CASSIE MINT

Honey Trap
 First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-914242-78-6

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 Contents
Keep in touch with Cassie!
1. June
2. Marcus
3. June
4. Marcus
5. June
6. Marcus
7. June
8. Marcus
9. June
Teaser: Blade
About the Author
 Keep in touch with Cassie!
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 One

June

T he bar stool beside me is empty, but it’s only a matter of time. The room
is crowded and loud, the air muggy from so many bodies, and I won’t
be solo for more than a few minutes. My mama used to say I have a quality.
Something about me invites people closer—especially men—and I never sit
alone for long before a stranger plonks down beside me and strikes up a
conversation.
It used to bother me. I never asked them over, you know? And sometimes
a girl wants to be left alone to do the puzzle in the paper. Besides, I don’t
trust a man who flirts with a stranger. For all he knows, I’m crazier than a
bag of cats. It’s not smart.
But after a few years of politely sending people away I discovered the
benefit, because for some reason, people tell me all kinds of wild things. I’m
a walking, talking confession booth, and folks line up around the block to tell
me all their dirty secrets.
Secrets are useful, especially in this city.
Secrets can fetch a high price.
 And secrets keep my grandma comfy and safe in her special nursing
home. So you think I mind being interrupted these days? Hell no. I practically
kick the stool out, begging for someone to sit down.
I’m after something juicy tonight. The last few weeks, I’ve had a string of
unhappy wives hire me, asking me to attend certain bars then report back
whether their husbands flirt with me or not. I take those jobs, because
grandma’s bills seem to get fatter every month, but I don’t feel good about
them. They always leave a sour taste in my mouth.
They put me off men, too, that’s for sure. There’s no honor left around
here.
“Another drink, June-bug?”
The ancient bartender, Harry, braces his hands against the wood and
smiles at me, face creasing into a thousand wrinkles. Thin black suspenders
cut two stripes over his rounded shoulders, his pinstriped shirt baggy beneath.
Harry knows I’m working, and he leaves me be except for bringing me
drinks. He’s a sweetheart. I have a sneaking suspicion he used to take my
grandma on dates.
My throat is dry. I flick a longing glance at the brown bottles of ginger
ale in the fridge, but I’d better not. If I keep an empty glass in front of me,
that’s another temptation for a stranger to sit down.
And I’m not after just anyone’s secrets tonight. A politician’s coming in
here. My hacker friend Frankie tipped me off, and everyone knows this guy is
crooked as hell. With his dodgy business ties and his wandering hands in the
office, he’s a scandal waiting to happen.
And me? Well, I’d be delighted to help that process along.
“No thanks, Harry.” The bartender raps the bar with his knuckles and
moves away, and I catch a flash of movement in the hazy mirror over his
shoulder. The whole bar stretches out in the glass, the sizes and distances all
warped, and this is how I keep watch on who’s coming and going behind my
back.
Two things draw my eye right now: number one, the politician and two
lackeys pushing through the doorway, shrugging off their dark coats, their
smiles sharp. So confident that they’re the predators in this jungle. And
number two: a certain dark-haired private investigator scowling at me from a
nearby booth.
Marcus Miller. We move in the same circles, live in the same shades of
gray, but he always looks so pissed off to find me working. Like he wants to
send me home to bed without any dinner. He’s gripping a beer bottle tight,
practically strangling the neck, and his piercing blue eyes are pinned to the
back of my head.
Maybe he’s here for the politician, too. It happens sometimes—we end up
jockeying for the same clients, digging for the same information. Of course,
Marcus doesn’t rely on his pretty face, not with that scowl and the pale scar
slashed down one cheek, so he uses other methods. He’s stealthier. More
intimidating, too.
Maybe that’s why he disapproves of me so much.
It’s kind of a pity, because a single glimpse of Marcus Miller makes my
tummy flutter.
With effort, I drag my gaze back to the politician in the mirror. He’s
scanning the bar, looking for a good booth or a pair of pretty legs, his
thinning blond hair all puffed up from the wind. He’s shameless about it, in
the way over-confident men always are. He feels like he’s owed this. That the
world should lay down in front of him and let him step on all its squishy bits.
Chewing my lip, I swivel on my stool by an inch. Give the politician a
glimpse of bare, tanned thigh below the hem of my dress, all while stabbing
at the melting ice in my glass with a straw. Highlighting my empty drink.
Come on. Come on. Come over here.
I’m a saucer of milk left out for a tom cat. A ripe, juicy blackberry in the
hedgerow.
The second he sees me, the politician’s smile gets even sharper. I watch it
all in the mirror from beneath my lowered lashes: the stark hunger that plays
over his face; the way he nudges one of his lackeys and nods at me; the way
he strolls over to greet me alone, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“You look thirsty.” I jump like I’m surprised, wheeling around to blink
up at him. I don’t have to crane my neck too far. This guy’s shorter than he
looks on TV—probably only a few inches taller than me. I bet he wears those
stacked heels.
“Oh!” My hand flutters near my chest, not quite landing. His gaze tracks
the movement, and he shuffles closer another inch, like he’ll touch the front
of my dress on my behalf. I pretend to gather myself, recovering from the
shock and overwhelming pleasure of being greeted by a man like him. “I
watched you on my television this morning!”
The politician grabs the free stool. He sits on it, gesturing for Harry. “Did
you? And did you like what you saw?”
No.
I beam at him, warm and friendly. “I sure did. You sounded ever so
smart.”
His teeth are extra white when he grins. “That’s because I am,
sweetheart.”
The politician orders a whiskey from Harry, and a vodka cranberry for
me. He doesn’t even ask what I’d like, just assumes that he knows me with
one glance. I smile and giggle and thank him, obviously, but when I risk
another glance at the P.I in the mirror, Marcus rolls his eyes.
I press my lips together, fighting a true smile.
Marcus knows I hate vodka. On the rare occasions he’ll deign to sit with
me, he always orders my favorite ginger ale, and he never tells me a single
secret. He knows better than that, but lord, I wish he would.
I’d never spill Marcus’s secrets. Never.
And he’d never do anything slimy like this guy, anyway.
It’s impossible not to compare the two men who are focused on me right
now. The politician has zoomed right past faux-charming to dismissive, like
he’s already judging me for sleeping with him before I’ve even done it. I’m
not going to, obviously, but he doesn’t know that. Asshole.
Marcus, meanwhile, has his customary scowl, but it’s not like he’s
judging me. He’s protective.
Though both men look to be in their mid-thirties, Marcus takes way better
care of himself, too. His skin has a healthier glow; his black hair is thick and
his shoulders are broad with muscle. For a brief, dizzying moment, I want
him beside me so badly my head spins.
“It’s going to be huge.” The politician’s bragging about some project that
he’s spearheading. A renovation of the city docks. “It’ll change the whole
face of the city. And you know, there are millions of dollars involved.
Millions.”
I bet. The docks are mob territory, and there’s no way they’re not
greasing his palms. Keeping some areas untouched; working others to their
specific requirements. I trace my fingertip over the rim of my glass, gazing at
him like he’s my hero.
“Oh, wow. Tell me everything.”
 He does, too. Or more than he should, anyway, and when he stands to use
the bathroom forty minutes later, he’s got that unsettled look on his face. The
one that comes from accidentally blurting out more than you planned; from
suddenly realizing you’re not as in control as you thought.
I see that look a lot.
“We’re leaving when I get back,” he clips at me, like this will reassert his
dominance. I’d bet my last dollar that his one night stands have the worst
time. “Fetch your coat now. Don’t keep me waiting.”
I nod, sweet and eager. And the second he disappears into the bathroom, I
hop down from my stool just like he said.
I don’t fetch my coat, though. I squeeze behind the bar, winking at Harry,
and go to hide out in the back room until the politician’s gone. I keep a stack
of old newspapers back there, and I’m working through the crosswords every
chance I get.
He thinks I’m so dumb because I’ve got a pretty face and a pair of boobs.
But I’m not the one who just confessed to corruption in a crowded bar, am I?
 Two

Marcus

I t’s always unsettling watching June work. It’s almost supernatural, the
way she draws people closer, the way she tricks information out of men.
God knows if I’d met her like this, bumbling past in a bar, I might’ve sat
down beside her too, though it’s not my usual style.
I might have bought her a drink. Tried to ask her on a date, and asked all
about her life, and told her anything she wanted to know. Fool that I am, after
an hour of her smiles, I’d probably have been ready to get down on one knee.
But that’s June. So beautiful it hurts your heart, with a husky laugh and a
wicked glint in her eyes. Looking at her reminds me of those nights at sea
with the navy, gazing up at a starry night and feeling tiny and expansive, all
at once.
She doesn’t mean it, though. The smiles; the laughter. The fact that I
know this and I still want her makes me the biggest idiot of all.
Harry has a ginger ale ready for June when she comes out of the back
room, the irate politician long gone. She picks it up with a murmured thanks
and weaves her way through the crowd, and though I expect her to find
another bar stool, she heads for my booth instead.
She must’ve got something good if she’s calling it a night already. I know
better than to ask, but curiosity burns in my gut, and I mull it over as she
picks her way across the floor. Is the politician sleeping with someone he
shouldn’t? Does he have some scandalous fetish, or secret dodgy donors?
A dusky pink sheath dress brushes against June’s curves as she walks, the
hem grazing her mid-thigh, and she’s twisted her brassy hair up in a high
ponytail since hiding away. The delicate slope of her neck draws eyes as she
passes, and I’m already sliding back to make room when she arrives.
“That was quick.”
June shrugs, dropping into the booth, pointedly ignoring all the eyes still
tracking her every move. Does it get tiring for her, being watched like this all
the time? It must do. But there’s no strain on her brow as she slaps an old
newspaper on the table, folded open to a half-completed crossword.
“He’s an idiot. Didn’t exactly make it difficult for me.”
This is another pattern with June. Once she’s done making fools of
arrogant men, she likes to unwind with a ginger ale and an old crossword. I’d
think it another carefully crafted behavior to charm her watchers, except
apparently I’m the only one who finds this so cute I could howl. The first
time I saw it, I practically had to bite my knuckles to keep from yelling how
perfect she is.
“Eleven down.” June spins the paper to face me, a pen balanced against
her slender knuckles. “Since you’re not working tonight, you can help me
with this.”
“Who says I’m not working?” I pluck the pen from her fingers, the brief
brush of contact sending my heart slamming into my ribs. Fuck, she makes
me so tragic. “This place is my office as much as it’s yours.”
June levels me a flat look. “You’ve been scowling at me all night.”
Shit. Busted. “Maybe you’re my mark.”
Or maybe she’s right and I can’t focus when June is in the room.
Knowing that she’s close and stringing some creep along for information—
that sets my teeth on edge. I can never look away until I’m completely sure
he’s gone and she’s safe, and even then, I make sure to walk her home.
On nights like this, June is my job.
Unpaid. Unacknowledged. Probably unwanted too, but her safety is more
important than her liking me.
And it can’t piss her off too badly because she’s sitting beside me in this
booth, so close the fabric of our clothes keeps brushing together. No body
contact yet. I can maybe kid myself that I can feel her heat against my side,
but this room’s too muggy for that to be true.
“You gonna tell me what you learned?” I fill in the letters as we talk, my
handwriting so much messier than hers. My letters score deeper into the
paper, the ink thicker and more vivid. Hers are pretty and delicate, just like
her.
June laughs softly. “Sure. For a price.”
Yeah, that’s what I figured. I wasn’t really asking anyway, but one thing
I’ve learned with June is it’s better to be the one asking the questions. She
deals in secrets, after all, and I’m full to the brim with my clients’
confessions. Running my mouth would be a disaster.
To be fair, June never seems to pry with me. But maybe it feels that way
for all her other marks, too. Asking the questions keeps me sharp. Keeps this
safe.
“What did he want from you?”
 June wrinkles her nose. “What they always want.” She plucks the pen
from my hand, finishing the answer I’m writing then moving to six across.
Her ponytail swings over her shoulder, hanging against her front like a shiny
rope. Her ginger ale sits untouched, moisture beading the glass and a wedge
of lime half sunken at the surface.
And this is another reason I should keep my distance from June. I know
for a fact that the things I think about her, the things I want—they’re about as
welcome as the mumps. I’m no better than that sleazy politician, panting after
her and wanting to touch, to taste, to fuck. Wanting to claim all her beauty, to
keep her all for myself.
“Don’t you get tired of it?” I should stop pushing. I know I should.
Because her shoulders are tensing, and if I keep going like this, I’ll drive her
away.
It would be a relief and a kick in the chest, all at once.
“Of course I do.” June shoots me a glare, and it fills me with perverse
pleasure. Those men she tricks for information, they only get her giggles and
smiles. Me? I get the whole range of her expressions. More of the pissed off
ones than any others, if I’m honest. “But I’m using the tools at my disposal.
You told me you respect that, Marcus.”
“I do,” I tell her quickly, because it’s true. I’m not shaming her, I just… I
worry. “But I’m trying to picture doing it, and I can’t see it. I don’t know
how you can stand those assholes for even a minute.”
June huffs out a breath, but she’s softened again. She fills in another clue,
and she must have shifted closer because now her shoulder’s brushing mine.
So warm and smooth through the fabric of my shirt.
“It’s just talking. But you couldn’t do it, Marcus. You don’t even smile
for me, and we’re almost friends.”
 “Yes, I do.” Surely I smile for June. She’s the only person I’m always
happy to see. And what the hell does she mean by ‘almost’ friends?
She snorts. “No, you don’t. I think I’d remember that.”
… She would?
I lean back in the booth, the hubbub of the bar making my ears ring. I
need this distance. This moment to collect myself. To remember that I can’t
trust June, and I can’t let myself think this is real. That’s how she does it—
how she gets under a man’s skin.
Some days, when my control’s wearing thin and I want her so badly I can
taste it, I think maybe I don’t care. That it would be worth letting her play me
for an hour or two of her sweetness. To bask in the warm glow of her smiles.
But my clients trust me with their secrets, and they’re at risk here, not me.
I clear my throat, shuffling along the booth, putting some much-needed space
between our sides. June gives me a strained smile, and every part of me
aches.
If this was real, I’d do anything for her. I’d offer up everything I am.
But it’s not real, and this is the only part of June I can allow myself: a
shared crossword, then a rainy walk home.
 Three

June

T here are a handful of places in this city that I go to regularly. They’re

my usual haunts, the places where I’m all but guaranteed to find
powerful men halfway down a bottle and behaving badly. It’s a mix of bars,
members’ clubs, luxury hotels and casinos, but this one… this is my favorite.
It’s a speakeasy. A relic from the twenties, complete with hidden
entrances and art deco tiles; glittering chandeliers and plush velvet booths.
Barely anything has changed with the place since it was a law-breakers’ den,
and the clientele are still about as trustworthy as rattlesnakes.
It’s gorgeous. Sin and salaciousness, draped in shadows. Doesn’t matter
what night of the week you visit, it’s guaranteed to be packed full of warm
bodies, the air vibrating with voices and swing music. People tuck themselves
in alcoves and slide their hands up skirts; they drink fancy cocktails and
confess all their darkest deeds.
I learned to dance in this bar. My grandma taught me, back when she ran
the coat check. Lindy hop, charleston, blues—all of it. It comes in handy
these days too, that’s for sure.
 A drink slides toward me across the bar, and I thank the bartender,
wrapping my fingers around the cool glass. The fiery taste of ginger spreads
over my tongue as I sip and I hum with pleasure, licking my top lip.
There are eyes on me. I can feel them like ghostly fingers on my skin, so I
play it up, tossing back my hair then taking a long pull from my straw. And
all the while, my eyes are fixed on the mirror behind the bar, scanning the
crowd for a potential target.
I love bar mirrors. What a great invention. They’re probably meant to
make the room look bigger, or to give the bartenders a heads up about any
funny business, but for me, they make my job a thousand times easier.
There.
My eyes flick to the corner of the room, drawn to a familiar set of vivid
blue eyes. Marcus Miller leans against the speakeasy wall, arms folded over
his chest as he watches me, his gray shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his navy
tattoos.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, then take another sip.
He keeps watching me.
Crap.
It’s not that I can’t work with Marcus staring at me like that. Lord knows
he does it often enough that I can tune it out, mostly. But on nights like
tonight, when I haven’t seen him for a few days and his attractiveness slaps
me in the face all over again…
It’s hard to concentrate. Hard to think about anything except the dream I
had about him last night. One where it was us tucked away in a darkened
room, the air thick and hot, Marcus’s big, scarred hands sliding up my bare
thighs and his teeth scraping over my throat, his weight pressing me into a
wall and squeezing the breath from my lungs.
 Gritting my teeth, I fix my gaze on the bar. I can feel without looking that
my nipples are poking at my dress. All it takes is a single thought about
Marcus, and ping! My body’s ready. Flushed and tingly and wanting. And
damn, I’m trying to look tempting but I’m not hanging up a welcome sign. I
slide off my stool before any of the men close to me can get the wrong idea.
Clutching my cool glass, I weave through the crowd, heading away from
the bar, away from Marcus, away from everything. I pass by a raised
platform, a live band playing under a shaft of golden light, the musicians’
faces dewy with sweat and their eyes closed in ecstasy.
Where to hide in a speakeasy? I’m spoiled for choice, but those alcoves
really are too convenient. I check a few before finding an empty one, then
glance around me before slipping past the heavy red curtain.
It’s dark. Hot. The air smells like dust, and my nose itches but I stay put,
too relieved to be alone for a moment without anyone’s eyes on me. Leaning
back against the wall, I feel every uncomfortable part of my body: the bra
strap digging into my collarbone, my sore feet from wearing heels, the lump
in my throat, the raw ache in my chest from seeing Marcus. Every time I see
him, it’s like a scab tears off and I bleed all over again.
I want him so badly.
And he won’t even let our shoulders touch.
“Crap.” My head falls back with a thump, the thick curtain muffling the
live music before it gets to me. Some of these alcoves have benches and
chairs in them, but not this one. It’s an empty dark space, but nothing more.
Guess that’s why it was unoccupied.
Okay. Slow breath in.
Slow breath out.
In.
 Out.
Ice clinks against the side of my glass as I sip my ginger ale. I can do this.
I can go back out there and dig up something worth knowing; I can ignore
Marcus’s scowl and act like he’s nothing to me too. Like we’re hardly better
than strangers.
But that dream was so good. Marcus pushed his fingers inside me and
called me baby.
“Stop it,” I grumble, telling myself off as I hide in this glorified cupboard.
My head swims as I push upright again. It’s too hot in here, too close, and
I need to get to work so I can leave. My body’s crying out for the long walk
home, the cool mist of rain clinging to my skin as I stride through the dark
streets.
I make it half a step toward the curtain before it twitches aside, a
shadowed figure crowding into the alcove. The music blares louder until the
curtain falls back in place.
“Occupied!” I blurt, my voice high and strangled. My shoulder blades
press back into the wall.
“What the fuck are you doing in here, June?”
The tension gusts out of my body as fast as it came. I’d know that rumble
of a voice anywhere.
“I needed a minute.”
Marcus shifts closer, and I can make out his features now. He’s scowling
deeper than ever, his eyes indigo in the gloom. “Are you meeting one of
those assholes? I can’t watch you in here. How the fuck am I supposed to
keep you safe?”
I blink at the P.I. There’s so much wrong with everything he just said, but
I start with the easiest part. “That’s not your job.”
 And it’s not, however much I might like it to be. It makes sense now,
though. All the staring. Marcus doesn’t want me for himself or anything—
he’s designated himself my bodyguard. So freaking noble.
Well, I don’t need a keeper. I focus on the righteous anger, pushing away
the dull hurt. The disappointment.
“The fuck it isn’t.” Marcus folds his arms, muscles bulging, and I can’t
help staring at the tattoos winding around his forearms. There’s an anchor, a
swallow, a pattern of crashing waves. Shipwrecks and tentacles. “You dangle
yourself as bait, but what happens if one of them catches you, June? What
then?”
I don’t want to hear this.
“I’m careful,” I snap. “I never go anywhere alone with one of them.”
Marcus spreads his arms wide. “You’re alone now!”
God. God. I hate that he’s right. I shouldn’t have slipped in here,
shouldn’t have let myself get overwhelmed like that. I’m lucky it was Marcus
following me in here and not someone else.
“It won’t happen again,” I tell him stiffly. “Alright? So you can stop
watching me now. In fact, I see no reason for us to interact at all.”
The silence that stretches between us is horrible. My gut twists and I feel
sick, like I’ve been drinking something much stronger than ginger ale. And
all the while, music pulses and the crowd chatters, the sounds seeping
through the thick velvet curtain.
“You mean that?” Marcus’s voice is guttural.
I shake my head, face crumpling. “No.”
His arms come around me before I realize I’m crying. My hands shake so
badly I slosh ginger ale down the front of his shirt, a dark strain spreading
over the gray fabric.
 “Shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” Marcus plucks the glass from my hand and ducks down,
placing it on the dusty tiles near our feet. “Come here.”
As he gathers me against his chest again, my vision blurs. For an awful
second, I thought maybe our hug was over before it started.
And this is it, surely. The only hug I’ll ever get from Marcus Miller. I ball
my fists in the front of his shirt and try desperately to commit every detail to
memory. There’s the hard swell of his muscles, so warm through his shirt.
The thud of his heartbeat so near mine. Even the sticky damp patch I made on
him, smelling like ginger and lime.
“I hate wearing heels all the time,” I whisper, and I don’t even know what
I’m saying. When I’m around Marcus, it’s like the roles are reversed and
suddenly I’m the one confessing to stupid things. Out of control. “My feet
really hurt.”
Marcus grunts, then his hands drop, gripping the backs of my thighs. I
barely know what’s happening before I’m lifted, legs wrapping around his
waist and the wall at my back.
My arms wind around his neck. Dangling in their heels, my feet throb
with relief. “Um. Thank you.”
Marcus huffs a laugh. “Anytime.”
If only that were true. I’d never want to walk again if Marcus could carry
me. I’d never sit on another chair if his lap was an option. And though I know
he’s just being noble again, I still sift my fingers through his dark hair where
it hangs right above his collar. The pale line of his scar is ghostly in the
darkness.
“Your hair is so soft.”
“June,” Marcus says seriously. “Are you having some kind of
breakdown?”
I drop my forehead on his big shoulder, giggling wildly. “Maybe.
Probably. I had the best dream ever last night, and it’s thrown me for a loop.
Now I can’t think straight and you’re here and I can’t stop crying.”
“What was the dream?” Marcus shifts me in his arms, resting more of my
weight against the wall. I tighten my thighs on his hips, drawing him closer.
“You were in it.”
The P.I can be so still when he wants to. Like a statue. “Was I?”
“Yeah. We were alone together. It was kind of like this. Except I wasn’t
crying or being weird and you were… you were…”
His hard chest presses against mine as he steps closer. It’s heaving up and
down, shifting with every breath he drags in, and his words are rough. Forced
one by one out of his throat. “What was I doing, June?”
“Kissing me.” God, why can’t I stop talking? I’m such a blabbermouth.
This must be how my marks feel, and let me tell you: I freaking hate it.
Especially as I watch Marcus’s scowl deepen and his face go cold and I still
don’t stop. “Touching me. You—you slid your hands up my dress, and then
—”
“That’s enough.”
I nod, miserable. Marcus is right. I shouldn’t say things like this to him.
How much do I hate it when men get personal like this, telling me everything
they want to do to me? It makes my skin crawl.
I pat his shoulder, aiming for breezy. “You can put me down now.”
My feet ache even worse once I stand on them again. My drink is
somewhere on the floor, but I don’t want to bend over and scrabble around
for it in front of Marcus. It’s probably full of dust by now anyway.
The P.I watches me wipe the mascara from under my eyes with my
thumbs, then smooth down my dress and fluff up my hair.
“You’re going back out there.” His voice is flat. “After that.”
“This is my job, Marcus.” Mine is twice as dull. And I hide my flinch
when Marcus laughs, loud and grating.
“Yeah, no kidding. You nearly got me then, June, I’ll give you that. A
few more seconds between your legs and I’d have handed over my soul.”
I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about and I’m sure it’s insulting,
but you know what? I don’t care. I’m tired and achy and I threw myself at
this man but he turned me down. I want to go home and sink into a bubble
bath. I want to kick off my heels in favor of fluffy socks.
“Marcus?”
He steps aside to let me past. “Yeah?”
“Do me a favor, okay? Go screw yourself.”
His startled laughter follows me out into the speakeasy, and it’s warmer
this time. More genuine. I don’t care about that either.
I tried my best, but Marcus made the call for both of us. It’s official.
He’s none of my business—and I’m none of his.
 Four

Marcus

J une is furious with me. If I couldn’t tell from her pinched expression and
tight shoulders, I’d know from the way she’s been avoiding me every
night. She’s left four bars this week already, hopping down off her stool the
moment she sees me walk through the door and disappearing with a swish of
long, bronze hair.
It’s fucking annoying. We both know she’s leaving to work somewhere
else, and how can I protect her when she treats me like a leper? Part of me
wants to trail her through the streets, insisting that it’s a free country and I
can keep her safe if I want to.
But I know how she’d hate that, and I couldn’t even blame her. If some
asshole followed me around, I’d want to knock their lights out too.
It’s mid-afternoon in Harry’s bar on a Tuesday when I finally get her to
talk to me again. Sunshine spills into the bar, filtering through the grubby
windows, and the place is empty except for a couple of regulars. June’s in a
booth, her newspapers spread out on the table, chewing on the end of her pen
as she frowns at a puzzle.
 She looks different when she’s off-duty. The changes are subtle, but
they’re there. Her sundress is looser and lighter, her hair coiled up and piled
on her head, and a dainty pair of glasses perch on her nose.
“Hey, honey trap. You wear specs, huh?”
June stiffens when she hears my voice, my boots drumming over the
floorboards as I stride closer. She looks so small in the booth, the cushioned
sides swallowing her up on all sides, but she keeps her eyes trained on her
paper like she didn’t even hear me.
“June.” She reaches slowly for her empty glass, stabbing at the crushed
ice in the bottom with her straw. “June. Look at me for a second.”
The way she sighs, you’d think I asked for some huge favor. An organ
transplant, maybe, or a hundred grand loan. Brown eyes flick up to me, the
same color as her favorite ginger ale bottles, and my heartbeat stutters.
“Marcus.” Her lips press together. “Always a pleasure. If you want to hire
me, you know my rates.”
I snort, folding into the booth beside her, and her eye twitches with
annoyance. Whatever. It is ridiculous. I find all the same dirt as her and she
knows it.
“You can’t avoid me forever.”
Another stab at the ice. “Sure I can. It’s a big city, Marcus.”
“Not that big.” It’d need to be a hell of a lot bigger to keep me away from
her. Unless she says it outright, unless she orders me to stay away, I’m
keeping June safe. End of discussion. “A little birdie told me something.”
June shrugs, filling out her crossword clue with a flourish. “Little birdies
tell me lots of things.”
She won’t ask, but I’ll still tell her. “Did you know that politician’s been
looking for you? Whoever you sold that tip to spoiled his image. Got him
taken off that big project. He’s put the word out, trying to find you.”
He won’t, obviously. No one in our world would ever hand June to a
creep like that, but that’s not the point. She needs to be careful. And I usually
charge for info like this, but June huffs like I’m a pain in her ass.
“He put a call out looking for a tall blonde. He doesn’t even remember
what I look like.”
I tuck my hands under the table, fighting the urge to touch her hair. “You
could be dark blonde. Blonde-ish. Blonde adjacent.”
June slides a different newspaper closer, switching to a new puzzle, her
expression serene. “Then he’ll need to ask for a blonde-adjacent woman. You
and I both know the devil’s in the details.”
She’s still barely looking at me. Avoiding my eye, stilted and tense and so
clearly waiting for me to leave that I feel sick. How long will this go on for?
All because I wouldn’t let her play me like her other marks, using my
attraction against me. I thought we respected each other more than that.
“June, listen to me.” I lean closer, lowering my voice. Over by the bar,
Harry’s polishing a glass with a white cloth, his eyes dreamy as he stares at
the wall. The faint strains of a baseball game play over a crackly radio, and
cars rumble past in the street outside. “Whatever grudge you’re holding, it’s
time to stop. Let it go. You tried to play me and it didn’t work; I was pissed
and you were embarrassed. If I can move on, why can’t you?”
For fuck’s sake. I was the one scraped raw for her entertainment. The one
who’s now haunted by the scent of her perfume, the feel of her warm weight
in my arms.
Her fingers tugging at my hair.
Her thighs squeezing my hips closer.
Jesus Christ. Scratch that—maybe I am still pissed, because there’s a
good chance I will never recover from those minutes in the alcove.
I guess my mixed up moods are playing over my face, because June’s
finally staring at me, bemused. And I can’t sit here for this, can’t be a bug
under her microscope, so I reach over and swipe her pen, scrawling my
number in the margins of her newspaper, my face hot.
“Here’s my cell. Ignore me if you want, but if you’re in trouble, you call
me. Understand? You call me and I’ll be there. Save that number.” The pen
drops to the table with a clatter, and I shove my way back out of the booth.
I’m too big all of a sudden, my limbs too long and so ungainly, and I can
barely look at her as I stagger to my feet.
“See you, Harry.” The old man raises a gnarled hand, waving as I stomp
back out of his bar. The street smells like exhaust fumes and wet concrete,
but it’s still a relief after that quiet, sunlit booth.
Well. I laid it all out there. Gave her my number. Now it’s June’s move.
And if she doesn’t call me… shit. I don’t know what I’ll do.

***

Part of me thinks June will never call, that she threw away my number, but
three days later, she does. I’ve had my phone within arm’s reach at all times,
the volume dialed up high like a grandpa so there’s no chance I’ll miss it, and
I still jolt so hard I nearly swerve my bike into oncoming traffic. It’s late,
spots of rain glinting silver under the streetlamps, and I pull over quickly, my
throat tight.
“June?” I scrabble my glove off, shoving my phone to my ear. I assigned
her a special ringtone so I’d know it was her. “What is it? Where are you?”
 The pause between my questions and her answer is the most agonizing
stretch of time I’ve ever felt. I sit rigid on my bike, sick with terror, amped up
with adrenaline. If that politician or some other creep got hold of my girl, I
swear to god—
“I’m at home,” she mumbles. She takes a shaky breath, then blows it out.
“I probably shouldn’t have called. It’s silly. But I keep hearing noises
outside, and something rattled my bedroom window, and I know you said to
only call if I’m in trouble but I’m freaking out. Will you come over?”
I did not say that, but there’s no time to argue. “Of course. Stay inside,
make sure your doors and windows are locked, and I’ll be there in twenty
minutes. Do you have a weapon?”
Another shaky breath. “No. Or… I guess there are knives in the kitchen.”
“Leave them there.” If she doesn’t know how to use them, they’ll only
make things worse. “Lock yourself in your bathroom and wait for me to call
you. Don’t come out for any other reason, okay?”
“Okay.” Fuck. June’s voice is so small. She sounds terrified, and I hate
ending the call but I need both hands to drive. “Um. Thank you, Marcus.”
“Don’t thank me,” I rasp. “I’ll always come for you, honey trap. Sit tight.
I’m on my way.”
Hanging up on her is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
 Five

June

Y ou’d think, considering the people I call friends, I’d be braver when
someone creeps around my home at night. You’d think I’d be used to
threats and weird noises and shifting shadows, but the truth is, I’m not like
the other badass girls who make their living on the wrong side of the law. I’m
a big scaredy-cat, and I freaking hate feeling vulnerable like this.
I chew on my thumbnail, staring at the bathroom tiles, sitting on the
yellow, fluffy mat with my back against the bathtub. I locked myself in here
like Marcus said, but it doesn’t feel like enough. What if he doesn’t get here
in time? Or even worse, what if whoever is outside does something terrible to
him?
Oh god. It would be all my fault, because I’m the wimpy idiot who called
him here. I whip my phone out of my pocket, dialing another number. One
for another friend who I can always rely on in a pinch, even though she
sometimes makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
Anietta answers on the fourth ring. “Hello, pretty girl.”
 She always calls me that. I take a deep breath and tell her everything,
spilling it all in a rush. She listens quietly, humming sometimes when I pause
for breath, and as we talk, I’m unsettled and calmed in equal measure.
Anietta tends to have that effect. She’s like a beautiful venomous snake:
wonderfully soothing and hypnotic to watch, even as alarm bells ring in your
head and your survival instincts scream to get away.
By the time I hang up, I’ve got two sets of reassurances. Two people
coming to save me from my own chickenshit nature. So embarrassing.
I made Anietta promise not to hurt Marcus; described what he looks like
just in case. She gave one of her smoky laughs and told me, “Of course I
won’t, darling. Pinkie swear.”
I’m still relieved when he calls me again ten minutes later, telling me to
come and let him in. My fingers are shaky, fumbling with the bathroom lock,
and it takes me ages to creep through my apartment but the P.I. doesn’t
complain. He stays on the line with me, and when I finally open my front
door, he ushers me inside and locks it behind us.
“Has anything else happened? Did you hear any more noises?”
“No.”
His shoulders relax a tiny fraction. “Good. I checked the perimeter and
the fire escape and the nearest alley, but there’s nothing. Only some boot
prints, and that could be from anything.” Two steady hands grip my
shoulders, and I melt into his touch. “June. You did the right thing by calling
me.”
It’s like he can hear my thoughts. Can sense my rising embarrassment.
Because if this was all for nothing, if I called Marcus and the city’s best
assassin to my apartment over nothing but a fox digging through my
neighbors’ garbage, I’ll die of shame on the spot.
 “Shit. I’m sorry.”
He tugs me against his chest. “Don’t be.”
And god, I never thought I’d feel this again: his arms around me, his
breath ruffling the flyaway strands of my hair. I bury my face in Marcus’s
throat and remember too late that I’m wearing pajama shorts and a crop top
and nothing else. My bare skin presses against his clothes, cool and damp
from the wind and rain, and he probably thinks this is another elaborate trap.
My heart throbs, raw and bruised.
Would he ever believe me? If I told him I love him? Sometimes it feels
like I could spill my whole soul to Marcus and he’d still think it was a trick.
“Come on.” He eases me back and takes my hand. Our fingers tangle
together and my gut twists. “We’ll check all the rooms together. Stay close.”
Stay close. Sure. That’s never been my problem with Marcus.
My problem is keeping away.

***

I live on the third floor in a pale stone building, the levels divided into eight
apartments. After combing through my rooms, Marcus leaves and checks
every single floor, knocking on my neighbors’ doors and asking if they heard
anything. I hover in my bathroom again, waiting for him with my arms
wrapped around my waist.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or sickened when the lady who lives below
me discovers someone knocked over a plant pot on her fire escape. At least
I’m not crazy, I guess, and as Marcus relays this information, I find myself
nodding. Steeling my spine.
Someone tried to break into my apartment. Sure. No big deal.
 “Pack an overnight bag.” Marcus drags me into my bedroom, yanking my
ratty duffel bag from on top of the closet. I don’t even have time to die inside
about Marcus being in my bedroom, seeing my white and pink polka dot bed
covers and the overflowing laundry hamper, because he’s bossing me around,
tugging open my drawers and rummaging through my clothes. “No, forget
that. Pack for a week. You’re not coming back here until the threat is gone,
so bring everything you need.”
He flings a fistful of balled up socks on my bed, the sleeve of his leather
biker jacket creaking. Two pajama shirts follow, and a white cotton bra.
Random handfuls of clothing rain onto my open duffel bag, and I stare at his
broad back, white static buzzing in my brain.
He’s here. He really came for me.
I wasn’t sure he would.
Marcus is tugging my underwear drawer open when I finally jerk back to
life.
“I’ve got it.” I stumble forward, flapping him away. Lord, please don’t let
him see the giant granny panties I wear on my period. I sort through the
tangle, only grabbing the cutest pairs, because apparently even in life and
death situations I’m vain as hell. “I need to call around my friends, see if I
can stay with one of them. Will you drive me there? Frankie crashed with me
for a while last month so she’d probably take me in. Or Harry might let me
stay in his back room, or Anietta—”
“What are you talking about?” Marcus glares at me over his shoulder,
stuffing my clothes into the duffel. “You’re staying with me. It’s the only
way I can keep you safe.”
I fall silent, choked by the sudden lump in my throat. For a man who
refuses to trust me an inch, Marcus is very quick to bring me into his home.
 The bedroom window sliding open makes us both freeze. Sweat breaks
out on my palms and my chest seizes, and I’m so relieved to see Anietta’s
dark head poke inside that I burst out laughing.
Marcus stares between us, eyes wide. “June.” He shifts slowly as Anietta
pours herself through the window, putting his body between us as she slithers
onto my bedroom floor. “Do you know who that is?”
“Anietta,” I say happily. “She’s my friend.”
“June, I’ve heard of her. She’s a fucking assassin.”
“But she’s not deaf,” Anietta calls, shaking her head sadly. She hops up
to her feet and extends a hand, a vision in leggings and a tight purple t-shirt.
“Don’t be rude, Marcus Miller.”
I don’t know what freaks Marcus out more—the fact that Anietta knows
his name, or the handshake. He glances over his shoulder at me afterward, his
jaw tight, and I bite my lip against another giddy laugh.
This night is so weird. I think I’ve felt every human emotion in the space
of two hours, all of them dialed up to eleven. And now Marcus is standing in
my bedroom, all scowly and manly and broad-shouldered, and Anietta is here
too, sizing the P.I up like she’s deciding where she’d slip the knife in first.
Meanwhile, I’m clutching two handfuls of bright lace panties.
I step in between them. “Marcus is helping me out. I’m going to stay with
him for a few days.”
“That’s good.”
“So stop looking at him like that.”
Anietta arches an amused eyebrow. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Yes, she does. I mean he’s mine. No stabbing or staring allowed, and
that’s final. And Anietta smirks but she must agree, because she leans against
my windowsill, arms crossed. “Someone climbed up the fire escape.”
 Marcus grunts. “We know that.”
“Do you know who sent them?”
I nod. “We have an idea.” I tell her about the politician; about the tip that
ruined his career and the rewards he’s offered to get hold of me since then.
Anietta hums and nods, then finally claps her slender hands.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Oh god. My eyes well up again, because I cannot handle people being
nice to me like this. It messes me up. Twists up my insides. “Are you sure?
You really don’t need to. Oh, but I can’t afford your rate—”
The assassin gives an airy wave. “Pro bono. You know I love you, pretty
girl.” She folds herself back through the window before I can manage a reply,
melting back into the night.
I stand in silence for a long moment, head spinning and pulse tapping
extra fast in my throat. Then I cross to my bag and shove my panties inside.
So. It’s happening, though not quite how I always wanted.
Guess I’m going home with the P.I.
 Six

Marcus

H ow many times have I imagined bringing June back to my place? Too

many to count. In my head, though, she always came willingly and not
out of fear, her body pressing eagerly against mine and her hands tugging at
my clothes. In some of my versions, we barely made it inside the front door
before I lifted her against the wall, slotting my hips between her soft thighs.
In others, she took my hand and dragged me to the sofa or the bedroom,
pushing me down and climbing on top of me.
We were frenzied. Desperate for each other, knocking over lamps and
sending shirt buttons pinging onto the floor. How else could I ever be sure
that it was real?
Hey, a man can dream. Pretty embarrassing to think of now, though,
especially as June tiptoes through my apartment, clutching the lapels of her
coat like I might try and tear it off her.
She’s barely dressed under that thing. Wearing the tiniest shorts and a
crop top.
Fuck, her skin was so hot and smooth.
 I clear my throat. “I’ll put your bag in the bedroom.” June blinks at me,
eyes wide, and my next words taste sour. “I’ll sleep on the floor. Obviously.”
No way am I ruining my neck sleeping on my sofa, and besides, if I’m on
the bedroom floor, any intruders would have to get past me to reach June. I’ll
be her tragic, pissed off guard dog.
“Okay. Thank you,” she murmurs, tucking an escaped lock of bronze hair
behind her ear, and some of my stewing anger boils away.
It’s not her fault I want her so badly I can’t think straight. She gets that all
the time. Hell, she makes her living off it.
“I like your place,” June says before I can move. I grunt and peer around
my apartment, trying to see it through her eyes. It’s only a few rooms, yeah,
and the living room and kitchen are open plan, but the ceilings are high and
you can see thousands of stars glittering through the big windows. And
there’s a lot of bare cement wall and exposed pipe, but that’s fashionable
these days, right? “You’re cleaner than I expected,” she adds.
Wow. Compliment of the century. I raise an unimpressed eyebrow, and
June’s cheeks turn pink. She rushes to keep talking, still clutching the edges
of her lapels.
“Sorry! It’s just—I’ve never seen a man’s apartment before. Not in real
life. And on TV, they’re always so messy and gross.”
Never?
Not even for…
Never?
“You take dates back to your place, then?” I cross to switch on a lamp as
we talk, trying to act casual, but she’s not falling for it. June huffs.
“Hardly. And I know what you’re doing, Marcus, so stop trying to work
me. If you want to know something, just ask me outright.”
 She’s such a hypocrite. I fix her with a glare. “After all those times you
flirted with me, June? After telling me about your little sex dream, trying to
make me lose my head? Bit rich.”
“I. Wasn’t. Working.” June grits each word out between her teeth,
stomping across the room and snatching her bag from my shoulder. She turns
on her heel, her floral scent hitting me in a wave, and then she’s gone.
Marching around my apartment, trying doors until she finds the bedroom.
The door slams shut behind her, the noise echoing through the quiet.
I stand there like an idiot. Tension roils in my gut, and I can barely hear
over my pulse thudding in my ears.
Because if that’s true, if June has really been trying to coax me closer all
these months, and I’ve done nothing but push her away…
“Fuck.” I scrub a hand down my face, late night stubble crackling on my
jaw. No, that can’t be right. “Fuck.”

***

“Are you comfortable down there?”

I shift against the floorboards, wincing at a knot in the wood. A squashy
pillow cushions my head and a tartan blanket doesn’t quite reach my feet.
“Yes.”
There’s a long pause. A rustle of sheets as she rolls over to face me. “We
can swap places.”
“Go to sleep, June.”
It’s dark in here, and after an hour in separate rooms, the tension between
us has retreated to a low simmer. That’s what we’re like, the two of us. A pot
heating on the stove, lid rattling and steam rushing, quiet for long stretches
but liable to boil over at any moment.
What time is it? I’ve lost all track tonight. None of it feels real, especially
with June here. When I glance up at the bed, her bare shoulder is unearthly in
the moonlight.
“We could both sleep in the bed,” she offers.
I swallow hard, chest drumming. “Not a good idea.” The last thing she
needs is to wake up with my cockstand digging into her ass. I’m not sure I’d
survive that particular humiliation. Even now, just thinking about sleeping
with my arms wrapped around her, my cock twitches and swells under the
sheet, lengthening into the world’s most miserable erection.
“Marcus?”
I sigh. “Yeah?”
There’s a loaded pause. Then: “Um. Nothing.”
I bury my face in my hands.
How long can we go on like this? Can I even keep June safe with all these
messy emotions between us? My back pops as I push upright, the sheet
pooling around my waist. I’m still hard, damn me, my cock pressing against
the front of my boxers, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I swear I can feel
June’s eyes trailing over my bare chest in the gloom.
“What were you going to say, honey trap?”
She squeezes the corner of the pillow. “I can’t tell if you mean it sweetly
when you call me that.”
I frown. “Of course I do.” Come on, I mean everything sweetly when it
comes to June. “But what would you rather I call you?”
“Baby,” she whispers, and I choke back a groan.
It’s not real, I remind myself, the dismissal automatic. That’s what I’ve
always told myself in moments like these: that I’m falling under her spell,
same as all those other suckers. That she’s working an angle, about to trick
all my clients’ secrets out of me.
But June told me earlier the sex dream wasn’t a lie. That she wasn’t
working all those times she flirted with me.
Fuck. I need to do it. I need to make the leap.
“Baby,” I repeat, trying it on for size. June makes a soft little whimper,
and god, I can’t hide from this anymore. It’s happening. It’s so fucking real.
The mattress springs ping as June shoves upright, swinging her legs out
of the bed. I barely have time to process her soft bare thighs before she slips
down, straddling my lap, her arms winding around my neck. I spread a palm
over her lower back automatically, the other braced against the floor, and I
wince as her ass meets the rigid length in my boxers.
“Sorry,” I grunt, but June sighs happily and grinds down against me. I
clench my teeth, already seeing stars, and stroke up and down her spine. Up
and down. Every time my palm moves from the soft cotton of her crop top to
her bare skin, the blood pounds harder in my cock. “I’ve been an idiot about
this, June. Haven’t I?”
A breathless laugh. “Maybe a little.” June guides my hand to her front,
cupping her own breast with her fingers over mine. “I don’t blame you,
though. I would have been suspicious too.”
She’s so soft under my palm. Warm and perfect and thrumming with life.
When I scrape my thumb over her nipple through her top, she moans and
bucks into my hand, the bead hardening beneath the cotton.
“This is real, though.” I know I should let it drop, but I need to hear her
say it. Need to hear the words.
June does me one better. With an exasperated sigh, she grabs my hand
again and slides it down the front of her shorts. My fingertips meet heat and
slick, swollen flesh.
“Can’t fake that,” June murmurs, her hips rolling, encouraging my fingers
to move. “Does that help?”
The air shudders out of me, then I’m squeezing her hip with one hand and
rubbing her pussy with the other. Sliding my fingers between her wet folds,
savoring her gasps as I nudge her clit. “Yes, it fucking helps. June. Baby, you
feel perfect down there. So wet and warm. Sinking into you will be like
sliding into a hot bath.”
She laughs, delighted, and when I press one finger inside her, her head
tips back and her hips lift higher. She starts rising and falling, riding my
hand, the moonlight glinting off the shiny waves of her hair, and god, she’s
so fucking tight.
She’s never done this before. It doesn’t take a genius to work it out after
what she told me earlier, and I know it’s messed up, but possessiveness
pounds through my veins at the thought.
Mine. My thumb circles her clit and June lets out a keening sound. I add a
second finger and her hips slam down harder on my hand. Mine.
I’m gonna be everything she ever needs. I’m gonna leave her so well-
fucked every single day that it never occurs to her to wonder about other
men.
I shove her crop top up, sucking her bared nipple into my mouth. It’s
hard, so perfect as it nestles against the roof of my mouth, and June cries out,
grinding herself down against my hand.
“Up.” I release her nipple with a pop. She’s wound tight already, and this
is roaring along too fast. I want to drag it out, want to savor June like a ten
course meal. “Kneel up, baby.”
 She does as I say, her fingernails digging into my shoulders. Even in the
blue-tinged shadows, June’s dark eyes are unfocused. Hazy with pleasure.
“Don’t tease me, Marcus. Please.”
“I won’t,” I promise, and it’s like swearing an oath. On my life: I will
never leave her wanting. I’d rather die. “But I want to taste you. Would you
like that?”
June’s breath catches, and then she’s nodding hard, her lip drawn between
her teeth. “Where do I…?”
After a quick glance behind me, I lay back on the floorboards again. The
knot in the wood’s still there, it’s still hard and uncomfortable, but I’d
cheerfully stretch out on a bed of nails for this. I pat my chest, staring up at
the angel looming over me. “Up here, baby. Come sit here.”
 Seven

June

Y ou know, I have dreams like this about Marcus at least once a week, so
part of me wonders if I’m even awake. Surely I could never be this
lucky. I could never have his big, muscled body beneath me, his bare chest
dusted with dark hair, his tattooed arms flexing as he strokes up and down my
thighs. His blue eyes watch me, so reverent, and the scar on his cheek is
almost silver in the moonlight.
When Marcus pats his chest and tells me to sit on him there, I just about
die on the spot.
What if I’m too heavy?
What if this is a dream and I wake up before the best bit?
I push myself to stand on wobbly legs and hook my thumbs in my pajama
shorts, because if this is a dream, I’d better hurry things along.
Marcus lets out a winded noise as my shorts drop onto his belly. I step out
of them carefully, then tug my top off for good measure too.
When I shuffle forward and straddle his broad chest, I’m naked. Flushed
and overheated, practically crawling out of my own skin.
 “I feel…” I scratch my fingernails over the swell of the P.I’s chest. He’s
somehow even bigger with his clothes off, packed with toned muscle and
dusted with old scars. “I feel like there are thousands of fire ants under my
skin. So tingly and squirmy and like—like if you don’t keep your hands on
me, if you don’t touch me everywhere, I might explode.”
Marcus’s throat bobs, even as one of his big hands cups my pussy. Just
covers it and holds it, like he owns it. “Then I’d better keep touching you.”
“Yeah.” My thighs shake as I crawl higher up his body. “You’d better.”
I have a vague idea of what he’s going for here, but I still squeak in
surprise when he grips my ass, guiding me forward until my bared pussy
hovers a few inches above his face.
Because god, I’ve never been so exposed in my freaking life. I bury my
face in my hands, and I must be the color of a tomato from head to toe.
“Relax,” Marcus says, like it’s that simple. “It’ll feel good, I promise.”
He kneads my ass as he talks, and okay, that is weirdly soothing.
I rock in his grip, peeking down between my fingers. “What if I suffocate
you?”
Marcus barks out a laugh. “No offense, June, but I think I can take you.
I’ll tip you off if I need to, okay? But that won’t happen. Besides…” He gets
his old scowl back as he stares between my legs. “What a way to go.”
My snort melts into a sigh as he lowers me down, his mouth surrounding
my pussy. It’s hot and wet and soft and gentle, and it’s overwhelming and not
enough all at once. I grip his bed frame beside me for balance with one hand,
trying to keep still so I don’t break his nose with my pubic bone or
something.
Crack. Marcus swats my ass, the hot sting spreading over my skin.
“Move,” he orders, voice muffled.
 Ooh-kay then. Such a bossy P.I.
I love it though, and I always have, and as I start to roll my hips, I’m
thinking dreamily of every time Marcus has bossed me around. Giving me his
number and ordering me to call. Telling me to be careful around my marks.
Checking that I’m staying hydrated in hot bars, and insisting on walking me
home.
I pluck at my nipples, head lolling to the side, watching Marcus through
lowered eyelashes.
He watches me back, tongue stroking deep inside me.
It’s always been like this, too. The both of us circling each other, staring
intently, neither willing to make the first move, nor able to focus on anyone
or anything else. The rest of the world fading away when the other is near.
When the men I trick for their secrets look at me, they see a pretty body.
An empty vessel, completely non-threatening. But when Marcus looks at me,
he stares into my freaking soul.
He’s the only man to ever be wary of me. To not underestimate me.
Oh god, I love him so much.
My breath hitches, and my throat is tight, but I will not be the weirdo who
cries during sex. I pinch my nipples harder, grinding down on Marcus’s
tongue, and he’s everywhere, lapping at all my aching, tingly spots. The
stubble on his chin rasps against my inner thighs.
“You taste so good,” he rasps, the words vibrating through my clit, and
that delicious buzz is what finally tips me over. What makes my muscles lock
and my breath seize.
I tense over Marcus, gasping and shuddering. The bed frame creaks under
my grip, and heat flashes through me, and I’m coming, and coming, and
coming. It drags out so long my ears ring, coaxed by Marcus’s relentless
tongue, and when after a short eternity I slide off him to one side, I’m made
of jelly. I’m a puddle on the floorboards.
His chest rises and falls. He’s panting, his chin slick.
“Fucking finally,” Marcus heaves, a big hand clapping down on my bare
thigh. For a moment, my chest pinches with startled hurt, but then I realize
what he means—not that I took too long to come, but that the two of us took
too long to get here.
Breathless and naked. Sticky and sweet.
I nod at the tent in his boxers. “Should I…?”
I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, but I’ve always been a quick learner, and
I’m almost as eager to get my hands on Marcus as I am to feel his touch on
me. But he must sense the exhaustion crowding my brain, must see my
eyelids drooping, because Marcus shakes his head, then pushes to his feet
with a groan.
“Not tonight. Come on, sleeping beauty.”
I take his offered hand and force myself to stand. What the hell did he do
to me down there? It’s like I’ve never walked before. Like I’m a baby deer.
My muscles are twitchy and wobbly, and I’m so wet and swollen between my
legs that just pressing my thighs together makes me hiss.
What would it feel like if he fucked me like this? If he licked me into a
wobbly mess, made me so sensitive I can’t stand it, then slid that hard length
inside me?
“Earth to June. You gonna sleep in the bed?” Marcus guides me to the
mattress, flipping back the covers.
“Sure,” I slur, crawling under the sheets. “If you sleep in here with me.”
He snorts, tucking the blankets up to my chin. “You drive a hard
bargain.”
 The mattress dips as he climbs in behind me. A strong arm wraps around
my waist, hitching me back against his hard body, and I sigh happily,
practically drooling on the pillow already.
“Do you think I’ll be staying here long?”
Marcus pauses, burying his face in my hair. Then, so quiet I nearly miss
it: “I hope so.”

***

Anietta texts me over breakfast. It’s mid-morning, shafts of buttery sunshine

spilling through Marcus’s huge windows, and I’m attacking a stack of
pancakes like it’s my mission in life.
The P.I glances over from the stove, a spatula in one hand and a dish
towel tossed over one shoulder. He’s thrown a gray t-shirt on with his black
boxers, and it clings to his muscles every time he twists or reaches for
something. Crap, why is that sight so hot?
“Is that your bloodthirsty friend?”
I blink at my phone, trying to parse the long line of emojis. She’s sent me
a poop, then a knife, then a skull, a ghost, a thumbs up. A dancing flamenco
lady and an ice cream sundae.
“I think it’s done. She’s, um. She’s dealt with the politician.”
“You think?” Marcus turns off the stove and marches over, plucking the
phone from my hand. A line forms between his heavy eyebrows as he stares
at the emojis. “Is this some code I don’t know about?”
“No.” I shovel another forkful of pancake into my mouth, covering my
mouth as I chew. “That’s just Anietta. She’s not a good speller so she prefers
talking in pictures. Like hieroglyphics.”
 “Oh.” Blue eyes dart to me, then away. We’re probably both thinking the
same thing: that if the threat is gone, there’s no reason for me to stay here
anymore. Our excuse is gone.
I wait for Marcus to tell me to stay another night just in case. He’s always
so bossy, but as the silence stretches, my heart sinks.
Was it a one time thing? Was I not very good?
Jeez, all I had to do was kneel there. How did I screw that up?
“I’ll drive you home after we eat,” he says, and it’s like a door slamming
shut in my chest. Ow. “I’m meeting a client this afternoon, and I need to do
some prep.”
That’s all he says. Nothing about calling me. Nothing about seeing me
later.
I nod, staring at my pancake stack. “Okay.”
But how can I eat now with a lump in my belly? I manage two more bites,
then shove my chair back, muttering something about taking a shower.
Suddenly, I want all the evidence of last night off me. Wiped from my brain
and from my skin.
Because it seems like we tripped straight from one miscommunication to
another. He wanted something casual, and I…
I wanted forever.
 Eight

Marcus

J une’s off with me again. I’m not surprised to find her in Harry’s bar mere
hours after dropping her home, but I am dismayed when she won’t meet
my eye. She’s on her favorite stool at the bar, nursing a soda, and though it’s
early evening, she’s clearly getting ready to work. Her hair’s shiny and
perfect, tumbling down her back in bronze waves, and her cream dress nips in
at the waist and accentuates her curves.
She’s so fucking beautiful. An angel in a beat-up bar.
I catch her eye in the mirror, but she ducks her head, playing with her
glass. Spinning it slowly on the wood, crushed ice and lime bobbing in the
pale liquid.
When some asshole in a tailored suit pulls up the stool beside her, my
whole body aches. I want to slam my head against the wall. No, fuck that—I
want to slam his head against the wall, then carry June out of here slung over
my shoulder. Take her home and remind her that she’s mine.
I slide into the nearest booth instead. Whatever I’ve messed up, I’ll still
look out for her, and I don’t trust this guy. I don’t trust any of the guys who
come sniffing around June, and I guess that says a lot about me too.
“Evening, sailor.” Harry’s called me that ever since he saw my navy
tattoos. He shuffles past my booth, carrying a box full of empty glasses and
bottles. “You keeping an eye on June-bug?”
I grunt, staring at her back. That asshole’s moving closer. “Always.”
Even when she’s pissed at me, I’ll watch over her. And what the hell have
I done now?
I didn’t pressure her this morning to talk about us if she wasn’t ready.
Wouldn’t let her touch me last night when she was too tired to make good
decisions. I didn’t even try and boss her into staying with me, though lord
knows I wanted to.
I can’t lick a girl’s pussy once then demand a lifelong commitment.
That’s unhinged. I know that. But I’ve got this sickly, creeping feeling that
maybe I could have. Maybe I should have.
If I did, would we be here right now? Sitting apart, the air tense between
us? Or would it be me on that stool, sliding closer until our arms brush?
Fuck this.
I explode out of the booth, and I must look insane to the people clustered
around the bar, but I don’t care. I need to get to June.
“Excuse me.” My words are polite, but my tone is not. I glare down at the
tailored suit, one possessive hand gripping June’s shoulder. I’m his exact
opposite: broad instead of lean, tattooed instead of clean cut, dressed in jeans
and biker boots instead of office wear. “You need something?”
The man’s already glancing between us, recalculating. He shakes his
head, sliding off the stool with his palms raised. “No, man. She’s all yours.”
She’s not a thing, damn it, not an item you can hand over, and even if she
were, he’s in no position to pass her off. The whole thing makes me so mad,
makes me so tense and sick and seething, that I barely feel it when June hops
down and grabs my hand.
“Come with me.”
She’s pissed off. It’s clear from the set of her shoulders, from her snippy
little tone, and I’m furious too, but our fingers still tangle together as she
leads me into Harry’s back room.
It’s a small, musty space filled with squishy sofas and coat racks and a
bookcase. A kettle and coffee cups, and the stack of old papers June combs
through for her crosswords. It smells like old paper and ink, like stale coffee
and the damp street outside.
She drops my hand as soon as we’re alone, wheeling around to glare at
me. “Marcus! What the hell is your problem?”
What is my problem? Now that’s a million dollar question, and the
answer starts and ends with the avenging angel glaring at me like she’s about
to conjure a lightning bolt. And I know I had no right to scare her mark off
like that, but I can’t sit through this tension between us for another minute.
We’ve done months of that. Years, even, and I’m done with it.
We’re sorting this out. Right fucking now.
“I don’t care about your work.” I head that off before she can take us
down that road, raising my palms. “I mean, I’ll be honest: I don’t love it. I get
sick every time some asshole thinks he has a right to you. But I respect that
you do it and you’re good at it. As long as you let me protect you, that’s
fine.”
“Okay,” June grinds out, and her tone says it all: Get to the point,
Marcus.
“But you wouldn’t even look at me out there, and I can’t go back to that,
June. We came so far last night. Do you really want to take three steps back?”
 Her shoulders slump. She looks so exhausted. “No.” Her brown eyes are
fixed somewhere in the center of my chest, on the gray t-shirt I threw on this
morning after my shower. The shower I took with her in the next room,
curled up in my bed. How the hell did we get here?
“But…” She wets her lips, and looks so fragile suddenly. It cracks me
open down the middle and makes my hands twitch toward her. “But I, um. I
misread things. I didn’t want a one night stand or whatever it was, and I’m
just, if we’re keeping things casual, I need to protect myself, you know? I
need to put up some barriers.”
My boots thud against the worn carpet. I’ve heard enough, and June gasps
as I crowd her against the wall.
There’s a cork board behind her shoulder. As I press her against it,
pinning her in with my arms, a postcard from Las Vegas slips on its pin,
dangling askew.
“This isn’t casual.” Fuck. Even when I’d never touched her, it wasn’t
casual. I took one look at June and no other woman existed for me like that.
“I didn’t want to rush you, but screw it. Baby, you’re mine.”
June blinks up at me, her brown eyes wide, her lips parted, and I’m
already yanking her dress up. Running my greedy palms up her thighs. The
door’s still half open, the sounds of the bar floating down the hallway, but I
don’t go to close it. Now that I’ve started this, a meteor couldn’t make me
pause.
“You can play those other idiots, but I need that settled, June. Say it. Tell
me what I want to hear.” I’m being so pushy, demanding things I have no
right to, but she likes it. June sags against the wall, cheeks flushed, and she
seems weak with relief. She’s arching against me, rubbing up on me like a
cat.
 “I’m yours. I never want anyone else, Marcus. Ever.”
“Good.” June squeaks as I lift her, hitching her thighs around my waist.
The cork board rattles against the wall. “Because I’m gonna give you
everything you ever need.”
Our movements are quick and choppy. We don’t have time and privacy
like last night—all we have is this burning need for each other, and it sets my
teeth on edge. I all but snarl when she reaches between us, unbuckling my
belt with shaking hands, and when she draws out my cock, it looks how I
feel. Flushed and angry.
Not with her.
Never with her.
With every asshole who ever laid eyes on her.
I kiss June hard, reaching under her dress to yank her panties to the side.
She’s warm and wet, the moisture slick against my knuckles.
“Ready?” I’m shuddering with tension, a tendon standing out on my neck.
I suck a harsh bruise onto her throat, breathing hard.
“Please.” June squirms in my grip, trying to notch me at her entrance.
“Now, Marcus. Do it. Please.”
And I was right. Sinking into June is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt.
Even with her tight channel strangling me, even going painfully slow so she
can adjust, it’s everything I thought it would be. I skewer her to the wall,
pressing my weight onto her, and the bite of her fingernails into my back is
the best nip of pain.
“Oof,” June wheezes once I’m all the way in. She’s blinking at the
ceiling, brown eyes hazy. “You’re—yikes. You’re really big. You feel even
bigger than you look.”
Is that a compliment? Whatever. It takes every ounce of my control to
hold still and grate out my next question. “Do you need me to stop?”
June shakes her head fast, her hair dancing and tickling my throat. “No.
Oh my god, don’t you dare. Just—just go slow to begin with. Okay?”
Obviously. I’m not a complete caveman. I want her to like this, damn it,
to come away addicted to how good this feels, because now that I’ve felt the
wet heat of her pussy, I’m going to crave it every damn hour.
We both suck in a breath as I draw out. Not far. Just an inch.
When I sink back in, June lets out a ragged groan.
“How’s that?” I speak through gritted teeth, hips pumping between her
thighs. June’s wriggling against me, hips rolling to meet my slow thrusts.
There’s a deep flush crawling up her throat, and every time I push inside her,
it goes a little easier. She’s so slick, so eager, sucking me inside. “You like
that cock?”
June whimpers and nods. “More. Give me more.”
I speed up a little. Give it to her harder, thrusting deep in time with my
heartbeat.
“You’re so fucking perfect, June-bug,” I grind out, borrowing Harry’s pet
name for her. I want to call her every sweet thing I can ever think of. Want
her to try on terms of endearment like hats. “Do you have any idea how right
you feel? Look at you bouncing on my cock. Taking it all like such a good
girl.”
June’s moan is strangled. Her breath hitches, and I pump harder.
Yeah, she’s a genius at reading people, but I can read her. I know which
buttons to press; which things she’ll like. She’ll see.
I’m going to turn this angel inside out. I’m going to scoop all the darkest
fantasies out of her brain, and I’m going to ruin her for other men.
But first, I’m going to feel her come on my cock.
 I palm her breast. Pinch her nipple and give it a rough twist, then reach
between us in search of her clit as June shudders out sigh after sigh in my ear,
turning her face to lick the salt off my neck. Our flesh slaps together, and I
can hear myself grunting over the distant sounds of the bar.
It’s base. Primal and shameless, and June’s so wet that it trickles down
her thighs.
“You’re. Mine.” I pinch her clit hard, punctuating my words with two
hard thrusts, and June’s thighs tighten around me like a vise. She comes with
a low moan, and I feel her inner muscles twitch and flutter. Feel her clamp
down on me, getting impossibly tighter, wetter, and hotter.
I wait until she slumps in my arms, boneless again with her flushed
forehead pressed against my neck, and then I wedge myself deep and finally
let myself go.
It hurts. Pain and pleasure and longing crackle up my spine, and I empty
everything I have inside of her. The relief makes me lightheaded and I sway
us against the wall, the cork board rattling, a pin dropping to the floor.
When I finally set her down, we’re both mussed and sweaty. A line of
white streaks down June’s thigh.
“Be careful. Don’t step on that pin.” I grab a paper towel from Harry’s
coffee station, sending an inner apology to the old man as I kneel at June’s
feet, dabbing carefully between her legs. I clean every inch of her, taking my
sweet time, and as her fingernails scratch at my scalp, my eyes drift closed.
My forehead thumps against her stomach.
She wraps her arms around my shoulders and holds me tight.
“This is it,” I grate out. “We’re all settled. I’m yours and you’re mine.
Right, baby?” I squeeze the towel so hard my knuckles ache, waiting for that
final confirmation.
 “Right.” It’s a single word, but it floods through my raw insides, soothing
and cool. Above me, June laughs. “This is it.”
I rock back on my heels and smirk up at my girl. “Well. We got there in
the end.”
 Nine

June

F ive years later

I weave through the speakeasy crowd, my beaded dress brushing against my

thighs. Eyes follow me through the darkened room, raking me from head-to-
toe, and I hide a smile, smoothing the fabric over my hips.
Even now, years after giving up my honey trap work to partner in
Marcus’s P.I firm, I still preen automatically under the attention. It’s
powerful. A rush. It means I could dig up some juicy secrets tonight if I
wanted, if I didn’t have a more pressing engagement.
“Look at you.” My husband meets me on the crowded dance floor, blues
music pulsing around us, heady and slow. “Every person with a pulse wants
you tonight.” His shirt is open at the collar, suspenders looped over his broad
shoulders. He came here from meeting a client, and he’s got the savage glint
of triumph in his blue eyes.
The meeting went well, then. That’s good. That means the tip I coaxed
out of a corrupt businessman last week was useful.
 Honestly, even if it wasn’t, it was worth doing for the way Marcus bent
me over a table immediately after. He appreciates my talents, uses them
freely in our work, but he’s always a little rougher with me afterward—in the
most delicious way. Watching other men flirt with me frays his control.
“Did he go down okay?”
I left our son with our friend Tabitha. Or more accurately, with her
responsible husband. “After some coaxing.”
Marcus smiles, relieved, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “The
mark will be here in an hour or so. We’ve got some time.”
The crowd twists and flows around us, moving in time to the throbbing
music. It’s hot in here, the backs of my knees already damp with sweat, but I
grin as Marcus sweeps me into his arms.
He spins me slowly, our legs slotted together and his palm spread over
my back. Our hands are clasped, my other arm draped over his shoulder.
“My grandma worked the coat check here. She taught me to dance,” I
murmur, pressing my words against his neck.
“Not like this.” Marcus dips me to make his point, his muscles flexing as
I sink down in his hold.
I choke out a laugh, swept upright again. Our legs press together, and my
core aches. “No. Not like this.”
We spin again, the low lights blurring. Marcus is everywhere,
surrounding me, so hot and hard and strong.
Maybe we can find an empty alcove before the mark gets here.
“These look good.” I flick a suspender, and he grins, stopping our circles.
We stand in place for a moment, pressed together and rocking.
“A gift from Harry.”
“That’s sweet. I think they dated, you know. Harry and my grandma.”
 We fall quiet, but it’s nothing like the strained silences that used to stretch
between us. It’s comfortable and heady. It’s bliss. And as my husband dances
me slowly across the floor, my chest is almost bursting with how much I love
him.
I brush my lips against his ear. “Want to find a free alcove?”
Pressed against my front, his chest seems to swell. Marcus changes our
direction, spinning us slowly toward the edge of the dance floor. “What do
you think, June?” he rumbles. “I’m not fucking dead.”
I throw my head back and laugh, blue and purple lights pulsing overhead.
Oh yeah, I’ll get him in an alcove alright. Then I’ll drop to my knees and
show him exactly how good he looks in those suspenders.

***

Thanks for reading Honey Trap! I really hope you liked it :)

For another sweet little sinner, check out Anietta’s story in Blade. The first
time we meet, I put a knife to his throat. Then he kisses my hand. So I follow
him home.

And for a bonus instalove story, grab your copy of Beauty & The Kingpin.
I’m a florist. He’s the king of the underworld.

Happy reading!

Cassie xxx
 Teaser: Blade
I realize she’s following me as I stride down the train, a shape darting past on
the platform outside. It’s late, the carriage empty except for a few huddled
drunks and exhausted shift workers, their earbuds shoved firmly in their ears.
Silver streaks of rain flash past the dark windows like shoals of fish, and I
wonder idly whether the pretty little assassin carries an umbrella.
The table I choose is far away from anyone else. There’s an abandoned
coffee cup and an old newspaper on one corner so I clear the area, brushing
down each seat ready for Anietta.
The train doors rattle open. Ahead of me, she steps onto the carriage,
already grinning, her dark hair twisted into a bun and speckled with rain.
She’s dressed all in black, her clothes close-cut, and there’s no obvious sign
of her knife. No blood speckles and not a single hair out of place.
Christ, but that was quick. Something told me I might see her again, but
already? I barely left the mansion thirty minutes ago. We’re still on the
outskirts of the city, both in the trickiest part of our jobs: the getaway.
That’s the danger with cons. Folks part with their money in an excited
haze, but then their common sense kicks in. They start asking questions,
though far too late.
I make myself scarce long before they change their minds. But still, this is
the dangerous part. All the close calls I’ve ever had, they’ve come after I’ve
closed a job, and with a briefcase full of cash at my side, I’m a walking
target.
 “That mansion was one of the ugliest I’ve seen.” Anietta chats with me as
casually as though we’re discussing the weather, approaching my table and
sinking down into a cushioned seat with a sigh.
If she plans to kill me, this would be a good place to do it. No one’s
paying us any attention, and the train security camera is clearly broken,
dangling from a twisted cable at the end of the carriage.
“They’re often like that.” I tilt my head, trying to gauge her mood. Is she
smiling because her job went well? Or because she’s about to finish me off
too and loves the chase? Or hell, is the assassin just happy to see me? Lord, I
hope that’s it. For more reasons than one. “Insecure old men who need
everyone to know how rich they are. No one will shed a tear, even if you
made a mess of him.”
Anietta straightens, clearly affronted. Her pink lips purse, and her gray
eyes narrow.
Fucking hell, Flynn. Don’t aggravate the killer.
“That came out wrong.” I raise my palms in surrender, though we both
know if this tiny slip of a girl wanted me dead, I’d never breathe again. It’s
all for show, but it seems to mollify her. Anietta scowls and sinks back in her
chair, and I push on. “I meant no one will mourn him. I know you’re a
professional, kitten.”
I’m pushing my luck by calling her that again, but I can’t resist. She is a
kitten. An adorable, hissing little feline.
“I didn’t kill him.” She scratches a fingernail at the edge of the table, still
grumpy. Lord, I wish she’d meet my eye. Every time she does, it’s like an
electric shock zaps through me. “I knew it might cause trouble for you,
figured it might draw attention, so I decided to come back another day.”
Ah, shit. She called off her job for me? In our world, that’s a big fucking
deal. The sort of thing you’d think twice about doing even for someone you’d
known a long time. And meanwhile this girl knows me for five minutes then
throws out all her plans?
“Anietta.”
Scratch. Scratch. Judging by the way she’s carving at the table, she’s
having second thoughts about that decision now. Her pointy little chin is set
and her eyebrows are pinched.
“Anietta. Look at me.” Maybe it’s not smart to boss around the assassin,
but when she blinks up at me with those wide eyes, I don’t care. I reach
slowly across the table, telegraphing my every move, and when I wrap her
hand in mine, her fingers are cold. “Thank you, sweetheart. You didn’t need
to do that.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. She’s gone quiet again, like back in
the room. So still and cautious. “Uh. Yes. You’re welcome.”
The train jolts beneath us, drawing away from the station. Yellow street
lamps drift past the window, faster and faster, the train juddering along the
tracks, and I’m still holding her hand. She’s still letting me. As her fingers
warm up in mine, I can hardly believe my luck.
“Are you headed home?”
Anietta shrugs.
Okay.
“Will you let me walk you?”
She shakes her head this time. My gut sinks as she draws back her hand.
Well, what did I expect? I’m too old for her, I insulted her, and I’ve
already cost her a job tonight. Of course she doesn’t want me walking her
home. Besides, knowing where she lives—that would require trust. And who
in their right mind ever trusted a conman?
 No one, that’s who. And I can’t even be bitter about it. As my ma used to
say, I’ve made my bed and now I can lie in it.
“Perhaps you’ll text me, then.” I pluck an old ballpoint pen from a nearby
table, then gesture for her hand again. The fact that she gives it, that she lets
me write my number on her skin, makes my heart drum faster. Maybe it’s not
too late to find someone to trust me after all. “Perhaps you’ll let me know
when you get home safely.”
As if she’s truly in danger from walking home alone at night. Anietta is
the danger, but she gives another shrug, staring at the number on her hand
with bemusement. It’s not a no. I guess that’s the best I’m going to get.
We sink into silence. It’s not a long train ride into the city. Barely twenty
minutes of shrieking rails and rumbling metal, the exhausted passengers
slumped against the foggy windows. The few times we go through tunnels,
plunged into darkness and thundering noise, I can feel Anietta still watching
me. Staring across the table, her expression raw.
I can’t read her. For once in my life, I have no idea what someone’s
thinking.
Jesus. And some people always feel like this. How the hell do they get
anything done?

***

Check out Blade here!

xxx
 About the Author
Cassie writes outrageous, OTT instalove with tons of sugar and spice. She
loves cookie dough, summer barbecues, and her gorgeous cat Missy.

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