by SR Jones
Just a lonely, scared, traumatized girl who wanted some humanity.
And a man who hasn’t any left in him to give.
Chapter 7
Asshole, I seethe. He’s such a dick. Acting as if I was coming onto him. I only wanted to feel his warmth and his solidity for a while.
Yeah, he’s hot. And yes, maybe, I have a crazy intense crush on him, but I’d never really try it on with him. Would I?
I ought not to. He’s too much for me. I know that much. I don’t need some gigantor Special Forces soldier taking my virginity.
Even as I tell myself as much, my core aches because the mere thought of him taking my virginity has me all hot and bothered.
I’ve done almost everything but sex anyway. I’m not naïve. One holiday, in Spain, I nearly went all the way. The boy didn’t know me, or my father, and I didn’t know him. It would have been perfect in some ways, but I didn’t want him enough to cross that final barrier.
At home I have a subscription to a posh porn channel. It’s all very high taste. Ethical porn, by women, and for women. I have a vibrator. I’m not some innocent. I am, however, small, and he’s huge. I probably want to find myself a man more my own size for first-time shenanigans.
Not that I’d have sex right now anyway, I tell myself firmly. It would be the worst idea. Although… It might help with this weird, zinging, over-hyped sensation I have going on. It’s as if someone’s given me some extra voltage, and I can’t get it out of my body. Instead, it’s ricocheting around in there, keeping me all on edge. I feel like I do before I’m about to ride a rollercoaster. Or, more accurately, the way you do right before a massive dip on a rollercoaster.
I didn’t even bring my wine upstairs, so now I don’t have that to help.
Damn it. I need to speak to my father. I want to hear his voice. I need to hear him talk to me and put to bed the fears that what Red said about him are true. I won’t ask him outright, not yet, but speaking to him will remind me of how good he’s always been to me. To the people back home in Kosovo that he still supports. That means going back downstairs, though, and seeing Camo, but I’m done with him for tonight.
Thank God there’s a TV in this room, or I think I’d lose my mind. I turn it on and channel surf, settling on re-runs of Law and Order. As I watch the courtroom drama unfold, I go from hyped up to crashing exhaustion in what seems like minutes. Is that normal?
Suddenly too tired to care, I let my eyes close as the TV drones on in the background.
Pressure.
On me.
Suffocating me.
I can’t breathe.
It’s a hand over my mouth. Oh, shit. It’s Red. He has his hand over my mouth and a knife in his other hand.
Movement at the door has me looking that way. It’s Camo, but instead of helping me, he’s laughing. His mouth gets wider and wider until he looks like the Joker.
I bite Red’s hand, and he moves it on a shrill. I open my mouth and scream. And scream. And scream.
Bright light hits my retina almost painfully as I blink.
There’s a figure over me, and I panic, scrambling up the bed. My mind struggles to parse what’s real and what’s a dream.
Red is dead, I tell myself.
My heart thunders, and there’s a whooshing in my ears.
“Hey,” a deep, soothing voice reaches through the fog of my terror. “Roze? You’re okay. Take a breath for me.”
I can’t, though. Shit. I can’t breathe.
Struggling to get air in, I fall forward.
Massive hands grab me, and I’m lifted and carried.
Where is he taking me? I’m going to die if I can’t breathe.
Freezing water hits me, and I gasp.
Oh God, air. Blessed, precious air.
Then it hits me.
I’m in the shower, clothed and wet as icy water blasts down on me.
“Breathe,” Priest commands.
I do. I breathe.
I look at him, letting his blue eyes hold me safe as the water helps my lungs work. It must be the shock of the icy temperature that forced the air in. He doesn’t look away. It’s as if Priest knows his gaze is about the only thing holding me up.
Shivers hit me as the ice-cold water continues to hammer down on my shoulders. Priest turns the water off, pulls me out of the shower, and pulls my t-shirt off. Thank God, I have panties on, but they’re wet and cold too.
My arms automatically go around my chest, but Priest isn’t looking; he’s grabbing a massive, fluffy towel. It’s warm when he wraps it around me. Comforting. He starts to dry me. I let him. Too wrung out from the nightmare and my massive freak out attack to help.
“Take your panties off,” he commands.
I almost laugh. Almost. In any other situation the command would be erotic as hell. Now? It’s simply an order and one I obey as he turns his back on me.
Once they’re removed and the towel is back in place, Priest takes my arm.
He guides me into the bedroom, through the door, and into his room, where he pushes me down on the bed.
Opening the drawer where I found the hair dryer, he takes it out and blow dries my hair for me.
It’s weirdly intimate. He isn’t styling it. Not that I’d expect him to know how, but he’s running his fingers through it with one hand, while the other waves the dryer around. His technique sucks, the hair dryer is on too high, and I’ll have epic frizz, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I lift my face to look at him, and his deep blue eyes find mine. For a moment we stare at one another as he runs his fingers through my fast-drying hair.
There’s something there between us. I tried to tell myself it was all one-sided. A stupid, young girl’s crush on the man who saved her. In this moment, though, I know, deep down know, it isn't one-sided. It’s why he got so angry. He’ll probably never act on it, but there’s attraction simmering in the depths of his gaze.
Then he blinks, and the spell is broken.
Stalking to a bag in the corner of the room, he pulls out some boxer briefs and a t-shirt. “Put these on now that your hair is almost dry.”
He practically throws the clothes at me. Once more, he turns his back.
“I’m done,” I tell him when I’m dressed, folding the towel into a neat square and placing it on the end of the bed.
He motions for me to sit again and comes in close once more. Brandishing the dryer, he goes back to work, muscles bunching as he holds it.
I want his big arms around me. Crave it like I crave air.
My aunt brought me up well, and I loved her dearly, but she wasn’t a physically affectionate woman. My father gives me the odd hug, but that’s it. I yearn for hugs, warmth, and human contact. My friends sometimes tease me about how much I love to go in for a hug. They don’t get it. They had plenty of physical contact with other humans in their lives. Me? Not so much.
When I get home, I’m getting a dog, I decide. My hours at university mean I can do it. They’d never be alone for longer than three hours at a time, and then I’d be home where I can have all the cuddles I want. I wouldn’t rely on my friends or pine after a man solely because his arms look secure and warm.
“I’m sorry,” I say when he turns the hairdryer off.
“What for?”
“This, the … not breathing thing.”
“It was a panic attack brought on by a nightmare. No need to apologize.”
I stand, wanting to leave so he can get back to sleep, but I get the mother of all headrushes and stumble. Damn blood sugar, or blood pressure; I’m not sure which it is that causes one to almost faint.
Warmth surrounds me. Strength surrounds me, and I realize the thing I’ve been fantasizing about has happened. Camo has me in his arms.
He smells different than when he rescued me. Not of oil and the outdoors so much; more of shower gel, and something muskier. Sexier. His arms are big, secure, and warm. The way I imagined they would be. He’s holding me, and it’s as wonderful
as I imagined.
“Can I stay in your room?” The words are out before I can stop them. Crap.
He blinks twice, then shakes his head.
“I’m not trying it on with you. I swear.” I’m really not this time. I don’t have it in me. Not right now. “I’m cold and scared. I don’t want to be alone. Please.” I’m not above begging.
“I have nightmares,” he says.
So? I look at him for a beat, and then it hits me. He means bad ones. I should know what he means, damn it. I’m training to be a psychologist, and I’ve done research into trauma. “From the war?” I ask.
He pinches the bridge of his nose as if I’m an annoyance. “It’s irrelevant what they are from, and there wasn’t one war. I have nightmares. I’m much bigger than you. I might hurt you.”
“I can’t go back to that room alone.” To my dismay, tears fill my eyes. I blink them away furiously. God, when did I become a leaky faucet? I won’t damn well cry again.
He sighs, but his shoulders drop a notch, and I know he’s going to relent before he says it.
“Okay, you can stay.”
“Thank you.”
Then it hits me. “Oh my God.” I clap my hand over my mouth. “I left the cake in the oven. I could burn this place down.”
“I took it out,” he says calmly. “It’s on the counter, cooling. You can do the frosting tomorrow.”
He saved me again. “Thank you,” I say once more.
Not looking at him, feeling small, I get into the bed, and he climbs in the other side, staying well away from me. I scoot back until I can at least feel his warmth and the ghost of his bulk, despite us not touching, and then I close my eyes. His breathing is soothing. His scent is soothing. I’m beyond exhausted, and within minutes I’m drifting in the no man’s land between wake and sleep.
Chapter 8
She’s fast asleep next to me. I’m tired, but I won’t sleep with her here. Dare not risk it. If I had a nightmare and kicked at her, I could hurt her. Dawn is struggling to break and as soon as it is light, I’ll go into her room and catch some shut-eye. I won’t leave her alone in the dark, though.
Glancing at her long, dark hair, I get the sudden urge to run my fingers through it the way I did when drying it. It’s thick, heavy, and glossy. I mussed it up with the hairdryer, and I’m sure I hardly gave her the sort of blowout she’s used to, but it still looks good. As does she. She’s been through hell, and she’s wearing unflattering clothes, no makeup, no scent, and she’s still the most gorgeous thing I’ve seen in years.
She’s wearing my clothes. The soft cotton of one of my favorite t-shirts is molded against skin I want to touch. To taste.
I don’t know what the fuck this is between us. For her? It’s probably quite simple. A case of hero worship, and once that wears off, I doubt she’ll feel the same but for me? Why this intense attraction on my side?
I could lie and tell myself it’s her bravery. The way she ran after me silent and determined through the woods with ribs that must have been screaming. Or the way she made cake hours after being threatened with her life.
It’s a lie.
If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been fascinated with her ever since I saw her photo in Berlin. Something about the sad beauty of her features captivated me then and hasn’t let go since.
Something about her seemed lost even then. Now I’ve seen more of her, and I know she has a playful side, I’m more attracted. She’s crying out for someone to take her in hand. For a man who loves control, she’s a heady contradiction of wants and needs. Some of which, I’m convinced, match my own.
She mumbles something in her sleep and turns right into me.
Her fists are scrunched up under her chin. She’s curled up, protecting herself, even in sleep. I get that. I used to sleep on my back. I still wake on my back, but to get to sleep, I must be on my side. Lying on my back is too exposed, I suppose.
I’m lucky. I don’t have serious issues. Yeah, not sleeping sucks. Yeah, the nightmares suck, but I don’t flinch at every loud noise the way some do. I don’t need to drink, or worse, to get through a day. I have no judgment for those who do. Nothing but empathy because some of the shit those guys have seen? How do you get over that?
One older vet I know, he spent a month doing nothing but tagging and bagging bodies. Bloated in the sun of the Middle East, stinking, he had to take them from where they lay at the side of the road, identify which side they fought for, and then bag and tag. He told me to this day, he can’t stand the smell of meat cooking because it takes him right back to the stench of their flesh curing in the hot sun. Turned the man fucking vegetarian, and alcoholic too.
There but for the grace of God.
Target, one of our guys, has come out of it all a party animal. He runs from it by never stopping. He works out too hard, drinks too much, fucks around with nameless, faceless women, and he doesn’t ever stop. Cole, I thought was doing well, until this whole thing with Pamela blew up. Now he’s obsessed with finding her, and I know when he does, she’s either going to be dead, or ruined so bad she probably will wish she is. There’s no happy ending coming for Cole that I can see. He won’t give up, though. He’s still searching.
As for Legend, another member of our team. Well, no one knows where he is. He fucks off to the middle of nowhere on the regular. Likes to do crazy shit like crossing the Atlantic in a boat not much bigger than a dinghy or snowboarding off mountains. To be fair, he’s probably the best adjusted out of all of us. Legend knows he’s an adrenaline junkie, has accepted it, and if it kills him sooner rather than later, so be it.
I might join Legend on his next ocean crossing. Or I might buy a boat, moor it off the coast of Corfu, live on it, and every few months do some adrenaline-high shit, like a job for Konstantin. Sleep would come to me on the boat. I’d lie on the deck and scorch myself under the Greek sun during the day, sleep well at night, and once in a blue moon go off and rescue some damsel in distress. Maybe that way I would maintain this modicum of peace, I’ve worked so hard for.
“Soft,” Roze murmurs.
I stare at her and wonder what the significance of that one word, uttered in perfect English, in her sleep has? Maybe none. Seems odd, though, that she’d say it so clearly and in a language that isn’t her first.
Her lips are parted, and her face is turned up toward me.
I watch her sleep like a creeper and note the lines and planes of her face. I want to grab her to me and hold her in my arms.
I want to fuck her, but more, I want to protect her and give her comfort. Set boundaries for her so she knows that someone cares. That’s messed up and not my job. So not my job.
The light in the room is the soft gray of breaking dawn, and I silently climb out of the bed. Not making a sound, I reach the door, give her one last glance to make sure she stays asleep, and head out of the room to the one given to her.
When I climb between the sheets of her bed and pull the covers up, I close my eyes and inhale. It smells of shower gel and body lotion. Feminine things. She must have found some in her bathroom. I sniff again. It seems I’m becoming a full-on creeper when it comes to Roze. Smelling her on the covers. Watching her sleep.
I’m tired, but my cock is heavy and hard. I skim my hand down my stomach and into the waistband of the sweats I’m wearing. I inhale sharply when I take hold of myself. The tip is already wet. I’m so ready for her it’s insane. I stroke one lazy long pass down my length and back up with a twist at the end. Fuck yes. My eyes close as I imagine Roze, naked, on all fours waiting for me on the bed. Her ass is gorgeous, I’d bet. She glances back at me, over her shoulder and her sad mouth tips up in a smile. She’s wet. Ready. All for me.
I’ve increased my pace as the picture of her becomes so intense in my mind it seems real. She’ll be warm and tight when I slide into her, and I’ll need to go slow, let her get used to me. Her moans will be a mix of pleasure and pain that make my balls want to explode.
I grip myself
harder, and as I imagine the moment I bottom out in her, balls deep, I come with a muffled groan as I clamp my mouth shut tight. I breathe through it as rope after rope of come covers my t-shirt.
Shit, I need to change. Too tired to get up, I take it off, ball it up, and throw it off the far side of the bed.
My eyes grow heavy as I breathe in her scent, enjoy the feel-good hormones washing over me, and let the world slip away.
Coffee and bacon. I smile and stir. Then I sit bolt upright. What the fuck? I glance at my watch and frown. Mid-afternoon? What the hell? It can’t be.
I came into Roze’s room around seven, and now it’s three? That means I’ve had eight hours sleep. I never get eight hours sleep. I never get much more than five.
A knock on my door has me turning toward it. “Yeah?”
It opens and Roze walks in, holding a tray. “Brought you some food,” she says. “Bacon sandwich, coffee, and orange juice.”
She’s still wearing my t-shirt, but with sweatpants that were part of the bag of clothes procured for her. The t-shirt isn’t long and loose on her as it was last night because she’s tied a knot in it just above her flat, toned, creamy belly.
I stare at that patch of flesh, and she notices because her gaze drops down, and her cheeks heat. “Got hot in the kitchen,” she says.
An image flashes into my mind of me holding her from behind, my palm across her soft, creamy flesh as I hold her in place and fuck her, hard.
My dick decides it likes that idea and fills as I try to pretend that I wasn’t staring at her. I’m starving, and not only for the food she carries. I’m hungry for her.
Seems even last night didn’t take the edge off for me. In fact, it only made my need for her more acute.
“Anyway, eat this, and then get up because today is my birthday, and it’s already nearly gone. I don’t think I should spend it alone.” She gives me a bright smile.
Dick that I am, I shoot her down. “I’m your protection detail; not your social companion.”
