“Jesus, I wanna f**k those tits,” Gage muttered. “You sure she’s off-limits?”

Pic growled. “Yeah. I’m sure. Anyone who touches her will answer to me. D’you think she’s puttin’ on a show for us? I don’t need that kind of trouble.”

“No idea,” Gage replied. “She’s missed her calling. Bitch should be doin’  p**n .”

Couldn’t argue with that.

“Fire her,” he said suddenly. “Find someone else.”

“We’ve had the prospects cleaning for a week now. We need them on other things, and I guess Bolt had a hell of a time finding her in the first place.”

She stood, then leaned back against the counter, cocking her head as she said something to her co-worker. The fact that the counter was the perfect height to shove her down and f**k her on didn’t escape his notice.

“We got a file on her?”

Gage leaned over and opened a drawer, pulling out a folder. Pic flipped it open. Not much there. London Armstrong, owner of London’s Cleaning Service. Thirty-eight years old, which surprised him. She looked younger. A lot younger. Not that the security cam had the best resolution, but still . . . She’d been in business six years, solid reputation. Total civilian. And she might be single, but she had custody of a kid—some high school girl. Not hers. A cousin.

Shit.

London didn’t sound like the kind of woman who’d be down for a one-night stand. Nope, despite her sexy little dance, she had a clean, wholesome look, which killed him, because he didn’t do clean. He liked his girls filthy dirty and without strings . . . not to mention young enough to follow his orders without too many questions. Women her age were old enough to know better.

“Tell Bolt to find someone else ASAP,” he muttered. “And until then, hands off. I’m serious.”

Gage laughed.

“Just f**k her and get it over with. It’s obvious you want to.”

“Eat shit,” Pic muttered, rubbing a hand across his stubbled chin, because Gage was right. He did want to f**k her.

He wanted to f**k her a lot.