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

by Irons, Aubrey

  I tear us through the market district towards the outer piers, the blinking lighthouse there showing us the way as if we’re a ship from the olden days being tossed among the waves. Except my way is clear, my hand is steady, and there are no rocks in the world that would stand between me and and her.

  She says nothing when I cut the engine, nothing when I lift her off the seat, or smash in the lock on the front door to the lighthouse. She's quiet, watching me with this focused silence that I've known from her before. It's a look I'd never be able to clear from my head even if I wanted to.

  It's only when I hear her shut the door behind us that I turn, slowly like I’m running underwater in a dream.

  And there she is.

  She's lit by moonlight, shrouded in memories, and glowing with the promise of revisiting every single one. There's a beat, a drawn breath, a lapse in time where the world stops moving…

  And then there's nothing in this universe that could keep us from crashing together.

  The silence is broken so perfectly, shattered so exquisitely by the desperation in her moan, the need in the growl that falls from my lips. And then I'm crushing my mouth against hers; pushing her back against the the door, my hand on her hip and the other grabbing her by the jaw as our lips sear to the others. It's liquid fire, molten heat, and pure, unhindered need as we come together.

  This isn't looking back over the pages of our history, this is lighting the Goddamn book on fire.

  She's wild and as forcefully take-charge as she's always been. This isn't the girl who moans quietly and lets herself be taken, this is the girl that growls and pounces like a lioness. This is the girl that leaves scratches down my back and sweet lingering bruises on my skin. This is the Peyton I remember; the tempest crashing against the shore like a force of nature.

  She moans as my hands grab her hard, her leg sliding up mine to wrap around my waist and pull me tight against her. We're gasping for breath as I pull away from those sweet, bee-sting lips and slide my mouth down her neck to that spot by her shoulder that I know brings her to her fucking knees.

  And I fucking love that I know these things and these places. I love that I remember her body like the road home, her skin like the map I don't even have to look at anymore.

  She's yanking at my shirt as I tear hers from her body, unable to stop the grin that comes to my face at the sight of her perfect, full, teardrop breasts and the dappled pink of her nipples. I drop my mouth to them, pebbled and straining hard and ready in the moonlit darkness, and I clamp my lips around the soft skin there as my tongue flicks across. Her hands are tearing at my belt as I’m yanking the skirt from her hips and down her legs, my fingers sliding over the front of her panties as she bites my shoulder and pulls at the zipper of my pants. She pauses, moaning loudly and arching herself against me as my fingers delve deep between her cleft, stroking her there through her soaking wet panties and groaning at the heat throbbing from her core.

  And suddenly, I want much more. I want to remember more.

  Her panties tumble down her legs and drop to the floor, and her gasp turns to a shriek that bubbles from her lips as I lift her. I drag her much smaller body up mine as I drop to my knees, my lips and my tongue sliding over her skin as I hook my arms under her knees, my hands on her ass. Her hands grab my hair as I push her up against the door, her thighs over my shoulders and her back arched against the wall.

  And then I'm tasting her, and groaning at the remembrance of her; the way she tastes like home. She's all honeyed sweetness and soft petals, and I drag my tongue from her opening up through her dewy lips to her clit. She gasps and writhes against me, bucking her hips and riding my tongue as I slide it inside of her. I want to spend all night teasing her; fuck, I want to spend forever with my tongue buried in this pussy.

  But there's another page of history I want to see again; I want to see her come.

  When I wrap my lips around her throbbing clit and flick my tongue across her in staccato beats to match the gasping moans falling from her lips, I know she’s about to detonate. And when she comes, it's grace and beauty. It's raw and sexual and primal, and it's delicate and soft like a rose caught in a storm. She explodes under my tongue, crying out my name and screaming it again and again in the emptiness of the lighthouse as I coax through wave after wave of of her aftershocks.

  She pushes me away, whimpering and grinning at me with a hunger in her eyes that I know all too well. She's sinking to the ground, her legs around mine, and she's kissing me, moaning into me and tasting herself on my lips as her hips slide down to meet mine. She's reaching between us, and I growl as fingers slide around my thickness.

  Oh, yeah, this I remember.

  She strokes me slowly, as if I could possibly be any harder than the steel between my legs at this very moment. And then she's rising up, and guiding me against her wetness. She must feel my quarter second of hesitancy, because she leans in to kiss me; "I- I just missed this; the feel of just you and me with nothing between us." Her eyes dart up to mine; "I'm clean," she says quietly; "Are y-"

  "There's been no once since you," My eyes lock with hers, wanting her more with every second, wanting to make up for the time lost again and again with every single beat of her pulse against my skin.

  "You mean, you haven't- with any-"

  "Of course there fucking hasn't been," I growl, my eyes roaring into hers; "There hasn't been anyone but you since the moment I met you."

  “I never slept with Hugh.“

  My brow furrows as I stare at her; “What?”

  “Hugh, the whole thing-” She blushes and looks away for a second; “We went on two dates. I just pretended, because- because I was angry.”

  I’m laughing as I kiss her fiercely. I wouldn’t care one way or another, but there’s a primal possessiveness that roars through me, knowing that she’s mine and only mine.

  We both gasp as I rock my hips into her, and we moan as one as I sheath every inch of my cock inside of her, claiming her once again.

  And here's another memory, roaring back to me.

  I'm remembering the way we fit together; the way she fits so perfectly around me, the way our skin slides together, the way her nipples graze my chest and the way her fingers claw at my back as we rock as one. I remember the way she loves when I roll my hips, pushing deeper inside of her until she throwing her head back and gasping for air. I remember the way she bites her lip, the way the supple skin of her ass feels cupped in my hands as I bodily move her up and down my shaft. I remember the smell of her arousal, the mouthwatering taste of her skin and her lips as she clenches tight around me.

  And when I can feel myself start to lose control, I remember the way she falls with me. And when she clings to me so tightly and explodes around me like a starburst, screaming my name as she rides me, I remember how it feels to just let go, and I'm roaring right along with her as I fill her entirely.

  Remember what I said about making up for lost time?

  Yeah, we had a lot of time to catch up with.

  We go again, and again, and more still, until we're both laughing and unable to move there on the floor. The rush of memories, the flood of the familiar coming back to my nerve endings and my brain is almost drug-like, but better. Remembering her is the best hit and the best high I've ever felt.

  She's bent over on her knees in front of me, wiggling that ass of hers and daring me to yield, as if we're competing to see who drops or passes out first. And then I'm fucking her hard; the deep, rhythmic strokes that I know drive her wild. I'm pulling her hair, just hard enough to make her gasp, and just enough to have her reach back and claw at my chest, her fingers needy and grasping as she moans and writhes under me.

  I'm groaning as she giggles and crawls between my legs, taking me in her mouth to revive me. And against every single aching muscle, and every single law of just human exhaustion, I'm hard again, and needing her.

  She's riding me, her hands on my knees and her hair tossed back as she bounces that perfect
ass up and down my length, milking me. My hands slide over her hips, one staying up to her breasts to tease and roll her nipples between my fingers, the other diving deep between her legs to the place we connect and pressing against her clit.

  Lost time? Fuck it; in our minds, we're going to make up for a full year of this without taking a single damned break.

  We do of course finally drop from exhaustion, and it's then that we take the time to right the wrongs of our past.

  There are tears.

  She's crying when she tells me about that Goddamn syringe in my bathroom that night; even more when I tell her about Danny. And just like that, the sins of the past are brought bleeding and bloody to the surface, only to be shoved away; healed with the now.

  It doesn't matter who was wrong, or what was said or wasn't anymore, because it's forgotten. It's pushed aside in favor of the now, because the now is the only real place we can be. We don't exist in the past, only here and what's to come.

  But for now, it's just her and I under this big, big sky, and for now, that's all I need.

  "So, what now?" The muffled, half-asleep voice against my chest mumbles.

  I grin as I lean down to kiss the top of her head; "Well I think it's safe to say date three is off with Anderson after you slept with the guy that kicked his ass." She giggles into my skin, the rumbling of her happiness making me grin; "I mean there's only so much a guy can take, Peyton, even a desperate douchebag like Anderson."

  She laughs and pokes me in the side; "I know that plan is off, dummy. I mean now what do we do?"

  I shrug; "Now we should talk to Sasha again."

  I can feel her bristle beneath me; "Anyone ever tell you you've got a teeny bit of a jealous streak, Miss Rivers?”

  "As long as that bitch keeps her hands and her eyes off of you, we'll be just fine."

  I laugh as she playfully nips at my skin; “Tonight we lie low and get some sleep, and tomorrow-“ She looks up at me, and my jaw tightens; "Tomorrow we get Logan back."

  “C’mon, wake up.”

  I frown as I open my eyes and drag down the blanket I’ve pulled up over my face against the morning sun; “Hrmmr?” Some women, mostly characters in movies, wake up clear, alert, and ready for the world, with perfectly sexy tousled bed-head.

  I am not those women, and I need fucking coffee, now.

  I blink my eyes again and focus on a fully dressed, obnoxiously awake Bryce leaning over me. I grumble and start to pull the covers of the lighthouse keeper’s bed we’ve commandeered for the night back up, but he yanks them out of my hands and leans down to kiss my forehead; “Here, become human, oh bleary one.”

  I frown in confusion until I look down and see the paper cup of black, strong-smelling Turkish coffee in his outstretched hand; “You’re…you’re a saint,” I mutter, smiling at him as I take the coffee from his hand and gratefully sip it; “Where did you even get this?”

  “You sleep late; I went out to the market.”

  I arch an eyebrow at him, glancing out the window at the sun low on the horizon; “Late? What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  I roll my eyes, grinning as I take another necessary sip of the drink in my hands; “Yeah, day’s-a-wastin, huh soldier-boy?”

  He grins and tosses me a pastry, followed by my clothes; “Here, eat up and let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I want to show you something.”

  I raise my brows again; “Can’t we just stay here? Maybe sleep some more?” I add, hopefully.

  “The lighthouse?” Bryce smirks; “I’ve heard mixed things about the continental breakfast.”

  I laugh, almost getting coffee up my nose in the process.

  “C’mon, seriously.”

  I make a face as I stick the honey pastry in my mouth and start to pull my clothes on, feeling the glow spread through my cheeks as I feel his eyes roaming over my skin.

  “So where are we going?” I say through pastry-stuffed cheeks as we walk back out of the lighthouse - our lighthouse - towards the bike.

  “There was this thing, from when I was here before. I just want to see if it’s still-”

  “Wait. when were you in Turkey?”

  He looks up at me as he swings his leg over the bike; “Have I seriously never told you about that?”

  I finish swallowing the rest of my breakfast and shake my head at him; “Well well, Bryce Connors; international man of mystery.” There’s a lot of him I know already, but even back before, there were times when I’d suddenly discover a whole new part of him for the first time, and it was like discovering a new, secret chapter in your favorite book. He’s told me about the Marines, obviously, and leaving, and about joining up with Blackriver later. But it’s the in-between that’s still a hazy mystery.

  And apparently we’re covering that particular chapter today.

  Bryce grins; “Long story; hop on.”

  We tear headlong through the busy morning streets of Istanbul before moving onto the main highway out and roaring away from the city entirely. I look back into the morning sun to watch the minarets and the criers, and the dome of the Hague Sophia drop away as we climb the sloping hills of the countryside.

  It’s already crazy, coming from some place like New York that seems so old compared to the shitty trailer-park next to the mega-mall that I grew up in back in Texas. Except this place exists from before New York was even a thing; from before the ships that came to it were even a thing. Hell, this place is older than old York. We’re passing villages that are over a thousand years old, moving past arched aqueducts that the Romans built two-thousand years before.

  We’ve officially left Kansas, Toto.

  This place has history from before history was written, which seems an appropriate setting for two people like us. Two people for whom history is both everything and also better left in the past.

  I hug him tighter, pressing my face into his back as if to remind us both that we’re here and now, and that’s all that matters, and he roars the bike forward as if in response.

  We drive past another small town, but this time Bryce takes us off the main road and begins to slow. He drives us carefully through the ancient stone town, past shops owned by the same families for the last millennium, past fields tended and grazed on since the fights between faiths that took place here a thousand years before.

  We eventually drive down a small, rock-paved lane to a small stone house on the edge of the village. Bryce cuts the engine, and I look up to see that the wide, two-door garage next to the house is open, and there inside is a myriad of carefully and meticulously organized car parts.

  No, motorcycle parts.

  He kicks the stand out on the bike as he helps us off, only pausing when he sees the grin on my face; “What?”

  I roll my eyes, smiling at him; “Of course.” He gives me a questioning look and I shake my head; “You are far less mysterious than you’d like to think you are, Mr. Connors,” I say, nodding towards the sign hanging on the side of the garage. I can’t read the Turkish, but I recognize the Harley-Davidson logo next to the silhouette of a bike.

  Behind the garage is what some might call a junk-yard, but I know to people like Bryce, it’s a goldmine; a yard filled with all manner of treasures to tinker with and explore. Two old VW busses painted with bright hippie flowers sit up on blocks, and my eyes suddenly go wide as I focus on the giant metal behemoth sitting behind them; a stark contrast to the two peace-buses.