“Let you what?” I say, genuinely puzzled. Then I realize that shit, she’s right! Now that I think about it, I do feel something in my back. “Oh.”
El comes up to me, and I take a deep breath, shuddering as her feminine scent fills my lungs like a drug.
“Turn around,” she says, her voice still soft, gentle, like she actually gives a shit.
I turn, breathing deep, taking as much of her scent into me as I can. Then I wince as she pulls out a shard of glass that’s as big as a slice of New York pizza and holds it up so I can see.
“Huh,” I say, raising an eyebrow and shrugging. “Fancy that. Think it’ll leave a scar?”
“Nothing some Vitamin E oil can’t fix,” she says with a giggle. “After a few stitches, of course. You really didn’t know you were wounded?”
“Wounded?” I say with a snort. “Honey, wounded is when you step on an IED and it blows your fucking leg off. This ain’t wounded. This is just . . . ow! What was that for?!”
El pulls out a smaller but sharper piece of glass, this time forgoing the gentleness and making sure I felt it. “With all due respect to the horrific injuries the men and women of our military have suffered in the line of duty, if you call me Honey again, I’ll stick that big piece of glass right back into you, all right?”
I grin and turn my head halfway. “Torture is against International Law, you know,” I say.
“So is telling a woman she’s yours,” El replies. “Seriously, what the hell was that?”
I take a breath and shake my head. I have a chance here to back down, to apologize, say I was out of line. But I can’t do it. I said what I said because I meant it.
“That was instinct,” I say after a long pause. I’m still turned away from her, but I feel her body tense up at the calm confidence in my tone. I take another long breath, exhale, and slowly turn to face her. “And you feel it too.”
My words make her flinch, and in that moment I know I’m right. But she swallows hard and shakes her head like she’s fighting it, like she’s good at fighting it, good at fighting herself. I know about that shit too.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says finally, shaking her head again. “You know what? I’m done here. Thank you for saving my life. Good luck to you, Edge. Have a nice life.”
She heads for the door like she seriously thinks she’s just going to strut out of a U.S. Army base when we’re in lockdown. I take two steps and casually place my big hand on the door, holding it closed with my weight. She pulls on the handle, but it doesn’t fucking budge.
“Um, excuse me,” she says, staring at the door and not at me, like she’s purposely avoiding eye contact, like she’s afraid of what I’ll see in those brown eyes of hers.
“You aren’t going anywhere until I get the all-clear,” I say. “And then you’re going home.”
She whips around and glares up at me, a mixture of panic and determination in her eyes. “Home? I have a meeting in three hours! I’m not going anywhere except to that meeting!”
I take a breath and rub my eyes. It occurs to me that I didn’t get a chance to hear what this woman was even doing in this building, in this country.
“You have a meeting,” I say in disbelief, repeating her words just to make sure I’m hearing right. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you’ll have to reschedule, Ms. Ellen. No one’s going in or out of this building for at least the next eight hours, maybe longer.”
“That’s not acceptable,” she says firmly, crossing her arms over her bulky bulletproof vest and standing as tall as she can. “I’d like to speak with your commanding officer, please.”
“I’m in charge of you . . .” I say, crossing my own arms across my chest and standing toe to toe with her. I can feel the electricity between us, and it’s mixing with my natural competitiveness, my deepest instinct to never back down, never submit, never lose. The result is an arousal that’s rocking me from the inside, taking me to the edge, dragging me over. And so I let myself go over the edge, and I lean close to her and finish my sentence softly, in a gentle whisper that I know is going to drive this poised, composed, classy woman right over that edge with me:
“I’m in charge of you . . .” I say again leaning so close I can see her eyelashes move from my breath. “. . . honey.”
I see the anger coil up like a snake in her, and I grin because I know she’s going to lose control, that her instinct is going to ride along with that wave of anger, ride all the way up from where she’s been burying it, push its way to the forefront, make her see that what I said is true, that she’s mine, all mine, fucking mine!
The slap comes hard and quick, and I let her strike me once, knowing that the adrenaline will only get her arousal to spiral upwards . . . spiral upwards to where it meets mine.
“That’s it,” I whisper, clenching my jaw as my cheek stings from the hard, perfectly placed slap. “Let it out. All the instinct in you. All the fight in you. All the woman in you.”
I see the shock in her eyes, and I know she’s feeling it, feeling everything coming to a head, emotion and instinct bubbling up like a volcano. She’s already taking gasping breaths like she’s losing her shit, and I know it’s time to take control, to take her over the edge with me, all the way over.
So when she swings her arm again I grab her wrist and hold tight. Then I slam her against the wooden door, making sure I put my other hand behind her head so she doesn’t get hurt.
And then I kiss her.
I just lean in and kiss her. I kiss her hard on the lips, with complete authority, absolute certainty, not giving a damn that she tries to bite my fucking tongue off. I just kiss her, just fucking kiss her.
By God, I kiss her.
5
EL
The kiss comes so quick I can’t stop it, and I just bite down hard, not sure if my teeth are closing on his lips or his goddamn tongue. Instantly I taste blood in my mouth, hear blood pounding in my head, feel blood pumping through my veins. My vision has turned red too, it seems, and all I can think about is blood, danger, anger. The way this man got me hot and pissed off in the first two minutes of meeting him. The way he looked at me and said You’re mine. Bullets pounding the walls! Glass flying through the air! The way he leapt at me to protect me. His body covering mine. His lips smothering mine. Am I letting him do this because I’m grateful he saved my life? Could I stop it if I wanted? Do I want to stop it?
My body is still reeling from being slammed against the door, but somehow I remember the way he cupped the back of my head with his big hand so I wouldn’t get hurt. It seems crazy since I don’t know this man, but although Edge’s strength and size is overwhelming, somehow I’m certain he wouldn’t hurt me, couldn’t hurt me, would die before hurting me. He didn’t even think before shielding me with his body when the bullets were flying. Hell, if he was worried about me destroying his career, it would have been perfect if I’d been taken out by some maniac terrorist, wouldn’t it? The man is all instinct. He’s all instinct, just like this is all instinct.
The thoughts are swirling around like dervishes dancing in my head, and I swear I can feel the intelligent businesswoman in me arguing and rationalizing with some other part of me, some other part of the woman I am, a part that lives deep inside me, lives deep inside every woman, a part that’s winning this argument, winning the battle, winning the goddamn war. I feel myself losing control, like I’m being pulled over the edge of a cliff, falling free and fast, falling . . . falling . . . falling . . .
And before I know it I’m kissing him back, opening my mouth and letting him push his tongue inside, letting him taste me, letting him claim me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear my brain screaming that I’m in shock from the attack, that I’m vulnerable against his strength, that I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .
I’m his, comes the rest of that thought, and I know it came from a different pl
ace, a place that has nothing to do with my brain. A place called instinct. A place called destiny.
A place called forever.
“Edge,” I gasp as we break from that breathless kiss. “Edge, I . . .”
“Shut up,” he growls, his breath hot against my neck, his hard body pressed tight against mine, his hands holding my wrists firmly against the door. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. You’re mine, Ellen. You know it. I know it.”
I blink as I try to focus, try to breathe, try to make sense of what’s happening. Edge towers above me, his body like a mountain in front of me. Every bit of common sense tells me that I have no power here, but I don’t feel threatened. I don’t know what that means, but I just don’t feel like I’m in danger. I feel safe with him. I feel good with him. I feel like a woman with him.
A woman about to be claimed by her man.
I feel Edge’s body coiled like a spring, his muscles tensed up and ready like an animal about to pounce, a beast ready to take what’s his. A chill races up my spine, breaking like a wave against the rocks, flooding my body with arousal as I feel the wetness between my legs, sense my body reacting to his, ready for his. But Edge doesn’t move. I can feel him breathe heavy against my skin, take deep breaths of my scent. His crotch is pressed firmly against my mound, and he’s hard as a rock, big as a post, his cock pushing through his fatigues like a goddamn torpedo. But yet he holds still, like he’s waiting for something.
And then I understand.
He’s waiting for me.
He’s got me held down and powerless, physically dominated and ready to be taken any way he wants. But he won’t do it without my permission. He knows I’m his, but he’s showing me that even the beast in him is under control of the man, that the discipline of the soldier rules his body and his mind, that he won’t let his arousal off the leash until I say yes.
The realization sends a shudder through me, and I almost break down as I look up into Edge’s blue eyes, see the need on his chiseled face, feel how hard he’s trying to control himself. Again I feel that other woman inside me, that secret part of me that’s responding to Edge’s dominance in a way I didn’t think was possible, didn’t think was me!
“What if I say no?” I whisper up at him.
“You won’t say no,” he grunts without even a nanosecond of hesitation.
“I might say no.”
“Go ahead. Say no then.”
I raise an eyebrow as I feel his bulge move against my crotch. “Will you let go of me if I say no?”
“I’m never letting go,” he whispers with a grin. “I can’t let go. I fucking won’t let go.”
Again that shudder goes through me when I see the mix of boyish playfulness and dead seriousness in his eyes. I blink and force a trembling smile, taking a breath and shrugging against the door. “Then why even ask the question?” I say.
“I didn’t ask the question,” he says. “I just told you to shut up. But instead you’re talking. Talking too much, I might add.”
“That’s how it works in civilized society,” I say. “People talk before they . . .”
“Before they what?” he whispers, leaning in and running his tongue along my cheek in a way that’s somehow both delicate and filthy at the same time.
“You know what . . .” I mutter as Edge presses his body closer to mine, begins to firmly grind his hips into me until I swear I’m so wet there’s probably a dark patch on my khaki slacks.
“You can’t even say it, can you?” he whispers as his tongue moves down my neck, leaving a trail of his saliva on my face like he’s just marked me. “It’s gonna take some work, I see.”
“What’s gonna take some work?” I whisper as Edge reaches down and undoes the straps on my bulletproof vest, raising it up past my head before tossing it aside and sliding his hand around the back of my neck.
“You,” he says, slowly tightening his grip around the back of my neck, his fingers travelling up and grabbing a fistful of my hair down by the roots. He tilts my head up and holds it in place until I have no choice but to look directly into his eyes.
“Excuse me?” I say. “What part of me needs work?”
Edge smiles and taps my forehead gently with his other hand. “This part of you. You need to learn how to turn this part of you off, to open yourself to the deeper part of you, the part of you that existed before you were even born.”
I blink up at him. “You know that’s impossible, don’t you?” I say firmly. “By definition there can’t be a part of me that existed before I was born.”
Edge just grunts again, grinning like he’s won. “If we’re talking definitions, then technically you existed for nine months in your mother’s womb before being born, actually. So you’re wrong, honey.”
I feel my face go flush as I realize he’s right. “Thanks for mansplaining,” I mutter with a frown. “And I thought I told you never to call me honey again.”
“How about Babycakes?” he says. “Sugarplum? Let’s see . . . what else is sweet? How about Beetroot?”
“Beetroot?” I say, unable to hold back a snort. “Who the hell calls someone Beetroot?!”
Edge grunts, his body shaking as he chuckles too. “I dunno. Probably some vegan hippie somewhere in California. Doesn’t work for ya?”
“Does not work for me,” I say with a smile. “How would you like it if I called you . . . Bigfoot?!”
“I’d be cool with that,” he says. He raises an eyebrow and looks down at me. “I’m all for making your sexual fantasies come true.”
“Ohmygod, that is not a sexual fantasy!” I blurt out, blinking three times and then laughing as Edge makes some awful beast-noises that sound more like a wild boar than Bigfoot—not that I know what Bigfoot would sound like.
“OK, then what is?” he says after one more comical Bigfoot-grunt.
“What is what?” I say.
“One of your sexual fantasies,” he says.
“Um, that’s a little personal, don’t you think?”
He takes a slow breath and shrugs. “I think we’re getting pretty fucking personal here, Babycakes,” he whispers with that wry grin.
I take a breath and do my best to not smile. Then I blink and clear my throat, breaking eye contact as I reply. “I don’t have any,” I say quickly, feeling the blood rush to my face as a voice inside me screams Liar!
“Liar,” says Edge, tightening his grip on my hair. Slowly he places his other hand on my neck and holds it there without applying any force, his touch delicate but dominant, gentle but oozing power in a way that makes me fucking melt. “Tell me.” He leans in and kisses me on the mouth, carefully but still with that tremendously dominant power hovering in the background like a shadow. “Tell me, El. Your filthiest fantasy. Your dirtiest dream. Your darkest—”
“Stop it!” I shout, gasping as I try to turn my head away but can’t. Suddenly I feel like I’m choking even though Edge isn’t squeezing my throat. Yes, I’m choking, but it’s coming from inside me, from deep inside, so deep I don’t want to confront it, don’t want to face it. I close my eyes so tight my head hurts, but I can’t stop the images that are starting to force their way into my consciousness, images I’ve had ever since I came of age as a teenager, shy and self-conscious, bigger and taller than every other girl in class, bigger than most of the boys too. Images that ashamed me, made me think there was something wrong with me. Images of being with a man bigger than me, massively bigger than me, so big he made me feel small, made me feel delicate, made me feel light like a feather, tiny like a doll, petite even though I was never gonna be petite.
“You know why I was named Edge?” he whispers as I fight back the shame of those most private fantasies, the memories of me touching myself in the dark in my bedroom, imagining being that feather-light doll, being taken by a man big enough to handle a big girl like me.
I blink
as I focus back on Edge. I look into his eyes and almost break when I see the understanding buried in the hardness of his steely gaze. Somehow he understands me, I realize as I stare up at him, puzzled at how it’s possible to feel this strange familiarity with someone I met just today.
“No,” I say, relieved to divert the conversation. “I don’t know anything about you, remember? Why were you named Edge?”
He takes a breath and exhales slowly. “Because I was born on the edge of life and death,” he says softly. “Three months premature. Doctors gave me a thirty percent chance of survival. They told my parents that even if I made it past my first birthday, I’d be undersized, sickly, broken from birth.” He snorts and shakes his head. “I flatlined three times, sinking into death but somehow hanging on to the edge and pulling myself back, like I was clinging to life with my fucking fingernails, refusing to fall off that edge when it would be so easy to slip away into death.”
I stare up at him towering above me like a freakin’ wall of pure muscle, pure power, pure man. “Undersized?” I say, my eyes going wide. “Um, I hope those doctors lost their licenses!”
Edge grins. “Fuck, they were as surprised as anyone.” Then his eyes mist over. “But my parents weren’t. Later they told me that they believed it had nothing to do with medical science or even their faith as parents that kept me hanging on to life. They told me it was because I was destined for something, that my soul just straight-up refused to let go of life, refused to turn away from its fate.”
“Destined for something . . .” I say softly, trying to roll my eyes in sarcasm but not quite managing it. “Were your parents vegan hippies from California, by any chance?”
“Something like that,” he says with a grin. “But they were right. All my life I’ve felt like I was being pulled towards something.” His smile fades and he gently rubs my bare neck, sending a tingle down my body that makes my nipples stiffen, my tummy tighten, my toes curl up. “Only now I realize I wasn’t being pulled towards something. I was being pulled towards someone. You, El. You’re the reason I hung on to life. You’re my fate, my destiny, my woman. You’re mine, El. You’re mine.”
Curvy for Him: The CEO and the Soldier (Curvy for Him Series Book 5) Page 3
