Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance) Read online

  Why fall for Prince Charming when the villain is so much more tempting? Because it feel so good to be so bad...

  The dark, dominant, tattooed Spaniard has all the arrogant machismo of a bullfighter and a body carved out of steel. In my sister’s fairytale romance, he almost destroyed my family. He’s the devil, and I hate him.

  Until he saved my life, and changed everything.

  Javier f**king Toro is the last man in the world I expect to find pulling me out of the way of danger. He’s cocky, crude, and dangerously tempting. He oozes sex and the promise of breaking every rule I’ve ever made. Bad boy? Yeah, no, there’s nothing “boy” about Javier. He’s a man.

  A very, very bad man.

  And I can’t resist him, no matter the consequences.

  *****

  What is it that they say, payback is a bitch?

  No, scratch that. Payback is a motherf*cker. One day after breaking out of a South American prison, I run head-first into her.

  Innocent, uptight, and sexy as sin. Her sister may have almost killed me, her family put me in prison. That doesn’t mean I’m not dying to find out if she’s as much of a firebrand in bed as she is while she’s chasing me down, trying to put me away again.

  That is, I’m curious until she’s got a gun pressed to my chest, flashing me a badge.

  Yeah, Special Agent Chelsea Archer isn’t just “off-limits”; she’s the f*cking enemy. She’s the last girl in the world I need to have a damn thing to do with. Because if she gets close to someone like me, I’m going to destroy her. I’m going to ruin her in such perfect ways and have her scream my name like I’m the last man on Earth.

  Because I'm no hero, I’m the bad guy.

  And I'm very, very bad.

  Author’s Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons

  Cover Photo: _Italo_/DepositPhoto

  M.J.H1nckle/DepositPhoto

  Vecster/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 being the best sounding-board, best co-pilot, and best champion I could’ve ever asked for.

  To Kate, Nate, Jesse, Hayden, Roxie, Sennah, Nora, and Kat for your endless support, unwavering optimism, and wildly entertaining stories.

  To Lee, for demanding that I dream.

  And most of all, to the readers. YOU are why I do what I do, and I can’t even begin to thank you enough for the support and the kind words along the way.Scorc

  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

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  Special Excerpt from "Heat"

  Special Excerpt from "Burn"

  Contact

  About The Author

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  Author’s Note:

  All books in the Soldiers of Fortune series are standalone, HEA titles. That said, your enjoyment of this story may be even more enriched by reading them in the order shown above. Check out the teaser chapters at the end of this book to read more!

  Click the book covers above, or the links below to read now!

  Heat

  Burn

  Scorch

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  An Excerpt:

  "I'm trying to save you."

  She barks out a sneering laugh; "I don’t need saving; not from you."

  "Get close to me and you will," I growl.

  Get close to me and I'll destroy you, even if I don't want to and even if I do everything on Earth to try and stop it. It'll still happen, because that's just me and the fucked up reverse Midas touch that follows me. Good things wither and die around me, and something as bright and as pure as her doesn't stand a fucking chance.

  "I'm a big girl."

  "I'm a bad man."

  My hand slides up her arm, and before I can stop myself, I’m snaking it around her waist, exploring the curve of her hip as I pull her closer. I want to push her away - I know I should push her away - but I can’t even begin to conceive of doing that right now. Not when she feels so fucking good under my touch.

  "My job is to catch bad men and lock them up," She whispers quietly, her eyes still flashing heat and fire as she matches my own hot gaze with her own.

  "That a fact, princess?" I move closer, pulling her against me; "You think you can catch me? Think you can put me anywhere I don’t want to go?" I growl, my jaw tightening.

  "I always get what I go after.“

  "Not me."

  She's so close, and my pulse is roaring like a lion ready to pounce in for the kill. I'm such bad news for her, but if she says one more fucking word, I’m going to take her right here and right now. I'm going to claim her, make her mine, and have her screaming my name as she comes like it's the last name on Earth.

  "I’m a bad, bad man, princess," I say with fire and danger on my breath.

  "Oh yeah?" She swallows and looks at me defiantly; "Prove it." She whispers.

  Don't say I didn't warn you.

  I yank her body against mine as my mouth crashes against hers, and I feel her absolutely melt into me.

  She tastes like heaven and moves against me like original sin as her hands snake into my hair, pulling me into her. I push us backwards, pressing her against the side of the flat-top rock near the fire, pressing myself against every sweet delicious curve of her body.

  Her hands slip down to my shirt, hastily, like she's desperate for it. She yanks at it, tearing it over my head as I let
her go just enough to get the thing off my head before I'm crushing myself against her again. I'm pressing her hard against the rock at the small of her back before I slip my hand down to her ass. I grab her tightly, my strong hands gripping and kneading the supple flesh there as I lift her up and into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist as I push her up and back onto the flat top of the rock.

  My cock is rock hard in my pants and straining for release. But I know what I need first; I know what I've been craving and dying for since the second I saw her in that bikini down by the pool.

  I push her back down onto the rock, and she's gasping as I break our kiss. But my hands are yanking the button and the zipper of her cutoffs down, and she whimpers as I grab them and tear them down and off her perfect legs right along with her panties.

  She blushes and moves to curl her legs beneath herself, but I grab her thighs tightly in my hands as my eyes drag up her body to her eyes.

  "Show me," I growl, and I see her face flush with desire as she slowly nods, biting her lip so coyly as she lets me pull her legs apart.

  "You arrogant prick."

  "You uptight little tease."

  "Fuck me," she groans into my ear; "Fuck me like you mean it.”

  “You’ve been a bad, bad boy, Javier.”

  The punch to the gut that immediately follows Warden Juan-Carlos Gustavo’s words knocks the wind from my lungs. But, it doesn’t do shit to knock the grin off my face. The real tragedy here is that the irony of Señor Gustavo’s wife saying the same thing to me not thirty minutes before - albeit in slightly different circumstances - is probably going to be lost on him and his men.

  Not, of course, that it’s going to stop me from saying it anyways.

  “You know, thats the second- no, wait, the third time I’ve heard that today.”

  The Warden’s eyes narrow at me, making him appear even more piggish if that was even possible from an already fat, sweaty, snout-nosed man. But truth be told, despite his appearance, Warden Gustavo is not a man you should fuck with; least of all when you’re a prisoner in his jail. I’ve learned a few things in my nine months here in Venezuela, but that one sticks out.

  Yeah, fucking Venezuela. I learned something when that cargo plain those pricks back in the States put me on touched down in Madrid; if you’re a big enough problem, no one wants you. Spain wanted nothing to do with me, even with being a citizen, and even with the shit they probably had on me from my bullshit there years ago. So instead? They called around, found out about the smuggling charges I’d pulled in Venezuela when I was younger, and figured I was someone else’s problem now. See, not many people really want anything to do with me, which suits me just fine because most of the time, I don’t want a fuckin thing to do with them either.

  Except let me tell you, South American jails aren’t anything like the jails they’ve got up north in Los Estados Unidos; not by a Goddamn mile. Sure, up north, prison might be cold, and boring, and possibly not the best place to take a shower if you’re in with the wrong people. But shit, they’ve got electricity, and three meals a day, and a roof that doesn’t leak when it rains. Down here in Venezuela? Yeah, down here things are a little different. Down here, we’ve got El Muerto Viviente; The Living Dead.

  Yeah, we’ve also got a touch of flare for the dramatics.

  But El Muerto is no fucking joke, I’ll say that. A crumbling, shattered shell of a castle from the colonial days, built up on a cliff and slowly melting into the ocean. It’s treacherous, smells like shit, and Warden Gustavo runs it like a Russian Gulag. So yeah, jail fucking sucks down here.

  That is, unless you know where to look for the perks. And in this case, “perks” was fucking the cute prison nurse in terrible, terrible ways in the pharmacy supply closet twice a week for the last two months. Oh, and if that cute nurse happens to be Mrs. Warden Juan-Carlos Gustavo?

  Merde, now we’re cooking with fire, aren’t we.

  The good Warden’s fist crashes into my face, jolting me back into the now as I shake my head, blinking at the stars flashing through my vision.

  “You’ve fucked up for the last Goddamn time, Toro.” He says. He’s grinning; that’s not a good sign. Angry Gustavo acts like every other angry little fat man in the world; that I can read. But when he grins like that, you know something’s wrong. And something is very wrong.

  He winks at his lieutenant, a thin man with a wispy mustache, before he turns back to me; “Listen you little marico maricón, this time, I’ve got a special place for you.”

  “Oh I think I’ve already been to you special place, señor.” I barely finish laughing the words out of my mouth before he starts to hit me. They all start to hit me, in fact.

  By the way, my hands are cuffed to a pipe above my head, and there are four of them. South American prison; comprende?

  I can take a beating. Well, I could take a beating, a long time ago back when I was a fighter and before I sort of let myself go. But nine months of hard time in El Muerto have me back to lean muscle and hungry fire inside. Not that it does a bit of good when you’re cuffed and outnumbered.

  I groan and sag against my handcuffs as the men in uniform step away, spitting on the ground around me as they wipe their hands of me. Gustavo is grinning at me again, slowly nodding his head; “Hope you packed your swim-suit, hijo e puta.” He says slowly; “Because you’re going for The Swim.”

  Oh, shit.

  I’ve heard stories of problem prisoners being taken out for The Swim and being made to disappear, but it’s always third or fourth hand talk from guys who’ve been here too long. The Swim is a one-way ticket three miles off shore. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, and don’t bother trying to swim for it because if the sharks don’t get you, exhaustion will. It’s a bad dream; a scary story like the boogey man the guards tell us to keep us in line.

  Except from the look on the Warden’s face, this is anything but a made-up story.

  I want to tell him he “can’t do this”, or he “doesn’t have the right”, but in reality, we both know he can and he doesn’t fucking care. I’ve managed to go the last ten years or so of my life without, or at least squashing down any regrets, but something tells me that streak is about to change. Because for the first time maybe ever, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve gone too far.

  Shit.

  Gustavo leans in close, his breath hot on my face as he pats my cheek and grins wickedly at me; “Te veré en el infierno, motherfucker.” See you in hell.

  The silver and glass hallway that leads towards The Vault is innocuous enough for what it needs to be. It looks like any other office hallway in the world I suppose, except you can’t help but feel a little shiver of excitement when you walk down this one, knowing what’s waiting at the end. It’s not the kind of excitement you might find in another job; not in a normal job.

  Of course, I’m still fairly new at the Center, which might contribute to the excitement, but it’s also just the general feeling of the place. For instance, I doubt normal jobs have two armed personnel guarding the doorways to areas that require a retina scan in order to enter.

  I take a deep breath as I approach the two men in black tactical gear holding machine guns. They’re parked next to a frosted glass screen with only the briefest shadow of a person standing behind it.

  “Agent, please state your identifying code.”

  The voice sounds metallic behind the glass, and I force myself into composure as I look evenly into the retina scanner and speak as clearly as I can; “Six oh wilco wilco charlie alpha eighty eight.”

  The door hisses silently open with the small click of a lock, and I nod as authoritatively as I can despite my nerves at the two men standing guard before I step into the cool, darkened ambience of The Vault. It’s my first time in here, and the sudden reality of that has me pausing just for a fraction of a second to take it all in. The projector is already on, casting a bluish glow on the far wall, and I realize that the others are already there, sitting around t
he dark mahogany conference table with the lights low.