Page 3 of Trigger's Temptation

Gritting my teeth, I throw myself over the wall, using every ounce of strength to avoid face-planting. By the time I reach the end of the course, my body is screaming, and I drop onto my back, gasping for breath. Benton looms over me, his gaze lingering on my chest a little too long.

Annoyed, I sit up, chug some water, then stand, forcing him to meet my eyes instead of looking down at my cleavage.

“That was better, Faber. I think you just set a new women’s record.” His smirk is the kind that makes every woman in the department swoon. Every woman except me.

“Thanks, Benton,” I mutter before walking off. I need a hot shower and a long massage.

In the women’s locker room, I strip out of my sweaty workout clothes and wrap a towel around myself. Pinning my damp hair up, I step into the shower and let the hot water soothe my aching muscles.

I’m alone in here, and it’s kind of creepy, but women in my line of work are rare, and to find one here at this ungodly hour is even rarer. I have no choice but to be here in the middle of the night, but luckily a few co-workers are here at all times of the day working out, so I know I’m not completely alone.

Except for Benton. The guy sets my danger radar off. I try to avoid working out with him as much as I can, but lately, he’s been here at the same time as I have been. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or purposeful. Either way, I don’t like it one bit.

I close my eyes and exhale, letting the hot spray soothe my aching muscles, pushing thoughts of Benton away. Instead, my mind drifts to the man I met a few weeks ago. The one with the darkest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Rugged. Handsome. Dangerous in the way only a biker can be. Confidence radiated from him, setting my underused libido into overdrive. His deep, rough voice had sent chills down my spine, even when he threatened to put his boot up my ass. No man has ever turned me on the way he did.

I never got a full look at his cut when he slammed into my pickup, but when he called his president, Capone, to the scene, my ovaries practically sang at the way those piercing blue eyes locked onto mine in the glow of Capone’s headlight.

Trigger.

I know exactly who the Royal Bastards MC are, and if he’s one of them, that means one thing, I can’t have him.

I could use my resources to find out who he is, but that would be illegal, and I’m not about to risk my career over a man. No matter how sexy he is. Instead, I’ll have to conjure up the memories I have of him leaning against the side of my pickup. His long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him, not hiding the fact that he was well-endowed.

I bite my lip. What would those big hands feel like on my body? Would his full lips worship every inch of me beforedragging his tongue down my slit? Would his thick fingers find the spot no man ever has?

My hand moves lower, fingers brushing against my folds as I imagine his touch. A low moan escapes my lips as pleasure builds, my mind conjuring the image of him above me, driving into me with deep, punishing thrusts. My fingers brush along my folds and deeper while I imagine it’s the mystery man’s tongue and fingers trailing inside of me.

I come undone, breathless and trembling. I finish my shower, guilt already clawing at me. I can’t be lusting after a man like him. My uncle would lose his mind if he knew I had the hots for an outlaw.

I’ve worked hard to get where I am today. A woman in a man’s world has to fight twice as hard to earn half the respect. But this is the path I chose, and I won’t let anyone stand in the way of my goals.

In my line of work, trust is a luxury I can’t afford. My last partner in Detroit proved that the hard way. He was more interested in getting into my pants than doing his damn job, and it almost got us killed. Worse, it got a teenage boy killed. Someone we were supposed to protect.

Instead of owning up to his failure, he pinned it all on me. Told the Chief that if I “wasn’t a woman,” he wouldn’t have been so distracted trying to “protect me” and could’ve done his job.

Bullshit.

If the bastard hadn’t spent more time trying to corner me against a wall, the kid would still be alive.

I could’ve fought it. Could’ve stayed and exposed him for the predator he was. But I was tired. Tired of the politics, the egos, and the way the system bends for men like him. So, I put in for a transfer far, far away from Detroit and the assholes who run it.

That’s how I ended up in Los Angeles.

Of course, there were other reasons I left Detroit. Reasons I don’t want to think about right now.

Turning off the water, I grab the towel and dry myself off before heading to my locker. I slip on my bra, and as I reach for my underwear, my stomach drops.

They’re gone.

The hairs on my arms stand on end, a slow creep of dread slithering up my spine. I flip open my locker, pat down my jeans, and dig through my hoodie, but I find nothing. My breath tightens in my throat. No way I lost them. No way I forgot. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck as I glance over my shoulder, the empty locker room suddenly feeling too quiet, too still. Someone was in here. Someone took them.

Shaking off the unease, I finish dressing without them, throw my bag over my shoulder, and leave the locker room. The gym is silent as I cross the floor, my footsteps echoing against the wooden panels. Stepping outside into the early morning chill, I slide into my pickup, lock the doors, and start the engine.

I head to my apartment, ready to get some sleep, even though it’s rare for me. I need to get home and try before I have to be at the casino I’m set up to work at in the morning. I need to be on my A-game to pull this off.

Morning comes too soon, my alarm buzzing obnoxiously. Groaning, I slap it off and roll over, blinking against the sunlight streaming through my window.

Rolling out of bed with a stretch, I head into the bathroom to start the shower, use the bathroom, and then head into my tiny kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Once the coffee is going, I shuffle my way back into my bathroom and take a quick shower.

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