The Protector: MAC: A Cover Six Security Novel

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "Let her go."

  "Bullshit—"

  "Let her go before you fuck things up even more."

  Some of the fight drained from Mac, replaced by a desperation he didn't understand. "I need to talk to her—"

  "No, you need to give her some space right now."

  "Bull—"

  "And you need to calm the fuck down before you really say something you'll regret." Daryl waited a long minute then finally released Mac's arm. "I gotta tell you, man—you're not winning any contests in the charm department right now."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "Just what I said. You've had a thing for TR for how long now? Over a year?"

  "I haven't—"

  He was interrupted by Daryl's sharp bark of laughter. "Oh, bullshit. You've been tangled up in knots over her from the first day you met her. Don't deny it. And now that you finally have her, you're trying to fucking sabotage it by going all macho-man on her."

  "I'm not—"

  "The hell you're not. Listen, I get that you don't want her to go. I even understand where you're coming from. I don't agree with you but I understand. But you can't demand that she not go. That shit ain't going to fly and you know it."

  "It's a bad idea."

  "Did you think that maybe you might have better luck talking her out of it if you explained why you think it's a bad idea?"

  Mac ran his hands over his face, muffling the deep sigh. He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, blew out another sigh then softly swore. "She wouldn't listen. Or she might—then go ahead and do what she thought was right anyway. She's too damn stubborn for her own good."

  "Sounds like somebody else I know."

  "Yeah, sure. Whatever." Mac laced his fingers together, draped his hands behind his neck, and closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Again, searching for a calm that eluded him. He finally opened his eyes, not bothering to hide everything he felt when he met Daryl's gaze. "I don't want her to go tomorrow. I really, really don't."

  "Understood. But she won't be going by herself."

  "You think she's going to let me go along? After all this?"

  "Fuck, no. Not you."

  "Then what the hell are you thinking?"

  "If you think you've calmed down enough to actually listen, you can have a seat while I explain."

  Mac hesitated. Calmed down? No, not even close. But he could fake it, at least long enough to hear what Daryl had to say.

  He sat down and listened.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The house was quiet. Dark except for the bedroom light she had left on upstairs, and the faintest of light coming from the den.

  TR hesitated in the hallway, suddenly second-guessing herself. Suddenly? No, she'd been second-guessing herself since before she climbed out of bed and made her way downstairs.

  Mac had come into the bedroom earlier and changed clothes—in the bathroom. She'd had just enough time to catch sight of him in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before he turned off the bathroom light and started out of the room, his steps so quiet that she didn't even hear him.

  She rolled over and pushed up on her elbows, ready to ask him where he was going—which was a stupid question because it was obvious he was going downstairs, where else would he go? But he answered before she could speak, quietly telling her to go back to sleep, that he'd be up in a little bit.

  His low voice had been...distant. Preoccupied. And he hadn't even looked her way, had simply walked out, closing the bedroom door behind him. That had been an hour ago. Going back to sleep was impossible, not when the knot in her stomach tightened and grew with each passing minute. This feeling she had—this sense of something being wrong, of her world being unsettled—had nothing to do with the overload of information she was still trying to process from this afternoon. She was adept enough at avoidance that she could push that from her mind if that's all it was.

  This was something more.

  This was about their earlier...what should she call it? A rift? Confrontation? Argument? All of the above? What she called it didn't matter. What mattered was the distance, the wedge, she felt growing between her and Mac.

  And she didn't like the feeling one bit.

  Which was why she was now standing in the hallway outside Mac's den, the polished plank floor chilling her bare feet, trying to decide if she should go in or not.

  Trying to work up the courage to move.

  She could see him, lounging on the leather sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He stared into the low-burning fire, an untouched tumbler of amber liquid held loosely in one strong hand. Whiskey, probably. No, not whiskey—bourbon. She still didn't understand the difference, even after Mac had explained it to her a year ago, the night of Sammie and Jon's wedding.

  Firelight danced on his face, accenting the strong lines and sharp edges of his profile. She couldn't make out his expression, not from here, not when she could only see his strong profile, but she could sense his mood, could feel his emotions.

  Worry.

  Remorse.

  Regret.

  Loneliness.

  Something twisted inside her, sharp and poignant, bringing tears to her eyes. She wanted to run to him, wrap her arms around him and comfort him. Reassure him.

  And how silly was that? Wanting to comfort a man as strong as Mac. He was one of those rare breeds, a valiant warrior through-and-through. A man who lived life according to a strict code of honor, who abided by deeply-ingrained principles. A man who would gladly give his life standing up for what he believed. A man who would gladly die defending those weaker than himself.

  A hero.

  And she loved him. Had loved him for a long time although she'd been afraid to admit it.

  She wanted to go to him. Hold him. Tell him again how she felt. But she was a coward and convinced herself he didn't want to hear, that he wanted to be alone right now and her presence would only disturb him.

  She slid one foot behind her, careful not to make any sound, but Mac must have heard her anyway.

  "I know you're there, TR. You don't need to lurk out in the hallway."

  She froze, indecision warring within her. One second passed, then another and another before she finally made up her mind. She walked into the den, hesitating before moving to the sofa. She took a seat in the corner then drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. A shield of some kind? Possibly.

  Did Mac pick up on it? Probably, even though he didn't turn to look at her, not even a quick glance. He kept staring straight ahead, his intense gaze focused on the dying fire.

  "I wasn't lurking." Such a stupid thing to say because she was. She knew it. Mac knew it. But at least he didn't call her on it.

  No, he'd have to speak in order to do that—and Mac was completely silent.

  TR shifted, rested her cheek on one knee and stared at the heavy glass tumbler in his hand. "What are you drinking?"

  There was a pause before he answered. When he spoke, his voice was low, gruff. "Bourbon."

  TR nodded, her mind searching for something else to say. She chewed on her lower lip, sighed, tightened her arms around her legs. "Can I have a sip?"

  Mac finally turned his head, those dark eyes darting to hers before looking away. She held her breath, waiting for him to say something, but he simply held the glass out for her. Her fingers brushed his when she reached for it but he still said nothing, didn't even look in her direction again.

  She raised the glass to her mouth, the strong odor burning her nose. She inhaled, her eyes watering, then tipped the glass back and took a swallow.

  A long swallow.

  The burn was immediate, igniting her lips, her tongue, the back of her mouth. Fire trailed down her throat and exploded in her stomach, the intense heat making her cough and wheeze. She closed her eyes and leaned over, still coughing, trying to clear the burn lingering in her throat. A hand closed around hers, removed the tumbler from her grip. A second later that sa
me hand patted her on the back—which did absolutely nothing except nearly push her off the sofa.

  "Christ, TR. You're supposed to sip it, not swill it."

  "I—" She stopped, coughed, caught herself before she tumbled off the edge of the sofa and coughed again. "I didn't swill it."

  Mac stared at her for a long minute then looked away, muttering something under his breath. She couldn't make out the words but she didn't need to, not when she was fairly certain at least a few of them were f-bombs.

  She cleared her throat one more time then reached up to wipe her eyes before settling back in her corner. "Did you know you swear a lot when you're angry?"

  A muscle jumped in his strong jaw. "I'm not angry."

  "And when you're upset."

  The muscle jumped again and his hand tightened around the tumbler. "I'm not upset."

  "And when you're irritated."

  "Dammit, TR, I'm not—" He bit the words off, shook his head and finally looked over at her. Their gazes met and she wondered if he could see the amusement in her eyes. If he did, he didn't say anything, just simply turned his head and went back to staring at the fire. A minute went by, then another, the room silent except for the crackling of the fire, the occasional pop of wood.

  And Mac's deep exhale.

  "Wolf's going with you tomorrow. To your meeting."

  TR cocked her head to the side, thought about it for maybe two seconds, then nodded. "Okay."

  "Okay?" Mac looked her, his face carefully blank in spite of the surprise in his rough voice. "Just okay? No arguments?"

  TR saw her chance and jumped at it. "Is that what we're doing, Mac? Arguing?"

  "What? No. We—" His mouth snapped closed, his lips pressed together in a tight line. He shook his head and looked away. "It's late. You should go to bed. Get some sleep."

  "Are you coming up?"

  "In a little bit."

  "Then I'll wait." She grabbed the soft throw tossed over the back of the sofa and pulled it over her, tucking the ends around her bare feet before settling in. She expected Mac to argue, to come up with a reason why she needed to go upstairs now, but he remained silent for a long time.

  Long enough that her eyes drifted closed, that her body relaxed as the quiet crackling of the fire lulled her into that comfortable haze between sleep and awake. Mac's voice, when he finally spoke, was a rough whisper in the stillness of the room, the words halting, hesitant. Uncertain.

  "I didn't mean to order you around earlier."

  TR's eyes fluttered open, her gaze focused on the fire. "I know."

  "And—" He cleared his throat, shifted beside her. "And I'll try to watch my language around you."

  A ghost of a smile curled her lips and she ducked her head to hide it. "It doesn't bother me."

  "Yeah, well." Ice clinked against the sides of the tumbler when he raised it to his mouth for a quick swallow. He exhaled, lowered the glass and wrapped both hands around it. "I know better so I'll do a better job of it from now on."

  She watched him from the corner of her eye, that small smile once more curling her mouth. "Not all the time, I hope."

  Mac tilted his head toward her, his brows pulled low over his eyes. She knew exactly when understanding dawned because the frown left his face and the slightest blush, visible even in the firelight, stained his cheeks. He cleared his throat, looked away, tossed back the rest of the bourbon. "Maybe not all the time then."

  TR held her breath, wondering if he'd understand the subtle hint. No, of course he didn't—he did as subtle as well as she did. She bit back a sigh, torn between doing something a little less subtle or just going upstairs like he had suggested and hoping for the best. She was still trying to decide when he spoke again, his words just as halting and unsure as before.

  "We, uh, we should go out this weekend. To the movies. Or maybe dinner. Or something."

  She lifted her head, fighting both her smile and her surprise. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

  The flush on his face deepened and the muscle in his jaw twitched. He rolled his shoulders, cleared his throat, shrugged. "Um, yeah. A date. I, uh, I thought it would be something nice to do since we haven't been on one yet."

  "Actually, we have."

  He turned toward her, the surprise in his eyes morphing into denial. "We haven't—"

  "Yeah, we have. Twice."

  "When?"

  TR shrugged the soft throw from her shoulders and switched positions, pushing to her knees. She held up one finger. "Last year at Sammie's wedding—"

  "That wasn't a date."

  "We were there together, weren't we?"

  "Yeah but—"

  "Then it was a date. Even if you did turn me down when I invited you home."

  Something changed in his eyes. They grew softer, warmer. He reached for her, dropped his hand and let it rest between them instead of touching her. "That's something I've regretted every single day since then, TR. You have no idea how much."

  Emotion clogged her throat, tightened her chest and squeezed the air from her lungs. She wanted to ask him what he meant, wanted to ask if he regretted it the same way she did. All that lost time. A year that they could have been together, a year to learn and grow and live and love.

  But not yet. Now wasn't the time. Maybe it would never be the time. And did it matter, when they had today? Tonight and tomorrow and next week and, she hoped, every day after that?

  She blinked her eyes, swallowed then pasted a wobbling smile on her face and held up a second finger. "And then we went to the New Year's Eve party together."

  "That wasn't a date."

  "You wore a tux."

  "Yeah, but—"

  "And I bought a new dress. And did my hair and make-up. It was definitely a date."

  "That was business."

  "No." TR slid a little closer, felt the heat from his body washing over her. "It would have been business if I had taken Ryder. Boomer. Whatever."

  "Boomer wouldn't have taken you."

  "He totally would have, if I had asked him again."

  "Trust me. No, he wouldn't have."

  "He would have—"

  "No, he wouldn't. Not unless he wanted me to break every fucking bone in his body."

  TR bit back a grin, coughed to hide the laughter threatening to break free when Mac opened and closed his mouth, trying to stammer out an apology. She caught his gaze and leaned forward, her face only inches from his.

  "Good. Because I wouldn't have made out with Boomer."

  "We didn't—"

  TR pressed her fingers against his lips, interrupting him. And oh God, how could a man as hard, as solid and big and sturdy as Mac, have such soft lips? Soft and warm and full and—

  She lowered her hand, leaned even closer. Close enough that she could press her mouth to those lips if she wanted to. And she wanted to. More than anything. But not yet.

  "We made out. Which means it was definitely our second date because I don't make out with guys before then."

  A rumble sounded in Mac's chest, low and rough. "You better not be making out with anyone, period."

  TR raised a playful brow then shifted, swinging one leg over his so she straddled Mac's lap. He sucked in a deep breath, his arms automatically wrapping around her waist. She leaned in, brushed her lips against his cheek. "Not even you?"

  Mac settled his hands on her hips, shifted her so she rested more fully against the hard length of his erection. She closed her eyes, sank against him and sighed. His voice rumbled in her ear but she couldn't make out the words and then it didn't matter because his mouth was on hers.

  Kissing her.

  Devouring her.

  Claiming her.

  A sigh of disappointment, sharp and needy, fell from her mouth when he ended the kiss. She forced her eyes open, watched him as he reached between them and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulled it over his head one-handed. Her hungry gaze drifted over his sculpted body, drinking in every inch. The muscular column of his throat. Broad
shoulders and thick arms. Wide chest and dark, flat nipples.

  Her fingers followed the path of her gaze. Touching, always touching, delighting in the heat of bare flesh, in the tactile sensation of skin and bone and muscle.

  He reached for her hands, pulled them away then silenced her small protest with a kiss. Long and deep and hungry. But that, too, was over too soon, her whimper of need morphing into a sharp sigh when he pulled her sleep shirt over her head. When he reached between and tugged at her shorts, pushing them past her hips. His hand dipped between her legs, one long finger stroking her clit before pushing into her.

  "You are so fucking wet, TR. So fucking hot."

  And oh God, just like that, she was ready to explode. From that one finger sliding in and out of her, from the press of his thumb against her clit. From his hot breath washing against her skin and the rough words teasing her ear.

  She closed her eyes, dug her fingers into his shoulders and leaned back, her hips rocking against his hand. But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough. She needed more, needed him, all of him.

  "Mac..."

  Could he sense her need? Feel how close she was, how she teetered on the edge between sanity and euphoria? A sharp whimper fell from her lips when he slid his finger from her. A gasp, this one of surprise, when he lifted her from his lap and dragged her shorts off. He slid to the edge of the sofa, braced her on his strong legs while he pushed his sweatpants past his hips, freeing his cock. Thick. Hard. Long.

  Perfect. Just like Mac.

  She reached for him, curled her hand around the thick length and stroked. Power washed over her when he groaned, when he tilted his head back and clenched his jaw and rocked his hips against her hand.

  But only for a minute because he was suddenly reaching for her. Grabbing her. Guiding her hips over his and pushing his hard length into her. Deep. Hard. Fast. Over and over until she shattered, crying his name.

  Hands grabbed her and she was suddenly on her back, one leg pushed toward her shoulder, the other hanging over the edge of the sofa. Mac settled himself between her legs, pushing into her again. Again. Harder. Deeper. Filling her. Sending her flying to heights she'd never before imagined.