Vkhin’s headset crackled, coming alive, as the slim figure ejected in slow motion from the open chopper bay. Ten thousand feet up, but his view from the helo was still ringside. The gloved hand hitting the small of the jumper’s back had him growling. That hand had touched her. He knew the body falling free of the chopper. Not as well as he wanted, but he’d been watching her for the last month and Fallen intel said she’d gone up in the plane. One pilot. One ride-along MVD agent. And Ria Morgan.
Ria’s body cleared the chopper and he fought his instinctive reaction. That bird was going down and he didn’t want her anywhere near the wreck. He’d warned Zer and the other Fallen that MVD was getting too bold, making moves that would take the human police division right into Fallen territory. Looked like he was going to have the proof he needed. Unfortunately, his professional responsibilities here were at war with something more feral. Possessive. Ria Morgan was his.
She might be a card-carrying member of MVD and an enemy hostile in his territory, but he wanted her. A rogue dropped away from others going after the chopper, circling back around the protective fire Ria’s human companion was laying down. The gunner laid in counter-fire and the rogue dropped. If Ria was lucky and the other MVD agent was a good shot, Ria just might make it to the ground.
Good. He commed in on his headset. “I’ve got a visual. One jumper. Rest of the crew is staying put. I’m going closer.”
Punching in his new coordinates, he drove the helo towards the chopper without waiting for confirmation from base.
His response to Ria was irrational. She was a backroom operative, a desk jockey. Smart as a whip—he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her brain—but she pulled her nine-to-five and left the dirty stuff to MVD’s field agents. She went into that office building every morning, real punctual. She stopped briefly to pick up a mocha—guilty weakness—and a doughnut, while he knew the same untouched energy bar banged around in the bottom of her over-sized purse every morning. She favored slim pencil skirts and buttoned up white blouses in real soft syn-cotton that clung to her breasts beneath the oversized cardigans she wrapped around herself because she was always cold. A sexy skirt and blouse like that just begged for four-inch heels, but, no, she paired the ensemble with an endless series of black ballerina flats. That mismatch intrigued him. Because, if she wore the flats because they were comfortable or she enjoyed them, what did that say about her taste in skirts? Those skirts cupped her ass, were made from soft fabrics that rubbed against her skin with every step she took, slid temptingly upward when she sat down at that desk of hers, crossed her legs, and leaned forward, going for the joystick controlling her drone. Those skirts were a sensual treat.
He just wanted to know who she was treating.
He, on the other hand, was a warrior, a hand-to-hand fighter who’d climbed into far too many trenches and done whatever killing needed to be done. He didn’t need to be jonesing after a woman who clearly not only didn’t know the meaning of down and dirty, but had no intention of ever leaving the pristine confines of her office. He respected MVD’s field agents because those men and women put it on the line every day. Every weapon they strapped on, every fight they broke up or started—those were acts he could respect. Coffee and a doughnut were a whole different world.
So he shouldn’t have wanted to slide the zipper on her skirt down, peel the soft fabric away from her even softer skin and spread her wide for his tongue. She wasn’t his type. She was human. And she was off-limits.