closing like a fish out of water, when one of my staffers scurries over and starts to tug me by the arm; yanking me away from Donald before I can even come up with anything to say. I turn back to over my shoulder to yell something like “we’re not done talking about this”, but they’re already pushing me in front of the wall of flashing lights and clicking cameras and back into the spotlight where I can’t look like I want so break something.

  *****

  By the time they’re done, my face is feeling sore from all the fake smiles, and my palms are slick from other people’s sweaty handshakes; the hazards of the campaign trail they never tell you about. I’m extricating myself from the stuffy museum board of directors and scanning the room for another glass of champagne when I hear it - his voice; the voice from my past and the voice I haven’t heard in five years; “Hey, Princess.”

  I turn and he’s just there, standing in the flesh right in front of me. I feel my breath catch in my throat as I suddenly look up into the bluest, most piercing eyes I’ve ever seen, and then I feel my pulse actually skip a beat as I fully grasp the man they’re attached to. He’s even more gorgeous than he was back then, in that unbelievable, magazine-model way. His dark hair is slicked back to one side, and beneath those stunning eyes is a cocky grin stretched across a strong, chiseled jaw, marked on one side by just the faintest white line of a scar across his clean-shaved chin. He’s the same infuriatingly hot dichotomy he was five years ago; the perfectly tailored tuxedo and gleaming silver watch on his wrist screaming money, but the teasing glimpses of tattoo ink creeping out from beneath his French cuff sleeves or the neck of his linen shirt. His lips part as he grins at me; I know those lips.

  Suddenly Donald is there, beaming at this stunningly good looking man as if he’s the one running for a Senate seat instead of me; “Ahh, good, you’ve met!”

  I’d almost want to laugh if my body wasn’t suddenly froze in time where I stand. Yeah, we’ve met. I complete tune Donald out as I lock eyes with the brooding and handsome man grinning that goddamn smug smile at me that hasn’t changed a bit in five fucking years. He might be a little bit older and a little bit more polished looking now, but suddenly my body is remembering exactly how I know Hudson Banks. I know how his body feels pressed against mine, how his hands feel on the skin at the small of my back, and how his lips taste. This time, we’re sipping champagne at a $5,000 a ticket political fundraising event, instead of moaning into each other’s mouths as he grinds that hardness into my thigh, making my whole body melt for him.

  It’s been five years since that night; five years since I was at my lowest - drunk, confused, and grieving. Five years since I completely embarrassed myself by dragging this man away from the crowds at my father’s wake and attacking him like some sort of hot mess, and five years since he pushed me away from him and suddenly walked out, leaving me utterly mortified and even worse than I was before.

  And in five Goddamn years, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.

  Donald is smiling benignly at me as he fawns over the smugly handsome man grinning that cocky smirk at me; “As I was saying, Mr. Banks, as you may know, works for your father’s comp-“

  “We’ve met” I say it with an icy tone, trying to look everywhere else in the room but Hudson’s eyes; “And this isn’t happening, Donald.” I shake my head, my jaw set as I grind my teeth together. I’m furious, and of course embarrassed like I was that night all over again, and all I want to do is walk away from this entire horrible exchange right now.

  “It is happening, Reagan.” Donald’s voice is firm and he shoots me a warning look;
“This is happening or there is no campaign-“

  “Then fine, there’s no campaign. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Donald.” I spit out.

  “Well, nice to see you haven’t changed at all, Ray.” He says with a chuckle. He’s got that fucking smirk on his face, that cocky grin that I once found unbelievably attractive, and then I feel my face burn red as I realize I still do. He’s even more attractive now than he was back then; healthier, his eyes even sharper, those broad shoulders even stronger looking as they stretch the tuxedo just enough to show off. I’m remembering those shoulders now, and the way my hand felt hot against that hard, chiseled chest; his hands on my skin as I breathed and whimpered into his mouth.

  My hand is shaking, and I grip the champagne flute tighter, willing it to stop. I do not get this way over guys, especially a prick who tried to take advantage of my grief; winding me up around his finger before shoving me away, quite literally. Hudson Banks is a fucking head-case; some ex-military jock who somehow found his way into my Father’s good graces and wound up running a whole division of his company. I shake my head again, suddenly realizing I actually would rather there not be a campaign than take my father’s money; especially if its coming from Hudson fucking Banks, however stupidly good looking and sexy he looks in that damn tuxedo with those piercing blue eyes the color of a stormy sea.