by Whitley Cox
“Aaron … ”
“Iz … ”
He pushed her leg up more. Her hips leapt up to meet his, and he was done.
Tossed over the cliff, from the plane, off the skyscraper into the abyss. You name it, he did it. No parachute needed because he fucking flew. When he was with Isobel, he fucking flew.
With each hard pump into her body, he came harder. His teeth sank into her shoulder, and her quick inhale and then low moan told him she liked it. He was giving her what she wanted, what she’d asked for.
“Oh God.”
Fuck, yeah. Another one.
She grappled at his back, her nails once again raking down from his scapula to his glutes and back. She was marking him too—fuck yeah.
Her tight little pussy with just the perfectly trimmed triangle of hair pulsed around his shaft as he drove into her, the last of his cum spurting out into the condom until he collapsed against her, spent and finally exhausted.
Thank fuck.
Maybe now he could sleep.
Maybe now they could both sleep.
Once he knew she was done, he rolled off her, removed the condom, tied it and stood up. Not bothering with clothes, he went to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and wash up. He thought when he got back to his room she’d be gone, off in her own room, but she wasn’t. She was still in his bed.
Hmmm.
“All done in the bathroom?” she asked, slipping her lithe frame from the bed and padding barefoot down the hall. He heard her brushing her teeth and the toilet flush. She was probably going to head to her own room now. Like him, she seemed exhausted. He climbed into bed, shut off the light and pulled the covers up to his waist.
Tucking his hands behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. Only every time he closed his eyes, he saw Isobel back on her knees in the shower. His cock in her hot little mouth, her eyes shut and a smile curving up at the corner of her lips.
“Big fucking mistake,” he breathed out, shaking his head.
The bathroom door opened, and he heard the light flick off. Moments later, she returned, a slim shadow in the dark room. She didn’t say a word but climbed back into his bed, snuggled up against him, put her head on his shoulder.
She exhaled, her breath across his chest making his nipples tighten.
Aaron grunted, and his body went stiff. And not in the good way.
What did she expect from him?
What did she want from him?
He wasn’t a snuggler. He wasn’t a boyfriend.
Fuck, had he ever been somebody’s boyfriend?
He’d been somebody’s fuck buddy. He’d been a devirginizer. (Her words, not his. Totally consensual. She was just tired of being a virgin, and they were friends in high school.) He’d been somebody’s itch-scratcher. Somebody’s hero. Hell, he’d even been somebody’s revenge sex, but he’d never been anybody’s boyfriend.
It wasn’t in his makeup. He didn’t know how to be a boyfriend.
The closest he’d come to dating somebody had been Heather Alvarez, but that was mostly just about sex when he was home in Seattle between deployments. They might have said the L word, but he couldn’t remember. He knew she was still hung up on her ex from high school, but they were there for each other when they needed a release, when they needed company. Plus, she was a fucking amazing cook, and her family owned a Puerto Rican restaurant, so even when things between them ended, they ended platonically, because no way was he giving up Heather’s mother’s mallorca. No fucking way.
Hell, when Heather’s new husband (her ex from high school whom she’d gotten back together with) needed help finding his long-lost sister, Heather had called Aaron. Aaron had put the McAllister family in touch with Rob Cahill, his buddy in arms, and Rob had, of course, found Skyler. Now the two were married, with a baby on the way.
Aaron shook his head.
He never thought he’d see the day ol’ Rob would settle down. Never thought he’d see the day ol’ Rob would put his demons to bed and live a normal life.
Aaron hadn’t witnessed the horror Rob had seen in that Peruvian brothel, but he knew what was in there. He knew why his buddy had fallen off the rails and took to the bottle like he did.
A lot of them did.
Some of them couldn’t handle the memories and took their own lives.
Like their buddy Brandon.
And Brandon had left behind a wife and new baby.
He clenched his jaw tight at the thought of his fallen brothers, at the thought of Brandon struggling with what he’d seen, what he’d done, all the lives he hadn’t been able to save.
Then he started thinking about his own failures. That last mission in Colombia that would haunt him until his dying day.
“Aaron?” Her whisper brought him out of his head, and he was grateful for it. When he started to think about Colombia, about the Velasquez family, he quickly began to spiral, and it was always a tough climb back out of that deep, dark hole.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, babe?”
“I know I’ve already said it, but … well … thank you again for saving me tonight. For being there for me … and Mercedes.” Her fingers splayed out over his chest, but then she gripped his dog tags. “You’re a real hero, you know that?”
No, he wasn’t.
He’d failed Dina, he’d failed in Colombia, and if Isobel stuck around long enough, he’d probably fail her too.
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” he said with a grunt. Emotion began to claw at the back of his throat, and he struggled to get the next words out. “If anything had happened to—” He swallowed.
Isobel propped herself up on her elbow, but her fingers tightened even more around his dog tags. She gazed down at him, and even in the darkness of the room, he could tell her eyes held a conviction to them, a heat and seriousness. “But it didn’t, because you were there.”
He shifted his body, untucked his hands from behind his head and drew his index finger down over her cheek. She shut her eyes and leaned into his touch.
“I like this side of you,” she said, her voice soft and almost angelic. She batted her lashes and pinned her gaze on him once again, her lips tilting up on one side. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like the powerful, alpha side too, but this gentle side is a nice change. I usually only see you like this with Sophie.” She snuggled in tighter to him, her fingers still wrapped around his dog tags. “Will you tell me about your time”—she shook her fist with the dog tags—“when you needed these?”
He cupped her jaw, then bent his head low and brushed his lips over hers. “Not tonight.”
Not ever.
But she didn’t need to know that right now.
He didn’t want to scare her away. As much as her presence in his bed confused the hell out of him, he also didn’t want her to leave, and he worried that if he started talking, he might not stop—and then she’d run scared.
“But one day?” she asked, with hope in her tone.
His other hand wrapped around her back, and he began tracing the length of her spine with his fingers. Gooseflesh on her satin-soft skin rippled beneath his fingertips. He pressed another kiss to her lips. “Sleep now, babe.”
She smiled against his mouth and released his dog tags, burying herself even deeper into his arms. “Okay.” Her head rested on his chest, and her fingers spread out over his heart. “I like being here with you,” she whispered, a yawn following her words.
His heart beneath her hand tightened, and he swallowed. “Me too.”
She blinked up at him. Her smile was placid and tired. “Goodnight, Aaron.”
Unable to look at her for fear she might see more than he wanted her to, he closed his eyes and dropped his mouth to her head. “Goodnight, Isobel.” Then he tucked his nose against her hair so her scent and softness surrounded him, and he willed his heart rate to slow down and sleep to take him.
It didn’t.
Within moments, he could hear Isobel’s deep, even
breaths. She was out.
Of course she was. It’d been a crazy, terrifying night, and she was probably exhausted.
Thank God she hadn’t had more of her drink—a full dose of the date-rape drug and she’d still be out of it, probably for a day or two. He wondered how Mercedes was fairing. Thankfully, he trusted no one more than Colton to take care of someone when they were ill or injured. The man was a top medic and a stand-up guy. Mercedes was in good hands.
Isobel shifted next to him, her fingers wrapped around his dog tags again, and she tucked her knees up until she was in the fetal position. Her head now sat in the crook of his arm. She made a face of discontent, like she was reliving some trauma.
Was she dreaming about tonight?
His hand fell to her hip, and he pulled her tighter against him, his other hand wrapping around her fingers until she released his dog tags. He went to pull away, but she grappled for his free hand and linked their fingers together. Only once they were holding hands did her face relax.
Her pouty lips turned up into a smile, and she let out a contented sigh.
Aaron pecked her on the top of the head, then shut his eyes.
He hated how good this felt. Hated how right she felt in his arms because now, he had something to lose. Just like Colombia, he let his heart take the lead, and now when shit hit the fan—because it would—he had a whole hell of a lot of something to lose.
17
The sound of a warbling baby and the beep of the microwave roused Isobel from her slumber. She stretched, pointing her toes and reaching her arms above her head. Parts of her body tingled, and a dull but pleasant throb between her legs reminded her of last night.
She rubbed her shoulder, remembering Aaron’s teeth. He’d marked her, just like she’d asked.
Smiling, she rolled over in bed and pushed her face into his pillow, inhaling deep.
Ahhh.
It smelled just like him.
Manly, musky, fresh and oh so delicious.
She was about to get up and go see to Sophie when she remembered that it was Sunday and she technically had Sundays off. So far, Aaron seemed to be doing all right when left on his own with his niece. Sophie was also an easy baby, so that helped. She seemed to get that Aaron was simply doing his best. She didn’t demand too much from him, didn’t prefer Isobel over him and seemed to settle quite quickly when Aaron picked her up and put her against his chest.
Last Sunday, Aaron had let Isobel sleep in, albeit not in his bed this time, and when she woke up, she found him wearing Sophie in the stretchy wrap and making pancakes on the griddle. The man didn’t cook very often (well, besides grilling on the barbecue), but he managed to make a mean breakfast.
She could smell freshly brewed coffee—another thing (besides all things in the bedroom and breakfast) that Aaron was very talented at, as well as something that smelled an awful lot like waffles.
Her stomach rumbled at the thought of homemade waffles with maple syrup or fresh fruit and whipped cream.
Then her nipples pebbled and her core clenched at the thought of Aaron covered in whipped cream. Mmmm. Yes, please.
Taking one final whiff of his pillow, she swung her legs out over the bed, grabbed the nearest shirt she could find—his big, black T-shirt—and tossed it over her head. She fixed her hair up into a big, ol’ messy bun on the top of her head with the hair elastic she kept around her wrist and headed out to the kitchen to see what was cooking.
She stopped in her tracks when she entered the kitchen. He was singing. And dancing. Well, swaying … or something, but whatever it was, his ass in those gray sweatpants wiggled and taunted her the way a proud male bird flapped and flittered his plumage for a potential mate.
She released a slow breath.
Down, girl.
“Making waffles with my baby. She can’t eat them yet, but when she can, she’s going to love them. Love them so. Just like she loves her Uncle … whoa, oh, ohhhh,” Aaron sang, shaking his hips and pulling a waffle out of the iron and flipping it onto a plate. “Sophie Boo Boo, what can I do? What can I do, ooh, ooh, oooooh.”
Isobel snickered. He didn’t have the greatest voice, but it wasn’t terrible either. Her father certainly had worse. Aaron’s voice, although not pitch perfect, was deep and manly—soothing. “Morning,” she piped up when there was a break in his song. “Nice singing.”
His hips stopped swaying, and his back went stiff.
She wandered around the counter and sidled up next to him, grabbed a coffee cup from the cabinet and poured herself a cup.
Aaron took his coffee black, but he had the creamer sitting out for her like he did every morning.
“Those smell amazing,” she said, turning around and leaning against the counter, cradling the coffee mug in both hands and lifting it up to her nose. “Blueberry?”
He grunted and then nodded, not bothering to turn around and look at her.
“What time was Sophie up?”
“Three, five and eight.”
She glanced at the clock on the stove. It said eight thirty. Sophie would be ready for a nap soon.
“Well, thank you very much for getting up with her at night and then this morning. I really appreciate you letting me sleep in.” Isobel yawned, put her mug down on the counter and stretched up onto her tippy-toes. Her bare butt hit the edge of the counter. Perhaps his shirt wasn’t as long as she thought.
Whoopsie daisy.
“Can I help with anything? Eggs? Bacon?”
He grunted again. “Bacon’s done. No eggs. You can wash and de-stem the strawberries though.”
She bobbed her head and opened the fridge, grabbing the strawberries. “Sounds good. So have you heard from Colton? I’m going to text Mercedes soon. She usually sleeps in on Sundays, so I’ll wait another hour or so. I hope she’s doing okay.” She walked over to the sink, opened up the plastic container of strawberries and turned on the faucet.
Was Aaron not going to ask her how she was doing?
About not only her near-assault and drugging and the trauma from it all but also about all the sex and the fact that she’d slept all night in his bed, snuggled up tight against his warm, hard body.
She’d never slept so well, so soundly in all her life.
Was it the endorphins? The adrenaline? The exhaustion? Or was it Aaron? The pheromones, the attraction and the way his body made her sing from the mountaintops, over and over and over again.
She waited a moment longer to see if he’d ask her how she was, or at the very least turn around, but he didn’t. Not even a glance over his shoulder.
She cleared her throat and turned off the faucet for the sink. “Um, what are you and Sophie going to do today?”
She had the next two days off, and although when she woke up, she thought maybe she’d stick around and spend the day with Aaron and Sophie, the cold shoulder she was getting from Aaron made her reconsider.
“Gonna toss her in the stroller and go for a run,” he said, still not turning around.
“Oh, that’s a good idea. Looks like it’s a nice day. Soph loves when I do that. She passes right out.”
Grunt.
Irritation and unease ran neck and neck inside her. Why was he behaving like this? Had last night meant nothing?
Even if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her, she deserved to see his goddamn face. Deserved some eye contact. Deserved some conversation.
Shoving down her snarl of irritation, she grabbed a paring knife out of the knife block on the counter and began removing the strawberry stems.
The silence between them was excruciating.
Well, he couldn’t ignore her at breakfast. They’d be forced to sit across from each other. He’d have to look at her then. Have to talk to her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him pull the plug for the waffle iron from the wall. He put the waffle batter bowl in the dishwasher, taking what seemed to be a lot of care not to turn in her direction.
“’K, catch
you later,” he mumbled, then without so much as a glance back or a “Thanks for the fuck last night,” he was gone.
Isobel stood there at the sink, knife in her hand, knuckles aching from her tight grip. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, barely breathed, until she heard the door from the garage close and she knew he was gone.
Only then did she pick up the plate of waffles and heave it against the wall.
She was wearing his T-shirt.
Fuck.
And it looked damn good on her, with her soft, sun-kissed legs poking out beneath, her hair up in a messy bun on the top of her head. Was she wearing anything under the shirt? Probably not. They hadn’t exactly tumbled into bed wearing any clothes, and he hadn’t heard her go to her room at all.
No, she was in his shirt, and only his shirt, wandering her tight little ass around his kitchen. It’d been all he could do to keep his boner at bay. Something about wearing a baby on his chest and sporting a stiffy just felt fucked up.
In addition to looking hot as fuck and making him want to put Sophie in her bassinet in her bedroom and then bend Isobel over the kitchen table and take her from behind, she’d been super-chatty and annoyingly perky.
She wanted more from him.
He knew the moment he kissed her, the first time, and then the second time and every time after that, that he was making a colossal mistake. Fucking the nanny was a big no-no. She’d either be a stage-four clinger and want to fix him, move in permanently and play house for the rest of their lives, or she’d take from his brush-off that last night had been a one-off and be scorned, furious and probably bring him up on sexual harassment charges.
He hadn’t even been running for ten minutes, and already Sophie was asleep.
A hill was up ahead. He picked up speed. He needed the pounding of his pulse in his ears to drown out his thoughts. The screaming of his calf muscles to distract him from the pain he felt in his chest.
Nearly at the top, his body demanding he surrender and stop, he pushed himself those last few yards, sprinting until his breath tasted metallic and spots clouded his vision.
