Roar (Military Bad Boy Billionaire Romance) (Soldiers of Fortune Book 4)

by Irons, Aubrey

  “Peyton, this is my broth-” He shakes his head; “This is Bryce.”

  It doesn’t happen right away, but I think we both knew the writing on the wall the first time our eyes met coming out of that Police Station in Texas. And it’s perfect, because broken sees broken, and somehow we both see a fix there. It starts innocently enough, and then grows far more serious; too serious. It’s a whirlwind of two shattered storms crashing together, and it’s passion and love, and something even deeper than that.

  …Until I find- well, until I find out that it’s all bullshit

  And then it’s over.

  *****

  P R E S E N T

  I shake my head as I step out of the shower and grab a towel from the back of the door, trying to clear thoughts like that out of my head.

  I frown at my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror; still completely un-fogged given the cold-water shower I've just taken to try and fight the heat of the day and grime of traveling. I need to not think of things like that; I need to not think of him, in any capacity.

  But of course, not thinking of Bryce Connors is like not thinking about the splinter under your skin, or the cut on the inside of your mouth that you just can't stop playing with. I'm angry that he's followed me here inside my head like this. I'm pissed that even here on the other side of the world at the hotel on the edge of the spice district of Istanbul, I can't even take a shower to try and clear my head without him invading my thoughts and creeping into the darkest parts of my desires and my fantasies.

  I toss the towel aside as I stretch out face-down across the bed by the window and let out a sigh; Goddamnit. Ten-thousand miles between here and the hallway of the hospital back in New York and I still can't stop thinking about the way he pressed against me. All the shame and the guilt and the forbidden heat of that moment comes rushing back; the traitorous feelings of want and desire when I should be worried about the safety and whereabouts of my only family.

  Damn him. Damn the way his eyes blazed like that, in the way they always do that sets a match to something inside of me. Damn the way our bodies pressed together like that, the heat of the forbidden and the nevermore roaring like a barely contained eruption.

  Damn the way I felt alive - actually alive - for the first time with him.

  The way I clung to him like a raft in a storm. The way the screaming rains and gail-force winds of the tempest that was the two of us still rings in my ears a year later.

  I bite my lip and close my eyes as I think of that first stolen and forbidden kiss. The kiss that seared itself across my lips deeper and hotter than any cigarette burn ever did, and immortalized itself into my life stronger than any tattoo ink ever could. That first kiss that ignited and burned into something fierce and something wild. The kiss that quickly moved to more kisses, and more than kisses.

  I feel the spark somewhere deep inside of me as my nipples stiffen at the memory, and shiver as they graze across the silken sheets beneath my body. The familiar heat blooms between my legs, making me bite my lips and move almost unconsciously against the sheets as I let the temptation of the forbidden fantasy creep into my mind.

  I hate that he does this to me; hate that he makes me feel this way with the instant effect he has on me.

  Still.

  It's never gone away, either. For a full fucking year, every single time he manages to get through my defense or every time I stumble and let the memory of him or us into my head, I feel like this.

  I moan softly as fingers trail traitorously over skin, feeling my body tremble beneath them.

  I hate that saying I hate it is the biggest lie of my life.

  My fingers trail down my sides, slipping beneath me to feel the roaring heat there and how wet I am as I think of Bryce Connors. That hard body, the bottled fury that somehow makes him a devil in bed and yet makes me feel more protected than I've ever felt in his arms after. Those rock-hard arms, themselves covered in his own ink and his own scars from his own demons and his own battles.

  I blush deeper as my fingers slip into the honeyed wetness of my pussy, thinking of the ways those arms moved me, and the ways the hands and fingers attached to those arms teased and played me in ways I'd never felt. And God, that tongue. There's no way any man outside of a fantasy should have a tongue as wicked and as perfect as that.

  I groan into the sheets and then roll onto my back as I let my thumb drift across my aching clit, rubbing myself in slow, deliberate circles as my breath and my pulse begin to quicken in staccato hitches. I gasp as I slip a second finger inside, imagining the toe-curling, star-seeing way it felt every single damn time he entered me; every time he filled me with that perfect cock of his.

  I'm moaning loudly, louder than I should be. But I stop caring as my forbidden fantasy of the wickedly tempting man I need to forget swells around me, carrying me closer to that sweet release. I'm crying out, my fingers moving quicker and faster over my clit and deep within my pussy as I start to drift over the edge of my climax.

  The door to the room splinters inward off it's hinges, and I shriek as a man crashes through with a gun in his hands and the blazing fire in his eyes.

  And then he starts laughing.

  Oh you have got to be motherfucking kidding me, I growl to myself as I gasp and yank the sheets over my body while he laughs and laughs and laughs.

  Ten-thousand miles away from him, ten milliseconds away from coming while thinking of him, and the man from my forbidden fantasy literally comes crashing through my door.

  What the fuck is Bryce doing here.

  She's in trouble.

  I freeze outside the door to her hotel room once more, hand on the gun I picked up from an old contact of Lawson's on the way through the market on the way here.

  She wasn't hard to find; not when you've got my and Major Lawson’s resources. And she should know that too, which makes it even more bewildering and annoying to me that she'd just up and take off the way she did to come here. As if I wouldn't follow her; or find her.

  The sound goes silent inside her room, and I pause once more, poised to strike. But yeah, there it is again.

  Fuck, she's in trouble.

  I react on instinct, moving back and then crashing through the door, ready to murder whoever is trying to hurt her with my bare fucking hands.

  There's a scream as I come smashing into the room, and I rise up with every hair-trigger response of my finely tuned instincts on edge as I level the gun at...

  At Peyton?

  She's alone. And naked; very, very naked. And flushed, and-

  And then the puzzle piece falls into place, and I just start to laugh.

  I mean, I'm also rock hard seeing her lithe nude body scramble up the bed snatching at sheets to cover herself. But it's too late, and I can't help myself as the peels of laughter come roaring out of my mouth.

  Part of it is relief, seeing as that's what I interrupted instead of some intruder hurting her, and there's a pang of familiarity in seeing those curves, and that line of her hip, and those perfect pink nipples; none of which I've ever managed to get out of my head.

  Not that I could even if wanted to; as if I've been trying all that hard.

  "What the fuck, Bryce!?"

  I have to chuckle, seeing her look so furious at me; "Well, excuse me. I was coming in to help you," I start to laugh again; "But I don't think you need any help coming by the looks of things."

  Peyton yanks the sheets up higher to her chin and glares at me with brightly flushed cheeks; "I don't know what you think-"

  "Peyton." I lean against wall behind me and smirk; "Like I don't know what you sound and look like when you're-"

  "Enough, Jesus," She says, wincing and shaking her head; "What are you doing here, Bryce?"

  "Says the girl who broke into our offices, stole a bunch of money, and hijacked my plane to fly halfway around the world to, what, shoot her way into wherever Benson's got Logan and save him yourself?"

  She's quiet for a second, which is a f
ucking rarity; "It was Logan's plane.”

  "Technically, it was my plane, but we're splitting hairs."

  "I wasn't going to sit there while everyone hemmed and hawed about plans while Logan is- God, while my brother is who the hell knows-"

  "Jesus, Peyton," I narrow my eyes at her; "You think you're the only one that calls him brother? What the fuck were you even thinking?"

  "That I don't need you to protect me, that's what," She spits out.

  I roll my eyes and look away. I know this Peyton; the surly, take-no-shit, tough-as-nails girl from the other side of the tracks act. Thing is, it's not really an act at all, which is one of the reason I l- Well, why I like her. Or liked.

  Or, whatever.

  Peyton isn't like, well, any other girl out there. I mean, I love the Archer sisters like they were my own flesh and blood, but there's something different about Peyton Rivers that's just different than them. Those girls have had rough times in life, but Peyton's the kind of person who's seen the face of the devil and taken the time to spit in it.

  Kinda like me, which sort of explains the attraction in the first place, I guess.

  "You do, actually. Need my protection, that is." Truth be told, in most situations, she wouldn't. Peyton's tough, but add four years of Logan teaching her how to fight, shoot, and know her perimeters and her enemy has that girl in probably better fighting shape than I ever was even when I was in the Marines.

  Peyton opens and then closes her mouth; "I'm not going back," She finally says, setting her jaw and glaring at me.

  "Yeah I didn't think you would."

  "I'm serious, Bry-"

  "So am I."

  She keeps her glare at me another moment before the tension seems to diffuse half a degree in the room, and she exhales slowly; "So, now what?"

  I grin; yeah, I was waiting for this part; "Now we act the part I've already set up."

  She looks at me quizzically; "Excuse me?"

  The grin on my face grows wider; "How's the honeymoon so far, honey?"

  The momentary lapse in glare on her face shatters as she narrows her eyes at me; "What."

  "Oh, yeah I set us up with a cover. But, oh, you had a plan for that didn't you?"

  She sneers a fake smile at me; "The honeymoon is fine, honey.”

  "Oh, lovely." I grin right back at her before I reach down and pull the door off the floor and shove it back into the frame I knocked it out of. I should probably come up with something to say to room service about fixing that.

  I'm sitting on the end of the bed and kicking my shoes off when Peyton loudly clears her throat behind me; "Um, what are you doing?"

  "Settling into our room," I say with a grin. I can practically feel her eyes burning laser-beam holes in my back, and I take a second to smirk to myself.

  "Nope, no way," She says. I can feel the weight shift on the bed as she gets up behind me, dragging the top sheet with her; "Nope, we’re not doing this. This is my room."

  I turn, flashing her my most saccharinely charming smile; "Our room, dear."

  "Stop calling me that."

  I shrug as I stand and start to pull my shirt off.

  "Goddammit, Bryce! Get your own fucking room!" She's wrapping the sheet around her body and crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the bathroom door.

  "Not very inconspicuous, don't you think? Newlyweds with different rooms?"

  "I am not sharing a be-"

  "Oh, fucking relax, Peyton. And while you're at it, get over yourself. I'm sleeping on the floor."

  "Damn right you are."

  I roll my eyes as I snatch a pillow and the other sheet off the bed and toss it on the floor next to the bed. Her tough-girl bullshit is starting to grate on me.

  "Get some sleep, darlin. Long day tomorrow." I can hear her hesitate across the room as I drop down to the floor and wrap the sheet loosely over myself; "Peyton, sleep."

  "Fine."

  *****

  I feel my eyes close eventually, but fuck is it hard when I can hear her breathing right there. She's so close, and so untouchable, and this isn't about us at all, which is the hardest part. We're not here to play the re-hash game with our relationship or sling arrows at each other. We’re here for Logan, and that's what we need to concentrate on.

  Except when I can hear her whimper softly in her sleep, and smell the lavender of her shampoo as the Mediterranean wind blows through the open window, it takes more than a deep breath to remind myself of that.

  Fuck, this is going to be tough.

  The market district of Istanbul is thick with exotic smells, colors, and sounds as Peyton and I push our way through the crowds without talking, since she’s decided to play a ridiculous silent treatment game with me since last night.

  I’ve been here before, on our way out of Afghanistan before we hooked up with Blackriver in Morocco. I shake my head at the memory of those hectic, wild days, when we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing; when we were looking over our shoulders every five seconds for the State Department, or worse. Two months of uncertainty, of lying in limbo. Me, high on hashish scrounging through back-markets looking for something stronger to numb it all away, Hudson almost getting us all killed when he went home with the wrong married woman, and Logan playing fucking damage control through the whole thing. Logan keeping us together, and alive, and moving forward; always moving forward.

  Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Out of the deserts of Afghanistan when we all made the decision to leave - when we knew we couldn’t do the horrible things that were asked of us anymore - and dive head-first into the unknown. Aimless, penniless; hell, fucking country-less. And through the whole damn thing, that tough bastard kept us going.

  And you fucked his sister. Nice work, shithead.

  A man in white linen meets us at the front door of the cafe where we're meeting our turncoat contact from Blackriver and quickly nods and bows as he hustles us past men in similar garb sitting drinking black tea and smoking from hookahs. He ushers us through the back door of the cafe and out into a half-shaded, tiny little courtyard with a small table with three chairs around it.

  "Please," He says haltingly; "Have a seat. She'll be with you shortly."

  She? Fuck.

  Peyton sits at the table facing the cafe door and toys with the edge of it; "So do you know this contact? From your Blackriver days?"

  I sure fucking hope not.

  "I don't think so."

  Peyton fidgets in her chair as I sit across from her; "I don't like it. Why's she switching teams?"

  I shrug; I don't like it one bit either, but it's all we've got right now if we're ever going to figure out where Benson is with Logan; "If Lawson trusts her, we should t-"

  "Bryce, darlin, how are you?."

  Fuck. I can feel my jaw tighten at the sound of the Aristocratic, Queen’s English voice I mercifully haven't heard in years. It's like I'm instantly yanked back in time, back into the darkness and back into the grey clutches of addiction. Yeah, it's her. I grit my teeth as I stand, taking maybe a moment longer than normal before I steel myself and turn around to face the woman I'd hoped I'd never see again; "Hello, Sasha," I say icily, hating the smirk in her eyes and the familiarity of her face.