“Good work, Blade. On my way.” Less than fifteen seconds later, Ryan Hunter stepped in, tall and lean, and looking every bit the badass. The dark-haired security chief for the multi-billion-dollar Stark conglomerate and Riley went way back. Although Hunter had always been private sector, their paths had crossed multiple times during Riley’s days in LA as an FBI SWAT team member, and they’d become good friends, often mistaken for brothers because of their similar build and coloring.

They’d kept in touch even after Riley escaped from La-La Land, and it was that tug of friendship that had landed Riley in this cheap motel room that stank of sex, urine, and something else that Riley really didn’t want to think about.

“Appreciate the assist,” Hunter said. “I’ve been knee deep in assholes for the last few days. A little conversation with this one should go a long way to rounding up a few more and clearing my workload.” He flashed a wicked grin at Riley. “Which means Jamie thanks you, too,” he said, referring to his wife. “She gets cranky when my nights are spent without her. Especially if I’m in a motel.”

If what Riley remembered about the stunning brunette was accurate, she was more of a Ritz-Carlton girl than a No-Tell Motel type. But he understood where Hunter was coming from. Not, however, from personal experience. Riley’s nights had always been his own, and if there was a woman in his bed beside him, there was no expectation on either of their parts that she’d still be there the next night.

For years, that had been the way Riley rolled. Lately, though, he’d been spending too much time with Ian Taggart, and the man was so damn in love with his wife. Hell, it would be sickening if it wasn’t so, well, appealing. And cute. Yeah, it was actually fucking cute.

And now, as he listened to that tone of adoration in Hunter’s voice, Riley couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a woman waiting for him at home. Someone who worried about where he was. Someone who shared hopes and dreams and a life.

The odds of that ever happening were slim to none. Hell, he was edging up against thirty-six, but he’d only ever met one woman who’d truly gotten under his skin. A woman with whom he’d imagined long walks and easy conversations. Along with the more standard fantasies involving heated passion and sweaty, naked nights, of course.

Natasha Black.

Her tall, slim body with her just-perfect breasts. The cool gray eyes that could cut like a knife, and that wide, gorgeous mouth that was made for naughty things. Just the thought of her made his cock stiffen and his fingers crave the smooth brush of her skin. She, however, had very soundly shut him down without so much as a movie and popcorn between them.