Free Bodyguard Lockdown by Donna Young

hand and slid his palm over her rib cage, just inches from her breast. He felt adolescent, copping a feel, so he forced his hand to stop.
    “Sandra, wake up,”he whispered, hoarse with restraint.
    Her eyes blinked open. Widened at the desire he didn’t hide from his features. The silent question that haunted his eyes.
    Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Without a word, she shifted closer until her lips touched his.
    Desire—held in check for far too long—broke free. With a groan, he pulled her closer. The rhythm of the horse set a sexy, heatedtempo as their bodies bumped, pressed, bumped.
    Booker dropped the reins, let the horse have his lead.
    Suddenly, Sandra found herself lifted and turned so that her legs straddled his waist. The hard result of their kissing pressed against the apex of her thighs.
    His hands slipped under her shirt, slid over her back; his fingers ran up her spine, then down, until each hand grippeda butt cheek and brought her in closer.
    They both groaned.
    His mouth found hers. His tongue was merciless as it stroked and burned inside her mouth.
    Booker tapped the horse with his heels.
    The horse stepped into a slow canter. Sandra gasped; her hands gripped his shoulders, felt the muscles flex beneath her palms.
    Sandra lost all track of her surroundings. His hands graspedher hips, holding her tight against him while their bodies matched the horse’s gait.
    Heat pitted in her stomach. Liquid fire flowed between her thighs.
    “Booker,” she whispered. Her hands slipped behind his head, bringing his mouth to hers. Her fingers shoved the scarf aside, buried themselves in the thickest part of his hair.
    His hand delved between her cheeks, felt the wet, softcenter of her.
    The sun broke free of the horizon. Sandra blinked into its harsh glare.
    She pulled back, humiliated. “This won’t solve our problems.”
    Booker shuddered and pulled away. “All right. We’ll play it your way,” Booker answered, his voice little more than gravel and glass shards.
    “Now isn’t the time,” she said, straightening her shirt. “But our timing has always beenoff,” she acknowledged with a weak smile.
    “We’re tired,” he reasoned, his eyes on the horizon, not her. “We only have a couple more hours before the sun gets too hot for us to continue.”
    He jabbed a finger at the mountains in the distance. “We should hit the foothills right about the same time. If I have my bearings right, there is an oasis hidden in the crevices at the base.”
    “Malaquo,” Sandra murmured, forcing herself not to rub the ache in her heart. “I know it pretty well.”
    Unable to sit close to her, he set her forward and slid off. Deftly, he swung the reins over the horse’s head. “Time to give the horse a break.”
    When Sandra shifted to slide off, he stopped her with a raised hand. “Stay. You don’t weigh enough to make a difference.”
    “And it wouldn’thurt for a little distance, right?” she observed, still smarting from the moment.
    “The only distance I’m worried about right now is between us and Trygg’s hired guns. Whether they are Al Asheera or mercenaries,” Booker replied. “How much do you know about desert survival?”
    “Enough to know we’re in serious trouble.”

Chapter Eight
    “Watch out!”
    A wail of temper hit the air and jaws snapped at Booker’s shoulder.
    “Damn horse,” he roared, then glanced at his shoulder, saw the small line of red marring the T-shirt.
    “Are you okay?” Sandra patted the horse’s neck from her seat in the saddle, felt the muscles quiver beneath her touch.
    “Something’s got him spooked.”
    Her eyesscanned the stretch of sand around them, glaring in the evening sun.
    Booker grabbed the reins, held them tight in his hand. Then talked in low, easy whispers. The horse tugged once, then lowered his head with a snort.
    “Now we have an understanding.” Booker rubbed his nose, then loosened the reins. “Good boy.”
    “How are you with kids?” Sandra