Rubbing It Out

By Lexxie Couper

He’ll defy his country for her.

Lincoln Lincoln Wells has done dubious, dangerous things for his government. Things no man would ever want the woman he loves to know. When that woman almost discovers what he really does for a living, the agency “fixes” the situation. As far as the world is concerned, Lincoln is dead. Niki’s best friend knows he’s still alive…but he’s ninety-nine percent convinced his sister isn’t going to blab.

For twelve month, Nikalene Macintosh has struggled to come to terms with Lincoln’s sudden death. Her best friend’s big brother, he’s been off-limits to her for as long as she can remember. The fact he died without knowing how she felt devastates her further.

So when Bebe slips up and Niki discovers Lincoln is alive, well, someone’s butt is going to get seriously kicked.

Neither are capable of fighting the desire they’ve felt for so long, despite the peril of Lincoln’s past life—nor are they prepared when a mysterious man, obsessed with Niki, drastically increases the danger.

Rubbing It Out from International Award Winning erotic romance author Lexxie Couper, is the highly anticipated book 5 of her bestselling Stimulated series. You will love this action packed romantic suspense, complete with secret agents and a dangerous assassin. This heart pounding adventure will have to turning the pages from start to finish!

Books in the Stimulated series:
1. Blowing It Off
2. Revving It Up
3. Switching It On
4. Plugging It In
5. Rubbing It Out

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Boutiques
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781946363930

Lexxie Couper

Lexxie Couper started writing when she was six and hasn't stopped since. She's not a deviant, but she does have a deviant's imagination and a desire to entertain readers with her words. Add the two together and you get erotic romances that can make you laugh, cry, shake with fear or tremble with desire. Sometimes all at once. When she's not submerged in the worlds she creates, Lexxie's life revolves around her family: a husband who thinks she's insane, an indoor cat who likes to stalk shadows, and her daughters, who both utterly captured her heart and changed her life forever. Contact Lexxie at [e-mail], follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/lexxie_couper or visit her at www.lexxiecouper.com where she occasionally makes a fool of herself on her blog.

Book preview

Rubbing it Out

Stimulated, Book 5

Lexxie Couper

Published 2018 by Book Boutiques.

ISBN: 978-1-946363-93-0

Copyright © 2018, Lexxie Couper.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

Manufactured in the USA.

Email [e-mail] with questions, or inquiries about Book Boutiques.

Blurb

He’ll defy his country for her.

Lincoln Wells has done dubious, dangerous things for his government. Things no man would ever want the woman he loves to know. When that woman almost discovers what he really does for a living, the agency fixes the situation. As far as the world is concerned, Lincoln is dead. Niki’s best friend knows he’s still alive…but he’s ninety-nine percent convinced his sister isn’t going to blab.

For twelve months, Nikalene Macintosh has struggled to come to terms with Lincoln’s sudden death. Her best friend’s big brother, he’s been off-limits to her for as long as she can remember. The fact he died without knowing how she felt devastates her further. So, when Bebe slips up and Niki discovers Lincoln is alive, well…someone’s butt is going to get seriously kicked.

Neither are capable of fighting the desire they’ve felt for so long, despite the peril of Lincoln’s past life—nor are they prepared when a mysterious man, obsessed with Niki, drastically increases the danger.

Dedication

For Michelle. Who is very, very patient.

Acknowledgements

Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs, Tibbs Design

Prologue

Location Classified

Twelve months ago

"Jesus, this bastard deserves to die. Lincoln adjusted the focus on his Pulsar night-vision binoculars as the man fifty yards away stroked the hair of a young homeless boy. You sure the order hasn’t come through yet?"

Negative.

The low grumble behind him made Lincoln grit his teeth.

Or maybe it was the way their target had moved on from hair stroking to groin cupping.

Gonna cut your fingers off one by one, you sick fuck, Lincoln muttered. Diplomatic status or not.

Careful, Crowley. Your emotions are showing.

Without removing his stare from the diplomat, Lincoln flipped off his partner.

Do you need a refresher course on what we do for a living?

Lincoln flicked the man—now hunkering down beside him, the scope of his SR98 sniper rifle raised to his eye—a quick look. We kill people for our government. No questions asked. BTW, what’s your real name?

Pete.

You don’t look like a Pete.

And you don’t look like a Lincoln. Did you pick Crowley or were you assigned it?

Assigned. Please don’t tell me you actually picked Snyder as a code name? Snyder the Sniper? Really?

Snyder chuckled, tracking their target through the scope. Hell no. Some wanker higher up the food chain at the agency has a lame sense of humour.

Lincoln let out a dramatic breath. I’d have had to reevaluate our relationship if you’d given yourself that name, and after four missions together I’m too settled in.

Snyder snorted. Too old, you mean? Too set in your ways? What are you? Fifty?

Oi.

Snyder chuckled again, still watching their target. Kidding. But seriously. For our line of work, you’re an old man.

True. Also true was the fact that Snyder had something to do with Lincoln lasting so long. When you had a partner you trusted with your life—as much as one could trust another in their line of work, that was—you counted every day alive as a gift. Lincoln didn’t believe in God, or any higher power except the one who passed down their orders, but hitting thirty-three in a fortnight was a pretty good thing.

He returned his attention to the diplomat, his night-vision binoculars doing nothing to hide the man’s grotesque paunch.

Thirsty mosquitos filled the humid night air with a low whine. The smell of refuse, stagnate water, and tropical vegetation blanketed the area. Down in the slums, the diplomat—who, among other things, had been charging an exorbitant amount of money to those in Australia who wanted to indulge in their most depraved desires without the risk of Australian law hanging over their heads—opened the mouth of the young street kid and inspected his teeth.

Lincoln snarled. Cutting the bastard’s fingers off wasn’t good enough. Pulling out his molars—also one by one—would help. How much longer before we move? he asked.

Snyder shook his head. No clue. Not soon enough. This prick’s affecting my appetite.

Lincoln nodded, even as he swallowed back a wave of revulsion at what the diplomat was currently doing to the kid. "And here I was, thinking you were emotionless. Do you need some time with the agency’s shrink when we fin—Holy shit. Niki?"

Niki? Snyder asked. What are you—Shit, there’s some chick heading toward Dutton!

Lincoln bolted, binoculars forgotten, Snyder forgotten, his orders to stay undetected while in the foreign country forgotten.

He sprinted through the dense scrub, Glock drawn, stare locked on the young woman storming toward the diplomat in the shantytown.

Who the fuck is Niki? Snyder demanded via their comm link in his ear.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he threw himself into a sprint.

And slammed into Nikalene Macintosh, his little sister’s best friend—the person he’d spent the last four years trying to forget—at the very moment she began to swing what looked like a cricket bat at the corrupt diplomat’s head.

Chapter 1

Sydney, Australia

Right now

"You don’t want that." Rubbing his eyebrows, Lincoln shook his head at the young woman glaring at him from the chair.

Yes, I do. Do it. Now.

He let out a short laugh. No, you don’t.

It’s a butterfly. Why wouldn’t I want a butterfly?

It’s a butterfly dripping blood.

So? The young woman shrugged. It’s my body.

"Yes, it is. But I’m the one permanently branding it with ink, and I’m not tattooing a blood-dripping butterfly on your right tit, no matter how impressive your forged parental-permission note is."

The young woman—change that, teenager—tried a different tack. Pouting with all the sexual allure of a seasoned seductress, she directed big puppy-dog eyes at him, fluttered her lashes, and trailed her nails up and down the deeply plunging neckline of her tank top. I know you’re the best artist in Sydney. Everyone says so. I’m the best at something, too. She ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip. I can show you if you’d like?

And you’re gone. Lincoln curled one hand around her upper arm, tugged her from chair B, and marched her out of his studio.

Wait, what…no! Oh man! She dragged her feet and struggled against his arm. C’mon, Uncle Linc.

Don’t ‘Uncle Linc’ me. He stopped at the door and fixed her with a level stare. "For starters, we aren’t blood relatives. Secondly, your real uncle would kill me if he knew you were here, trying to get inked at your age; and thirdly, does Pete—or your parents, for that matter—have any idea how you’re dressed?"

A dramatic eye-roll, followed by a huffed you’re no fun, were the only answers he got before the phone on his reception desk started ringing. Don’t try this anywhere else, kiddo, he ordered, pointing a finger at her before striding back into his studio.

Yeah, yeah. See you later, Uncle Linc.

Fucking Uncle Linc, he muttered, heading for the reception desk. This is what he got for staying late. His receptionist was gone for the day. He should have shut up shop an hour ago and hit the bar with Ruckus as planned. His cousin owed him a beer after a clandestine job he’d asked Lincoln to do was abruptly cancelled. Instead, he’d let Pete’s niece in when she’d come knocking on the locked door. Maybe he should give his ex-partner a call and tell him what the girl was trying to do.

Snatching up the phone, he lifted it to his ear. Demon’s Ink Tattoo Studio, he growled. It’s late and I’m grumpy, so this better be short and sweet.

Lincoln?

His heart ricocheted up his chest and into his throat.

He hadn’t heard the voice on the other end for twelve months. Three-hundred and sixty-seven days, to be precise, and still she had the same effect on him as she’d always had. The only effect he’d never been able to train his mind—and his body—against.

Damn it.

Niki.

Her name whispered through his head, a caress, a tease, a goading taunt.

An accusation.

Twelve months since he’d seen her last. Spoken to her. Twelve months of denied contact—ordered by his superiors but also self-imposed—and yet a day hadn’t passed when he hadn’t heard her voice in his mind. Asking him where the hell he’d come from, and why he had a great big freaking gun in his hand.

Nikalene Macintosh.

Ah, fuck, Niki. He was screwed.

Lincoln? The surprise in her voice unsettled him. To his knowledge, Niki had only ever been unsettled three times in her life. Each time, he’d been responsible.

When he hadn’t told her to leave his home five years ago.

When he had five minutes later.

And when he’d appeared out of nowhere in Bali.

"It is you, isn’t it?"

How the hell had she found him? She was supposed to think he was dead. That’s what the agency had told him. For her safety, she had to believe him dead, killed in a car accident in Indonesia a week after he’d stopped her from bashing a cricket bat into the head of an Australian diplomat.

I have no idea who Lincoln is, he snarled. This is Crowley.

Shit. Crowley? Why had his brain thrown that name out? He hadn’t been Crowley for a year now. Crowley had died along with Lincoln.

Bullshit, she said. Fierce agitation replaced the surprise in her voice. Don’t tell me it’s not you, Lincoln. I know your voice. I hear it every night in my head when I’m alone in bed.

Ah, hell. What was that? Did she do that on purpose? She’d always been smart, clever at manipulation, even with that goddamn bleeding heart of gold of hers. Did she deliberately use the word bed to screw with him?

I don’t know who this Lincoln is that you keep talking about, love, he said, heart racing. But I’m not—

The connection cut dead.

Frowning, he pulled the phone from his ear. What the hell? Had he convinced her? Had she given up? It wasn’t like Niki to give up easily. It wasn’t in her nature. She was a tenacious, stubborn slip of a girl who didn’t have the good sense to back down, even when her life—

The studio’s bell chimed as someone swung the door open.

"I knew it was you."

Her voice—not a recording of it, not an amplification of it via a phone’s speaker; her actual voice—flayed his senses, a heartbeat before he turned to stare at her.

God help me.

The feisty goddess he’d spent so many years of his life trying not to lust after stood barely a few feet from him, arms crossed, hip jutted, chin tilted, indigo eyes flashing indignant rage. Her long strawberry-blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder in a loose braid that did little to control its natural curl. He still remembered what it felt like slipping through his fingers. Faded and frayed jeans covered legs he knew where toned from years of playing field hockey, and the white T-shirt hugging her torso only emphasized how much the Aussie sun loved her Scottish complexion.

It was that Scottish background that accounted for her feistiness. At least, that had always been Niki’s excuse after clashing with the authorities during whatever latest protest rally she’d attended—or instigated—during her late teens and early twenties.

Huh, early twenties. She was only twenty-four now. Still in her early twenties. And he was in his mid-thirties. Too old for her. He’d always been too old for her, but his body, his heart, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that.

And neither had Niki when she’d knocked on his door at the age of nineteen.

It’s not me. He turned away from the sight