by Skye Warren
“What is it? If you don’t ask for it, I can’t give it to you. Do you need to come?”
She babbled. “Oh God, I do. I need to come. Please, please. Make me come.”
“That’s good, gorgeous.” The appreciation in his voice was warm and rich. “That’s my girl.”
Then he dropped his head and sucked on her nipples. He knew exactly what she needed, playing her body, winding her tighter until she broke apart, spilling wetness onto his hand, clenching around his fingers, and grasping at his long, silky hair, as she distantly heard his muttered encouragement, yeah, that’s right, take it.
He brought her down slowly, letting her cling to him, caressing her quivering muscles to soothe her. He was always this way, seeing to her needs first, usually multiple times, before he’d tell her he couldn’t take it anymore and then guide her to her knees or spread her legs to take his pleasure. She reached for the buckle of his jeans, but he pushed her hand away.
She froze.
Had she misjudged the entire thing? If he truly wasn’t interested in her and she had pushed him—but no. Her fingers had brushed against the hard ridge of his cock through the denim. His desire for her felt as strong as ever, only sharpened now, hurting her now.
Maybe, maybe…she started to slide down the wall. On her knees, she could please him, and oh, how eager she was to lose herself that way. She fumbled at his zipper until he caught her wrists. For a second, she wasn’t sure what he would do with them. He seemed unsure, as well. Maybe hold them above her head and direct the whole thing himself—and yes, that was fine with her too.
But he released them and turned away, breathing hard. She reached out her hand, saw that it was shaking, and let it fall. This was how it had been when they were new, when she’d been scared of sex, when he’d been scared of hurting her. They’d moved past this, hadn’t they?
Maybe they had to start over.
“Nathaniel?” she asked. Her voice was shaking too, the tremors running deep into her soul.
The silence was tense with unspent arousal and an anger she couldn’t understand—didn’t want to understand.
“Ask me again.” His voice deepened into a growl.
“What?”
“Ask me again, any other night, any other day when you didn’t almost die three times before dinner.”
She rocked back on her heels, letting her head fall against the wall. Oh no. Oh Nate. She was using him and worse—worst of all, he knew it. He understood the blissful refuge she found in his body and the way she had demanded it to chase away the pain and fear of the day. And he’d let her. She couldn’t think about that directly, didn’t want to know what it meant that he would let himself be a warm, hard body to get her off while refusing any pleasure for himself.
The tears wouldn’t be held back then. They poured over her cheeks, fast and copious because they’d been inside for so long. Her friends were gone. The Daily was gone. Her whole life—gone, gone, gone. There weren’t any sobs; she was one tight mass of useless woman, just clenched and hopeless and grieving.
“Breathe, Sofia,” he said, low and lilting. He pulled her into his arms, rubbing her back in slow circles. “Breathe.”
She sucked in a sharp lungful of air, but that only made it worse. The space between them smelled like Nate and sex, and that was all wrong. This wasn’t refuge, it was cowardice, taking her pleasure from a man who would give and give and give until he had nothing left, and then just walk away like he didn’t care, as if he expected nothing better than that anyway.
That was what he had done for the army, and then they had turned him away. Rejected for the injuries he’d gotten during service. She had done the same thing, the same horrible thing, and the tears came even faster, her breath nothing but choked apologies. I’m sorry I used you. I’m sorry I let you go. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…
“No, gorgeous,” he murmured, holding her tighter. It was only when he really crushed her that she felt she could breathe again. “Don’t be sorry. I’m here. I know. I know.” And every soft I know replaced her hollow apologies, because he did know. He knew what it was like to see friends hurt, the horror and the helplessness and the traitorous relief that at least she was still safe, even though they weren’t.
She felt his erection, thick and painful against her hip, but she understood. It was just a physical reaction, like her tears. She couldn’t control her body; she couldn’t control a world intent on hurting her. But she could choose this. She could choose him, and so she clung to his body as she cried, tethering herself to a mast while the storm ripped and clawed all around them.
He rocked her body and stroked her hair until her eyelids felt puffy and far too heavy to ever stay open. She drifted in that place, knowing no harm would come to her so long as he held her and wishing this moment could last forever. She was already asleep, she thought, when she heard him murmur, “I missed you so much.”
Chapter Nine
Remy stared into her Styrofoam cup. Was gray an appropriate color for coffee? She gulped it down, too exhausted to go searching for the vending machines again. All the hallways looked the same, and last time it had taken her twenty minutes to find her way back to the waiting room.
Not that it had mattered. Nothing changed. Not in twenty minutes, not in ten hours. The answer was the same. We can’t disclose that information.
When the nurses’ shifts changed, she’d convinced the new head nurse that she was Andre’s girlfriend. It had felt like a lie, how she’d sometimes make up stories to get some information for an article. Really, she’d been lying most of her life. But this had been kind of the truth, wasn’t it? She didn’t do labels, but this was the closest thing she’d had to an actual relationship in a long, long time—maybe ever.
He would have taken her out on dates too. He’d asked, repeatedly. But she’d insisted on sticking to hurried sex in his office under the guise of getting in trouble. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Men got to have office affairs without repercussions or expectations for more, so she wanted that too.
Plus, it was more convenient that way. She could get information from him in that post-orgasmic stupor. And since he never saw her outside work, he’d never question all the terse phone calls that came in at odd hours.
But now that she was faced with losing him, she wished everything had been different. That she’d agreed to go catch a movie with him instead of locking the door and crawling under his desk for an illicit blowjob—even if it had made both of them hot at the time. She wished she’d never snooped in his contact list for anonymous sources. That she’d never set the ball in motion that had resulted in the explosion at the Daily’s offices.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the large NO CELL PHONES sign on the wall as she pressed the CALL button. She hardened her voice. “What the fuck was that?”
The voice on the other end made her shiver. “Your friend was getting too close.”
Sofia. Her throat tightened. “Where is she?”
“We took care of it.”
Oh fuck. Had they killed her? Or just threatened her?
Remy’s eyes burned with tears, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She’d shed enough of those in her lifetime to grow a new skin, thicker this time. Sofia’s old boyfriend, a soldier, had lost friends, teammates, in the line of fire—she wasn’t so different. “Then why are you calling me?”
“I have another job for you.”
She didn’t know why Moreland called her himself. Or why he didn’t bother to disguise his voice. But then, that was power. That was hubris. He didn’t have anything to fear from her, and he knew it. He held all the cards.
He had her sister. Allison, where are you?
Her heart twisted. “No more. We agreed.”
“You don’t get to decide that, young lady. But if you do everything you’re supposed to, this will be the last one.”
She listened to his oily voice give her instructions, the last meeting before she’d get Allison back.
How messed up would she be after years of abuse? But Remy couldn’t think about that. She couldn’t focus on anything other than getting her back.
A nurse peered around the corner, frowning when she saw the cell phone in Remy’s hand. Remy put her hand over the mouthpiece. She barely cared anymore. They could all go fuck themselves. As if any of the little rules ever helped, as if they saved any lives. What Remy was doing would save her sister’s life.
The nurse’s lips were still pursed with annoyance. “Your friend’s awake. If you want to see him.”
“Yes. I do. Please. Thank you so much.”
She hit END on the phone, not bothering to say goodbye, and went inside. The room was small, but at least it was private. Andre was hooked up to so many tubes, she was afraid to touch him. But when his eyelids struggled open, she recognized the same brilliant intelligence that had drawn her to him. Only then did it fully hit her, how much she loved this man and how close she’d come to losing him.
“Andre,” was all she could say. Her vision blurred and finally, unstoppable, the tears fell.
“It’s okay, Remy. I’m okay.” He sounded surprised to see so much emotion from her. She knew he thought she didn’t really care about him. Hell, she had thought so too.
“I’m sorry I was so…you know.” She wiped her cheeks. “But I’m going to make this right between us. I want us to be good. Like we should be.”
His shaky laugh ended on a groan. “You’re killing me here.”
She took his hand, one of the few parts of him not bandaged, and laid her damp cheek against it. He cupped her face.
Pressing a kiss to the center of his palm, she said, “I just have one more thing I need to do. Then I’m all yours.”
This would all be over soon. One last job.
Oh God, Sofia, I’m sorry. Remy would make this right.
She’d make Moreland pay.
Chapter Ten
It was the dream again.
He couldn’t see much, just shadows and the occasional glint of yellow teeth and the whites of some fucker’s eyes. They kept asking questions, but he couldn’t hear them over the rat-tat-tat beat of his heart. He couldn’t answer either, his mouth too swollen to form words. It felt full of metal, but that was only blood. His blood. He was losing too much. He’d seen enough men die to recognize his own fate.
When the bat had shattered his knee on one leg and his femur on the other, his odds of escaping had dropped to near nil. Three days of no food and little water hadn’t helped. At least his team was safe. Every time their lips formed the phrase where are they, all he heard was they’re safe, they’re safe. He’d die with that thought, and it would be worth it.
But they weren’t asking now. There were only shadows in front of his eyes, sinuous as smoke. He couldn’t hear them either. Usually they talked and laughed right outside, while the stink of cheap cigarettes drifted in through the barred windows. His feet were losing circulation, tied too tight to the legs of the chair. His eyes burned; his neck ached. He waited in the quiet, wondering if they’d given up on him.
If they’d left him to a slow death. Damn.
Twigs crunching on the ground drew his attention. Guess they were back. The sound cut off as quickly as it started, like putting a shell to his ear and then pulling it away. Why would they bother with stealth in the middle of nowhere, on land they controlled?
Faint scratching came from the roof.
Unless it wasn’t them.
Who would come in through the goddamn roof? His own team, come to save him. Relief poured through him, cool and sickly sweet. Jesus, he would get out of here. Even if he ended up dying in some military hospital in Germany, he’d be out of this place. Lying flat, lights low, his arteries flooded with painkillers—yes. It sounded like heaven.
Only, wait. How long had it been since his captors had left him? Hours? Days? It hadn’t seemed that long, if he was only just now wondering about abandonment. It was a problem, because time came and went, folded over under the weight of the pain so he couldn’t be sure where the creases had been.
Had his team already neutralized the threat? Or were they walking into a trap?
And he couldn’t do jack shit. Just sit and wait for the scene to play out with his hands literally tied behind his back.
Light scuffs on the concrete floor came from behind him. They moved swiftly and softly. One went to the window, back against the wall, peering out. The second to the door, same position, ready to pounce. The last circled him. His commanding officer, Master Sergeant Josh Parrish. A father, a husband, a mentor—his friend.
“Hang on, buddy.” Josh cut through the ropes, inadvertently digging into the cuts on his ankles.
He hadn’t meant to talk, but a low groan came out anyway, an animal sound that raised the hairs on his own sweat-soaked neck.
“Sorry, man. Sorry.” There was genuine remorse in Josh’s voice as he worked at the ropes. He probably blamed himself for Nate’s capture. But it wasn’t his fault. Nate had understood when the black copter had lifted off without him. He’d played evasion games for two days before getting himself captured. He had never had any illusions about what this was. It was war, his life forfeit as soon as he’d enlisted.
In the distance, he heard a sound, a high-pitched whine. Aircraft? His team had most likely come in a copter, same as the one they’d brought in before. It would be waiting at some rendezvous point a few miles away. So why was the sound getting louder?
“No, it’s a trap,” he tried to yell, but it came out all in a jumble. All they saw was the tortured man flailing and screaming at them, and they thought he’d gone crazy.
“We’ll get you out of here,” Josh said fiercely.
Jesus, no no no. His broken mouth wouldn’t form the words.
The first missile missed them, hitting somewhere outside the earth and rocking the ground beneath them. The second was a direct hit. That was all that registered, the crumble of the stone wall where it stood, the pressure as Josh threw his body over Nate’s. Nate couldn’t move, his hands still tied and his body still broken. He could do nothing but call out hoarsely as his friends died all around him and right on top of him.
Chapter Eleven
Nate woke up with a dry throat and a pounding heart. Jesus, the dream again. His knee pounded too, and he wondered if he was still half-asleep, one foot in the past where his knee was still split into two hundred parts and buried underneath a ton of rubble.
But no, he was awake and it still hurt like hell. Had he pulled an all-nighter, watching for some scumbag husband to emerge from a prostitute’s hotel room? Had he stormed some terrorist cell’s shit-hole apartment looking for intel with his team?
He shifted slightly, becoming aware of a soft warm weight in his arms. Sofia.
Not back in that hellhole, not on a job. Yes, this was what he wanted. His knee still ached with a vengeance, but even so, he felt his muscles relax. He could breathe again for the first time in months, because Sofia was beside him.
He knew the feel of her, the faint scent of sex that she wore like a perfume that drove him crazy. His fingers would smell like her, taste like her. He would have made her come and come and come, until he’d been ready to burst, and then buried himself inside. That was about how he felt right now—about to blow. Actually his erection felt painful…constricted…because he was wearing jeans.
Oh shit. Now he remembered.
He hadn’t come last night. She’d been sexy…and vulnerable. So he’d gone to bed hard, which explained the extreme case of blue balls this morning.
A light sound floated in through the bedroom door. Had that woken him? He tensed. But then he heard the beep from the fancy cappuccino maker in the kitchen and figured no bad guy would be quite so ballsy. Not to mention no one could get through Ford’s security system, at least without grade A explosives.
Which meant there was an emergency of another kind. The need to get Sofia out of here before his player of an ex-teammate Ford spotted her.<
br />
He straightened the sheet over Sofia’s leg, then stood and tugged on his T-shirt.
Sofia blinked up at him sleepily. “Come back to bed.”
That look hit him like a ton of bricks every time. Her big brown eyes framed by long lashes were enough to make any man weak at the knees, but the emotions there slayed him. Not beneath the surface, right in the open—unafraid. They made him want to do stupid things, make promises he couldn’t keep. But one question always curbed that impulse: what’s a stunner like you doing with a slacker like me? So he kept his needy shit to himself. No one wanted to hear it anyway, least of all himself.
The swelling on her cheek had gone down, the bruise nothing more than a faint scuff on her cheek. Just a blemish, like the first swipe of dark paint on white—at once stark and slight—and it made him burn with rage. At those faceless, nameless men for hurting her. At himself, for walking out on her so that she was alone and defenseless. And he was going to leave her again.
He turned to see Ford’s tall, imposing silhouette in the doorway.
“Isn’t this cozy?” he said with a smirk.
He kept his voice bland. Not possessive as hell. “You’re back.”
Ford looked sharp in black fatigues and combat boots even after a long night on a plane, but then, that was why he got paid the big bucks. That and his sharp team of security experts, which was what Nate needed to talk to him about.
He leaned against the doorjamb, the diagonal of his body more shadow than form. He ran knowing eyes over Sofia’s barely covered body. “Looks like I missed the fun. I figured you had something naughty in mind when I got your call last night, but I had no idea you were bringing me a present. She’s lovely.”
Nate suppressed a growl and glanced back at Sofia, who was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She had to have been exhausted after being nearly blown up and shot at yesterday, not to mention being manhandled by him. Though she was clearly curious about Ford and hadn’t missed the familiarity there. Or the innuendo. No, scratch that. Ford didn’t do innuendo. Just a Mack truck of sex, and Sofia’s dark bronze eyes were seeing too much—things that weren’t even there, at least not anymore.
