Forged in Ember

by Trish McCallan

  She nodded, her head tilting, as though she were waiting for something. “I understand.”

  Did she really?

  Was she nodding because she agreed with him or just to show she was listening?

  Damn Rawls’s fucking hide for putting that bug up his ass . . . like he needed anything else to worry about.

  “We secured the council and the location—”

  “I know. Neniiseti’ told me yesterday.” Amy’s eyebrows drew together. Yeah, she was obviously waiting. Then she took the tiger by its tail, in typical Amy fashion. “Why are you here, Mac?”

  Ah hell . . . time to shit or get off the pot.

  The nerves swelled, tried to grab the words from his tongue. “I’m here because . . .” He dug deep and coughed the emotion out. “I think I love you.”

  Think? You think?

  Dumbass.

  She looked like she’d been poleaxed. Obviously his suave sophistication had impressed her speechless.

  He squared his shoulders, grabbed his big boy britches, and tried again, hoping like hell that fate would give him a fourth chance.

  “Amy, I love you.”

  Her blank expression fragmented in front of his eyes. Her face softened, her eyes widening. She stepped toward him, raised her hand, and . . . punched him in the stomach.

  What the hell?

  At least all those workouts with the boys had paid off, judging by the way she was shaking her hand.

  “Why didn’t you lead with that?” But the softness on her face was infiltrating her gaze.

  “Because I’m an idiot.” He rubbed his chest. Although her response didn’t exactly equate to “I love you too,” it was a long way from “Get the fuck out of my quarters.” He’d make do with that . . . for now.

  “Why did you say we have to talk?”

  So he’d been right; those words had set her off. He’d have to tell Rawls to add that to his list.

  “Because we do . . . we are.”

  She nodded slightly.

  Was she agreeing? Or just listening? Damn, he need to exorcise that tip from his brain.

  “Why didn’t you come to me as soon as you landed? Why check on the boys but not come to see me?”

  That’s what that last withdrawal had been about? Hell, conversation was going to be a minefield with this woman. Damn good thing he was up for the task.

  “Because you were sleeping. Because you needed the sleep. Because I didn’t want to wake you up.” Had he covered all the bases?

  Oh fuck, he was scowling. He wiped the scowl and tried on a smile.

  Amy took a giant step back.

  Yeah, fuck this shit.

  He let the smile go and watched the woman he loved more than he’d ever believed possible relax. She edged forward again.

  “You love me too, right?” he demanded.

  There he went, breaking another one of Rawls’s stupid-ass rules. But the woman knew what she was getting. No sense in white-washing it.

  “What are you going to do if I say no?” she asked with a lift to her eyebrows.

  Mac couldn’t tell whether she was teasing or serious. Pulling one of the flex-cuffs free, he dangled it in front of her eyes. “I’m going to rock your world so hard you’ll never want to let me go.”

  Her face stilled, sudden anxiety in her eyes. “Mac, I don’t think I’m ready—”

  Ah fuck . . . something else he should have worded differently. “Sweetheart, they’re not for you. They’re for me.”

  Understanding brushed the fear from her eyes. “For you?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced toward the bedroom. “I figure we can cuff me to the headboard. Make sure I can’t reach for you.”

  He’d managed to keep his hands to himself the night before last, but just barely. She got him so damn revved and ready to go . . . this time he wasn’t counting on his self-control alone. Not when one wrong move could ruin the moment.

  “That would be great”—her hazel eyes glinted—“if I had a headboard.”

  He scowled at that news. “Fuck.”

  “Absolutely.” She slid up to him and stroked his arms.

  He breathed deeply, awash in her clean, fresh scent. The grounding was back.

  She took the flex-cuffs while he yanked off his T-shirt. Once the shirt was gone, he crossed his wrists and held them out to her.

  She hesitated again, this time stroking his bare chest, her fingers leaving a trail of fire. But her eyes had lost some of their sparkle. “Mac, we don’t need—”

  “We do. Trust me.” Mac shook his head. “Babe, you have no clue how hard it was to keep from grabbing you last time. I came way too close way too many times.”

  “But now that the first . . . time is over, maybe it wouldn’t hit so hard if you do reach for me,” she said.

  Her voice was so tentative; he knew she was wondering whether that was wishful thinking.

  “Why don’t we stick to the status quo a few more times before experimenting?”

  Apparently she was good with that counteroffer, because she wrapped the plastic cuff around his wrists and pulled until it was tight. The flex-cuffs locked his wrists together, but they left his hands free, which gave him plenty of opportunity to touch her.

  He started by grabbing the hem of her shirt and dragging it over her head. Her hair emerged ember bright and tousled. Sexy as all fucking hell.

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed in, but, damn it, his arms were in the way. He bent, his mouth searching for hers, but again his fucking arms were in the way, and the position was damn awkward.

  It was time to rework the logistics of this plan.

  “How ’bout we take this to your bedroom?” More specifically her bed. So he could lie back, his arms above his head, and let her have her way with him. That strategy had sure worked well last time.

  It took half a dozen steps for him to realize that securing his hands in the living room had been a major miscalculation. The trip to the bedroom was endlessly awkward with his hands bound in front and at an angle that made it impossible to touch her, soothe her, caress the nerves jumping under her skin.

  As soon as they reached the bed, he kicked off his shoes and dropped ass-first on the bed. He fell back and reached his arms above his head, fisting the blanket. “Come here, babe.”

  She crawled onto the bed, straddled him, and stretched out flat.

  Christ, this was what he was talking about. She felt so fucking perfect pressed against him like this. Her warm, soft body melted into his. He arched up slightly, moving his body beneath hers, grounding her without his hands.

  She purred, her mouth finding his and sipping at his lips. The hunger burning in his gut spread out, heating flesh and skin, hardening his muscles.

  He opened his mouth, encouraging entry, but her lips moved across his face and down his neck instead, leaving a steady stream of nibbles and nips down his neck and across his collarbone. When she reached his nipples, she stopped to suck, and Jesus H. Christ, he about came off the bed.

  Her mouth was so fucking hot and so fucking wet and so fucking sexy.

  Then it moved on, trailing those same nipping, licking, sexy kisses down his ribs and across his abdomen to the waistband of his BDUs.

  Jesus . . . Jesus . . . Jesus.

  She backed up a bit, stopping to suckle the tight muscles of his abs.

  Ah shit. Disappointment crested until he realized her fingers were at the waistband of his BDUs, unbuttoning and unzipping.

  Oh . . . yeah.

  He lifted his hips, and she dragged his pants and boxers down his thighs all the way past his knees. Released from its cotton prison, his cock sprang up, all but begging for the touch of her mouth.

  Her mouth slid down again. The kisses wetter. The hot suck of her lips hotter. The wicked nip of her teeth sharper. A whoosh of lust hit his blood—the kick as potent as Jack and Johnnie mixed together and shot back straight. Christ, she was killing him.

  Her mouth enveloped his cock, sli
d down and back up. Down and up. She added the light scrape of her teeth and the wicked glide of her tongue to the hot suction of her mouth. A deep, rumbling groan erupted from him.

  Electrified, he arched his back. His arms came up, and his bound hands dived into her hair. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to think past the urgency boiling in his blood. This wasn’t supposed to be about him. It was supposed to be all about her.

  “Babe. Sweetheart,” he ground out, forcing himself to let go of her head. “Enough. Take me inside you.”

  Another long, slow glide and suck of her mouth over his straining rigid cock. “I am.”

  He lost his breath when her talented hand closed over his balls and squeezed. The pressure built, throbbed through his cock and sac. A tingling started in his spine. Christ, he was running out of time. “Not like this. Not in your mouth. This is supposed to be for you.”

  Fuck, he wasn’t making any sense . . . but then his head was about to explode . . . both heads.

  “The boys won’t be released until this afternoon. We have plenty of time for me.” Her voice was husky.

  While his brain was still processing the implications of that, her mouth went in for one final up and down before stopping to nibble at the tip of his cock.

  Son of a bitch.

  His hips arched off the bed.

  He may have shouted. He may have screamed.

  And then the pressure was loose, boiling up and out, carrying him away.

  Chapter Thirty

  HER CHIN PROPPED on Mac’s heaving chest, Amy watched his face. His sweaty, content face. His eyes were closed, his hair clinging damply to his forehead. The hard thump of his heart pounded against her slick hands.

  He looked like a man who’d been utterly satisfied.

  The hot rise of emotion rushed her chest, swelled until it flooded every cell, every nerve, the very breath she drew. She swallowed to ease the ache in her throat and concentrated on the steady beat of his heart against her palms.

  It beat strong and steady and sure, this heart beneath her hands. The heart he’d given to her. The heart he’d protected so carefully through the years. He wasn’t a man who loved easily. Nor would he be a man easy to love. She knew both these things. Knew they didn’t matter.

  She drew his sweaty male scent into her lungs, filling herself with him. A sense of peace, of belonging took hold. It felt like forever since she’d belonged to someone or since someone had belonged to her—someone other than her children, anyway.

  The heaving beneath her hands slowed as his skin cooled. She waited.

  When his eyes finally fluttered open, they were still hazy, the pupils dilated. She’d never seen them so soft—like black velvet. It didn’t take long for them to sharpen—just the time it took for them to focus on her face.

  “Hey.” He pulled his bound hands forward, using his fingers to stroke her face. “You okay?”

  Her clenched throat grew so tight it ached. The ache spread through her chest and into her heart. His first thought always was of her and the boys. Never of himself.

  For a man so determined not to love, not to hold responsibility for anyone other than himself—he sure did it well. He’d put himself, his life, on the line for her so many times she’d lost track. When she’d been captive back in the very beginning. When he’d insisted on going with her to pick up the boys. When he’d used his body as a shield to protect her at Clay’s house. He’d argued on her behalf for going after James Link and Leonard Embray. Over and over again, he’d stepped up to the plate for her. Almost died for her.

  “Amy.” A hint of sharpness entered his voice. He lifted his head off the bed, worry lighting his eyes.

  She’d waited too long to respond.

  Leaning her face into his hands, she smiled at him. “I think you’re the one who should be answering that question.” She waited a beat and offered him a slow, satisfied smile. “Just who rocked whose world?”

  He laughed and dropped his head back to the mattress. “You didn’t have to try to kill me to get out of answering the big question.” He wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “I can be patient.”

  “Now that might just kill you.” She was only partly kidding. For a SEAL, a commander no less, who must have had patience drilled into him from BUD/s onward, he was an odd dichotomy of extreme patience and explosive frustration and anger.

  The frustration and anger weren’t directed at her much these days . . . and it had never been directed at the boys. If it had, she wouldn’t be lying on top of him right now.

  His silence registered, and she refocused on him, catching the fleeting glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes.

  He needed to know that she loved him. He might hide it behind his cranky, alpha, misogynist facade, but he was as vulnerable to her as she was to him.

  His admission that he loved her had surprised the crap out of her. She hadn’t expected the weighty I love you discussion so soon. Sure, she’d sensed he might have those kinds of feelings for her, mostly because his actions spoke volumes. Most of the men she knew tended to show rather than verbalize their love. Like her dad shoveling snow out of the driveway and warming and deicing her mom’s car during the winter. Or Mac telling Embray to give him the antidote in his misguided quest to protect her.

  Mac was as closed off emotionally as a man could get—or so it had seemed. She’d resigned herself to rarely, if ever, hearing those three powerful words. Then he’d dropped them on her at the very moment she’d girded herself to let him go. She’d been so certain he’d regretted their night together and intended to call them quits, she’d steeled herself to get through the discussion without letting him know that she cared.

  Perhaps she’d steeled herself a little too well. Perhaps that initial instinct to protect herself from hurt when she thought he was abandoning her had tangled her up inside. Was that why she hadn’t said “I love you” back? Had she been protecting herself in case he changed his mind? Was she still protecting herself?

  She’d always prided herself on facing events head-on. On not taking the cowardly way out. But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing now?

  She did love him. She’d suspected it since the night he’d almost died in his quest to save Benji. It wasn’t fair to keep him in the dark about her feelings when he’d been so surprisingly open about his.

  She shuffled herself forward to brush a kiss across his lips. “I love you too.”

  His mouth hardened under hers, forcing her lips open so his tongue could surge inside. There was something wild and uncontrolled in his reaction, in the urgent sweep of his tongue, as though her words had unleashed the beast he kept locked inside.

  As their mouths locked and their tongues dueled, her passion roared up to tangle with his. Heat flashed through her like a forest fire. She undulated against him, her breasts and thighs on fire.

  For the first time, she resented the cuffs binding his wrists, keeping his arms from her. She wanted them around her, locking her to him. She wanted all of him over her, inside her, pressing her into the mattress.

  She jerked her mouth from his. “Mac, take off the cuffs.”

  Although she knew it wasn’t as easy as that. Flex-cuffs were designed so they couldn’t be broken. They had to be cut. Which meant going to the kitchen and grabbing a knife—which was bound to break the mood.

  He stilled beneath her, his concerned gaze stroking her face. “We agreed—”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  The instant, emphatic response must have registered, because he gave her face one last searching scan and held his bound hands out to her. “There’s a knife holstered to my right ankle.”

  He has a knife on him? Well, of course he does; he was still in his battle clothes.

  She scooted down and pushed his pant leg up, freeing the knife from its holster.

  “Be careful. It’s sharp.”

  She almost rolled her eyes but caught herself in time. Of course it was sharp. Who’d want a dull knife strapped to th
eir calf? She carefully sawed at the cuff between his spread wrists until the plastic gave way.

  Hands free, he took the knife from her and set it on the bedside table. Damp hands cupped her cheeks; gentle fingers swept her hair behind her ears. “You’re sure about this?”

  She nodded. She wasn’t just sure, she was determined. No way was she giving this man half measures. He deserved better than that.

  She deserved better than that.

  “If anything changes, let me know.” He drew her mouth down to his. “Anything,” he reminded her between kisses.

  She murmured an agreement. The heat was already rising, stoked by the thrust of his tongue. Vaguely she felt his hands slide from her head to the clasp of her bra, and the fabric fell away. The feel of his chest against her breasts as she rubbed herself against his bare skin acted like accelerant on fire. Passion exploded, a flash of tingles and heat and electrical impulses that liquefied her. Her skin tightened and dampened.

  Fingers unhooked her jeans and eased down the zipper. She sat up, lifting her hips so he could drag them down her legs. The moment she shimmied out of them, his hand was between her legs, slipping into her wet, swollen depths.

  She groaned, frozen there above him, completely focused on his hand and on the slow, teasing glide of his finger. He moved faster and faster, adding a second finger until she was locked at the precipice, ready to fly.

  “Let go, babe. Come on. Let go.”

  The gravelly rasp of his voice was rougher than ever and drew Amy’s eyes. He was watching her face, hot urgency in his eyes.

  “Not like this,” Amy said, aware of the oddest sense of déjà vu. “I want you inside me. On top of me.” Her urgency climbed with each word, echoed in her voice. “I want to feel your weight pressing me into the mattress. Please. I need you on top.”

  He froze for a moment, and she could sense the hot scrutiny of his gaze, but he didn’t question her decision. Instead he drew her down, one arm between her legs, the other around her back, anchoring her to him, and he rolled.

  They were exactly as she’d wanted. His hard, hot weight pressed her into the mattress; his arms were around her, holding her close to his heart; his breath was hot and humid against her neck—and the nightmare slammed into her with the force of a hurricane, blasting the passion from her veins.