by Angel Payne
“Good.” His praise warmed her hairline. “Very good. You ready, kitten?”
“Yes…Sir.”
“I want you to repeat this so you really know this.”
“I—I understand, Sir.”
“‘I’ll stay away from the windows because it will keep me safe.’”
She didn’t rattle it back right away. For a few seconds, debated if she would. Of all the lines she expected from him, that certainly wasn’t one—and yet, once she considered it, made the most sense. The man clearly enjoyed being a warrior, but only because he was an instinctual protector. Every move he made, nearly every breath he took, was in the name of safeguarding others.
Even if he had to seduce his way to the point.
But maybe, this one time, that was okay.
Better than okay.
It boxed things in. Framed in his force. Made him easier to comprehend, knowing he was using his magnificent form just for the sake of his important point. Hell, it even elevated his erection toward a noble cause. Who was she to deny a warrior his nobility?
“I’ll…I’ll stay away from the windows…” Nobility. Remember nobility. Nope. Impossible. She felt everything except noble as he dropped his hold to her thighs and then backed her against the wall. Heat spiraled from every point he touched, sizzling all the way into her toes. “Be-Because it will…”
“Come on. You can do it. Now the rest.”
She quivered all over. This time, the shiver starting in the depths of her womb. She wanted him there. Could nearly imagine what it would be like, having his body fill her in those trembling depths. “Are—are you kidding me?”
His deep chuckle vibrated along her collarbone. “Not in the least.”
Devastating dragon. Beautiful bastard.
“Fine,” she snapped. “All right, fine. I’ll—I’ll stay away from the windows…because it will keep me safe.”
Along with his approving growl, he nipped at the corner between her neck and shoulder. “Outstanding.”
She audibly seethed. “Says the gloating victor.”
He leaned back so their stares met again. His face was still a stunning picture of patience, considering the persistent erection at her center. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping score.”
“Weren’t we?”
He dipped his head in again—close enough for her to spot the russet specks in his irises. “I’m not being a hard-ass for the hell of it. Right now, especially with what’s happened across the globe, everything outside this condo has to be considered enemy territory.”
Tracy gave him an even nod. “That makes sense.”
He nodded back. “Thank you for understanding.”
“But…”
She let the rest of it drop—into air that thickened inside three seconds. Just like that, she knew it was back. The intangible, incredible awareness…beyond the intimate positioning of their bodies. The pull surpassing just the physical. The longing to touch more of him…the lust for him to touch more of her.
And beyond.
The beyond of here and now. The possibility, in the solitude of this midnight moment, that their spark could combust into so much more.
Dare they…?
Would he…?
Should she…?
Too many questions. So many answers that loomed and crowded and daunted.
So she let the silence stretch on.
Until, with a taut grunt, he persisted, “But…what?”
“But…what if I hadn’t understood?” Shit, shit, shit. Why did this feel so much like now or never? Like her libido stood on the edge of the high-dive board, with her psyche back on the ladder, goading her forward?
Now or never. Now or never.
Because yesterday, she had nearly been blown into never.
It was now. And she didn’t wait any longer, going for it with a brazen reach between their bodies.
“Fuck,” Franzen rumbled.
She was tempted to echo the sentiment. Holy…wow. Her fingers stretched around his bulge, even wider as he swelled for her. “Well, Captain?” she managed in a saucy murmur. “If I hadn’t been so understanding, would you have used this to make me…obey?”
Despite the oath, his face barely betrayed its angles of control. The tense brackets at the corners of his mouth hardly counted. “You have your fingers on the pulse of how much I like that idea, woman.”
“But…?” She copied his word with a deliberately coy injection.
“But not all ideas can always be actionable.” The brackets tightened. His jaw visibly clenched. “We both know that.”
She let her brows knit. “We’re also both grown-ups. Adults who recognize we both had…a few thoughts…from the moment we first touched, then endured a crazy-as-hell day together, and may now need to let off a little steam.”
“Steam.” He laughed it out. “Grown-ups.”
Tracy smiled. “Last time I checked, at least.”
“Yeah, well…sometimes, grown-ups have secrets.” His shoulders sagged, as if the message was directed as much at himself as her. He pulled a hand free, flattening it instead to the wall. “Dark ones…that aren’t appropriate for other grown-ups to know.”
Since her frown had already started, she let it descend to her mouth. But as her lips twisted, the same effect took hold in her belly—though down there, it gathered from a different force. A tension radiating upward…
From the tissues of her pussy.
Secrets.
Dark ones.
Why don’t you try “yes, Sir”?
Her heartbeat skipped. Her blood danced.
Her gaze reached into the shadows of his. Seeking his secrets…
But finding none.
He’d locked them tight.
With a determined huff, she gripped more of his cock. As his flesh pulsed, Franzen hissed…
But his gaze remained closed.
“Franzen,” she whispered. “John.” Squeezed again. “Please.”
A heavy gulp expanded his throat. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“You’re the goddamn vice—no, you’re the goddamn president, and—fuck.” The last of it was a groan as she changed her hold to a stroke. She damn near echoed the sound, discovering black really was one hell of an optical illusion maker. His sex was longer, mightier, and hotter than she’d dreamed. Only gritted willpower helped to pull her hand away. The man was going to need…further persuasion.
“You done yet?” she charged, starting to tug at the hem of her tank. “Because that’s a really short list, mister.” She jerked an edge over one shoulder. “You want to know what else I am? A mom. A friend. A former small-business owner. A crossword puzzle freak. A weirdo who likes anchovies in my salads but not on my pizza. The sole person on the planet who hasn’t seen The Walking Dead.” Up over the other shoulder. “And oh yeah”—she yanked the whole thing over her head and then let it drop to the floor—“a woman. Just a woman who’s been through a shitty day and really wants to enjoy the attention of the warrior who got her through it alive.”
To his credit, the man’s jaw barely dropped. But his gaze did, pupils dilating, fixating on her bare breasts. She embraced the tiny victory, skin suffused in warmth, senses high on his attention.
“Ma’am.”
Shit. A tiny victory, indeed.
“It’s not that I don’t—” His sinewy neck vibrated with his rough swallow. “But ma’am—I—”
Her seething snort cut him off. “Franzen, if you call me ma’am again, I’ll come after your penis with my flattening iron.” Which was technically nothing but cinders now, in the rubble of the villa, but the man wisely didn’t point that out. Even more prudently, he let his continued stillness, as well as the steady smolder of his gaze, do the significant talking for him. Both mesmerized her like a puma baiting its prey. She knew it as she stepped closer, letting her breasts pillow against the hard magnificent of his chest. She felt it while lifting her h
ands to the shoulders above it, spreading fingers along the molded perfection of his delts and traps. She reveled in it as his stare thickened, turning dark umber from the force of his own attraction.
Upon her own face, Tracy fixed lines of determined attention. “I’m also a person, Franzen. Just like you, a person who’s logged a lot of heartbreak in my life. However ‘dark’ you think your secrets are, I guarantee I’m strong enough to handle them.”
How easy it would be to push the point even further, but the strict line of his jaw told her differently. His body might be churning with tangible desire, but his rigid brain and his unflinching pride would never let him consider the idea of fulfilling those needs—not with her, anyway. As if she needed to be stabbed further with the point, he emphasized by taking a slow step back, almost a Samoan Jesus resisting Satan in the wilderness. Nice. Just the role she’d wanted to play tonight.
As if her Jezebel of a body was going to make it any easier to forget.
Screw you, she silently railed in return, grinding her fists harder into the wall, force-feeding her lust into a kiln of fury instead. Better. Much better. At least more recognizable. And controllable. And usable.
Especially as the man shuffled back by another step.
Fine by her.
Tracy took advantage of the extra space, shoving off the wall and then wheeling back toward the bed. On her way, she grabbed the tank and jabbed her way back into it. “I’m going back to sleep.”
Liar. Like she and sleep were going to be anything but sworn enemies tonight. Her blood was roaring. Her nerve endings felt like lit sparklers. And oh yeah, there was the not-so-tiny issue of her burning, throbbing sex, especially with her vibrator in the same pile of ash as her flattening iron—and that man likely returning to dragon mode on the couch. Could she dare hope he’d change into cutaway tails, drag her to an underground lair on a boat, and then sing sweet music of the night while she fell into romantic slumber? No? She’d have to put up with being pissed and sleepless—
And now, listen to him hiss rapid-fire Hawaiian beneath his breath. At least she had a good excuse to ignore him.
“Tracy. Damn it.”
So much for the ignoring thing.
“I think we should leave it there, Captain.”
She might have underlined the last word with a little more rebellion. She might have hoped he really noticed.
More of his whispered island profanity came back, before a gritted, “You understand, that in any other time and place—”
“Sure.”
Lip service. She didn’t understand—and she wanted to wallow in that ire. It was the middle of the night, after one hell of a day—which had included the indisputable, inaugural spark of their intense mutual attraction. And technically, to the rest of the world, she didn’t even exist. So what exactly was he asking her to understand?
For a second, just one, she listened as he shifted a step back toward her. One single sound, filled with so much conflict…causing her hands to freeze around the pillow she was plumping. Would he finally get it? Be brave enough to?
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Sleep’s probably the best thing for you right now.”
Then there was Box Two. The jerkwad exit.
Back to the basement.
The darkness she let him escape to, no matter how mad it made her—or how scary it was to think of the hours ahead without him right next to her.
Stupid lamenting.
Ridiculous moping.
She was thirty-five, not five. She helped shape the character of a nation. More defining than that, she was the mother of a teenager. She could handle one enigmatic ass, even if it meant lying here and pretending to sleep for the next five or six hours.
Powered by that fortification, at least for the moment, she flashed a look over her shoulder inspired by all the blithe, bold, rejected-by-morons heroines who had ever been in this position before her. “Right, then. Good night.”
Yes. Perfect.
It was all over but the middle finger—from which she forced herself to refrain because she couldn’t skip completely off the vice-presidential reservation—but gave room for a preening smile to wield at the captain as she settled against the pillows.
And wield she did.
No matter how thoroughly Franzen’s counterstrike of a stare blew through her. Penetrated her as if time had folded on itself and this was suddenly the first moment they’d ever locked gazes—and exchanged their energy. That energy. The silent, potent connection she’d never experienced before with someone…the link of awareness she knew he felt too, no matter what kind of crap lines he fed her about the other aspects of their attraction. This part of it was real. This visceral bond would never go away.
He knew it too. She saw him accept it, though he sure as hell wasn’t happy about it, as his brows tightened into new slashes, matched by the parallel line formed by his lips.
Before he pivoted to make his way back to the couch.
But then stopped…
And bounded two steps her direction.
Before he stopped once more.
Retreated yet again.
Back to his damn dragon’s cave. His emotional basement—into which she was not invited. Nor would beg to be asked back again.
It was time to let him go back through that door—and then to shut it soundly behind him. And yeah, to let a little hope go along with him too. The man had brought something back to her world that she’d honestly given up on knowing again. The feeling of being the center of a man’s interest…and desire. Just simply, wholly, appreciated as a female…
It had been good. Really good. And giddy. And freeing.
For that gift, she would be forever grateful to Keoni John Franzen.
For that reason, she owed him a decent attempt to be her best in the morning. Which meant taking a stab at some sleep.
Or faking it super well.
Chapter Six
“Holy. Shit.”
The gritted syllables of Ethan Archer’s reaction were nearly as brutal as the watery afternoon sun, sneaking past the blinds of Z’s kitchen. What the hell? It was October, and this was Seattle. Sunshine was supposed to be outlawed.
Normally Franz would be happy about the breach, but right now, his sleep-deprived system craved some old-fashioned Northwest gloom. In the meantime, his dragging blood begged for coffee, while his throbbing head urged him to give in to Zeke’s offer of a Pike Stout in a frosty bottle.
Fuck, was he tempted—but the beer would help his headache and little else.
Least of all, the painful quandary he now had about Tracy Rhodes.
The woman he’d given his word to protect.
The new president he had to keep alive.
The spitfire with the breasts of an angel.
Fuck.
And he knew breasts. He was, when all was said and done, an island boy. He’d grown up appreciating women in all their glorious curves and angles, on an island where coconuts, bathing suit tops, and the all-natural look were interchanged often and freely. By default, he’d become a connoisseur of everything from swell to areola to nipple—and his expert’s eye savored the paradise of Tracy Rhodes’s offering to the trove.
There was only one hitch to that joy.
Hashed yet again by the two guys on the barstools opposite him.
“Tracy Rhodes is still alive.” Archer still looked like he didn’t believe it.
“So we’ve been saying,” Z supplied.
“And right in the next room.”
“Ding-ding-double-ding,” Franz filled in.
“I’ll be a monkey’s bastard uncle.”
Z huffed and took another pull of his beer. Archer tapped a couple of agitated fingers over the top lip of his. Not the way to enjoy a good stout, but Franz was far past dictating to the guy. Ethan was almost out of the service himself, having put in for early discharge months ago, to no one’s surprise. As Ava, his wife, ascended through the elite ranks of Hollywood power stylists, Eth
an attended a load of TV and film premieres—and eight months ago, one of those events had resulted in a lucrative modeling gig. Since then, Archer had been juggling the modeling assignments between missions, but now his agent was sending him movie scripts too. Archer was a perfect pick for global film stardom, since he fluently spoke eight languages and could get by in half a dozen more. Between the demands of his new career and the requirements of his old, dude spent most of his life on airplanes these days—and frankly, Franz had been shocked to find him stateside when he’d called. Nevertheless, the pretty boy hadn’t hesitated to cash in some flight miles and get himself here in a matter of hours—and Franz was damn glad of it. He was gathering the perfect team to help him keep Tracy safe—and, technically, dead—until things calmed down and she could take her rightful seat as the nation’s leader.
If things calmed the hell down.
He had to believe they would. Had to fight the frustration of not being on the front lines of figuring out what the hell had gone so horribly wrong, spurring a global act of violence on a scale nobody had ever seen before. His nerves turned into new minefields every time he contemplated the audacious move, as well as what terrorist group had that kind of reach and those kinds of resources…
Okay, maybe it wasn’t just terrorists who’d gotten to his nervous system lately.
Maybe, goddamnit, he still couldn’t dismiss that woman’s brass, as well.
More accurately, what she’d done to his brass.
Leaving him with one giant muck-fest of a dilemma.
How the hell was he supposed to safeguard her, when all he could think of was fucking her? After tying her down, of course. And blindfolding her. Yeah, that would definitely be part of it. Maybe clamping those gorgeous strawberry nipples of hers too. She’d moan as he sucked them to stiff peaks and then scream for mercy as he closed the clamps around each stiff bud…
“Franz? Dude?”
He jerked his head up, refocusing on Z and Runway, before snapping, “What?”
Archer’s stare, too lush a blue for a guy, focused on him. “You all right?”
