Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  “No,” I tell her quickly. “The rest of me is still here.”

  She kisses me again, then stands up and slides the strap of her dress off one arm and then the other. She looks different. Still beautiful, but softer, a little rounder. Her breasts are fuller, nearly spilling over the lacy bra.

  My cock twitches.

  Thank god. Thank god. I’d began to worry that it had forgotten how to work. It twitches again. Still soft, but a response.

  Looking into my eyes, she hooks her thumbs into her panties and slides them down her legs. Slowly past her thighs. Slowly past her knees. Slowly to her ankles. Slowly stepping out of them.

  When she stands again, I smile. Landing strip no wider than my finger. I push myself to the edge of the sofa and press my face into her stomach, my hands gripping handfulls of her ass.

  As her fingers curl into my hair, I dip my head and trace a path from her navel down to her clit, before circling her sensitive bud with my tongue. She cries out, then cries out again when I grab her around the waist and throw her down on the couch.

  Pushing her legs apart, I dip my head again. Oh god, her taste. Her scent. Nothing about her has changed. The sounds she makes, the way she digs her fingers in my shoulders, the way she raises her head to watch me please her.

  All the same.

  I sink my fingers inside her, into the heat of her, the wet of her. She cries out as I fill her. Cries out as I twist my fingers. Cries out as I find that spot. Her spot. And stroke in and out while my teeth bite and nip at her clit.

  She comes.

  Bucks. Groans. Cries. Everything so familiar. So needed. I make her come again.

  Twisting around, I climb up her body, kissing my way up her belly and ribs, until my tongue traces the edges of her bra. She curls her hands in my hair and pulls me up until I meet her lips. I sink into her mouth. The warmth of it. The taste of it. The familiar dance of our tongues.

  “Please, make love to me,” she whispers against my lips.

  Her legs wrap around my waist and my cock is nestled at her entrance. I try, but I’m still too soft. I can’t push inside.

  “Make love to me,” she orders, louder, pushing her sex against mine.

  “Can’t,” I breathe out. “Not ready yet.”

  She laughs and I stare down at her. Her mouth twists and eyes grow narrow. “What a surprise, you’ve failed again.”

  The shock is so great. The look in her eyes so confusing, I can’t move. I can’t get up. I can’t get away.

  “Fuck me,” she says, grinding her hips against me again. “Be a man. Stop failing everyone. Stop failing yourself.”

  I try to move away, get away, but I can’t. Her legs are wrapped around my waist and her nails are digging into my back. She bites me. Bites my lip and I try to pull away again.

  She laughs.

  “You should have been the one who died. But no. Good men died. Your best friend died. Little boys died. You remain standing.” She laughs again, a hard, bitter sound. “Well, sort of.”

  I try to pull away, but she’s still laughing. Laughing.

  I clamp a hand over her mouth and nose.

  “Stop it,” I scream down at her. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!”

  She laughs, even as her face turns a brighter shade of red. Then she bites me.

  I jerk away and she hits me in the face. “Look at you. You’re so weak you can’t even fight a girl. No wonder you’re alive. I bet you ran to safety while everyone else died!”

  She hits me in the face again and, oh god, I hit her back. Blood sprays from her nose and across her cheeks. She laughs harder, her voice shrieking now. Her claws dig harder into my shoulder.

  Laughing.

  Shrieking.

  Screaming.

  Then I’m awake.

  Pain assaults me as I scramble to the headboard of the bed, slamming into the wood. I can’t breathe. Shit. I can’t breathe. I look around the room in horror and confusion.

  Cami.

  Cami’s beside the bed, her hands over her mouth, her blue eyes wide with complete and abject terror.

  Beside me, someone stirs, then sits up.

  I don’t know her, but she’s not Mattie. This woman’s hair is wild, curling around her face and shoulders.

  I don’t know her, but her nose is bleeding. Her hand is lifted to staunch the flow.

  Oh god, what have I done? What have I done?

  I look from the woman to Cami and back to the woman again, reaching out to her. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. Are you alright?”

  She doesn’t flinch from my hand that reaches out to touch her face. Her extraordinary hazel eyes look at me calmly even as the breath heaves in and out of her lungs.

  She curls a hand around my wrist, not pulling it away. Just holding. Softly holding. Looking into my eyes, calming herself. Calming me.

  “Hello, Mr. Duffy,” she says after a moment, the soft lift of her voice like a soft blanket wrapping around me. “I’m Grace, your new nurse and physical therapist.”

  Chapter 6 – Grace

  Pressing a cold washcloth against my face, I look in the mirror to inspect my nose. I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s going to be tender as hell. Then I look at my jaw and the bruises beginning to form on my arms and shoulders. It’s not the first time I’ve been hit by a combative patient—it’s one of the dangers many people don’t think about a nurse having to face. I look at my nose again. It probably won’t be my last.

  But this one.

  This man.

  The dream, no the nightmare he was having still clutches me in the gut. His cries were so pitiful. He seemed so hurt. So wounded. So … lost.

  I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to let them die. Take me. Take me instead.

  When I’d rung the doorbell at eight a.m. sharp, Camille had been the one to open the door. “Told ya,” she had said in way of a greeting. Her smile was just as big as yesterday, but she looked so tired.

  I’d looked around the beautiful interior of the living room I stepped in. “Yeah, and I thought you told me this was a cottage. This is a full blown house.”

  She’d laughed. ‘Well, according to my mother, anything less than five thousand square feet is a cottage. This is only…” she air quoted the word “… three thousand. Hope you can get used to it.” She laughed again.

  I had looked around, my mouth slightly open. Wow. Just wow. The dark wood floors, the spacious, open interior, the marble of the kitchen on the other side of the rambling room. Then I turned and looked out into the horizon. The blue of the ocean with ripples of white waves spreading in front of me for as far as the eye could see. I turned back to Camille. “Uh, yeah. I think I can suffer through this for a month.”

  Still grinning, she grabbed a bag from my shoulder and said, “Here, let me show you your room and give you a tour.”

  I’d gasped at the size of my bedroom, the classically elegant furniture that I would have chosen for myself if I’d had the bank account to afford it. I’d gasped at my bathroom and its sunken tub. I’d gasped when Camille had opened the door of a third bedroom that had been completely transformed into a state-of-the-art rehab gym.

  Then I’d gasped when I heard the screams.

  Responding immediately, I’d followed the sounds, even as Camille was still glued to the spot. I found the master bedroom and pushed the door open. There he was, writhing on the bed, moaning pitifully, his hands fisting and unfisting in the sheets.

  Knowing better than to touch a dreaming person, I’d spoken his name several times. I’d told him it was a dream and to wake up. Then I made a mistake. When he seemed to have calmed down, I touched his shoulder.

  Before my heart had time to start hammering in my chest, I was on my back and underneath him, his hand over my mouth and nose. Camille was screaming, yanking at his arms. So strong. He was so strong. I’d had to bite his hand to loosen his grip, then hit him in the tender point of his temple to get him off. But not before taking a solid punch to the nose.r />
  When he had fully awakened, the horror of what he’d done was like a living thing. I saw the awareness come. Then the revulsion. The self-loathing. The fear.

  In that moment, I had two choices. I could flee or I could stay.

  When he looked at me, really looked at me, there was no question. He needed me. I wouldn’t leave him. Couldn’t leave him. So I simply introduced myself.

  The look in his eyes when I assured him I was all right nearly had me crying in sympathy, wanting to pull him close and rock him as I would a child. Instead, he’d pulled me closer to him, like a drowning person would cling to a life raft. Hugging me, telling me ‘sorry’ over and over. “Please don’t hate me,” he whispered against my hair.

  When his heart rate returned to normal, I untangled myself. I didn’t want to, I wanted to hold onto him for reasons I didn’t yet understand. But I looked up at Camille and she was crying, silent streams of tears rolling down her reddened cheeks.

  Placing a hand on the side of his face, I lifted it until he was looking at me again. My heart squeezed. My stomach squeezed. My entire body squeezed as I gazed into his broken blue eyes. “Mr. Duffy, I’m going to run to the bathroom, then I’ll be back and I’ll check your wounds.” I pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Is that okay with you?”

  His eyes searched mine. Searching for what, I didn’t know. Then he smiled, just a little bit and said, “Only if you call me Link.”

  That had been five minutes ago.

  Opening the bathroom door, I double-check my hair in the mirror again. In the tussle, my hair band broke and now it is flying around my shoulders in a raging mound of curls. I need to find another in my luggage and pull the wild mess back. For now, it is what it is.

  Walking back into the master bedroom, I notice that Camille has stripped the bloody sheets from the bed and Mr. Duffy … Link … is in a t-shirt and shorts, crutches under each of his arms.

  In all the drama, I hadn’t noticed how much he looks like his sister, his hair much darker, but the color of his eyes, their shape, the intensity of their gaze is the same. The fullness of his mouth…

  Stop it, Grace, I scold myself. Maybe he really did knock the sense out of me.

  To ease the intensity of the moment, I step in and give a flourishing ‘ta-da’, pointing at my un-bloody nose.

  Thankfully, he smiles. Or maybe it’s a smirk. Anyway, one side of his mouth lifts up, so I call that a win.

  “Not broken?”

  Whoa. When not crying out in terror, his natural voice dips down a couple of octaves. There’s a rumble that seems to come deep from his chest.

  “Nope. It’ll be good as new in a couple days.”

  He lifts his hand, which still hosts the outline of my teeth. “Wish I could say the same about my hand.”

  I can’t help but laugh and walk over to him, picking it up and taking a closer inspection. “I promise I don’t have rabies, but let me check for broken skin.” No cuts. Then I do the unspeakable. For some reason, some crazy, crazy reason, I lift it to my mouth and give it an ‘all better’ kiss. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Dropping his hand, I whip around and nearly blind myself with my curls. Then I push it back from my face and walk to the bed to help Camille spread out the new sheets. She’s giving me a very curious look and I do something else I never ever do. I stick my tongue out at her.

  “I’m glad the two of you find my suffering funny,” comes the deep voice from behind me. But it’s touched with amusement, I’m happy to note. And I press my lips together again to stop myself from laughing out loud.

  In less than two minutes, the bed is back in order and I turn just in time to catch Link checking out my ass.

  He smirks again and I narrow my eyes. This man is going to be trouble.

  Chapter 7 – Duffy

  This woman is going to be trouble.

  I don’t know how.

  I don’t know why.

  I just know it.

  A ‘normal’ woman would have been cursing me or running from me. Damn, I’d knocked the hell out of her and can already see bruises forming on her arms in a dozen places. Her nose is nearly twice its normal size, for Christ’s sake.

  But she’d just held me until I recognized the world around me again. I should have been embarrassed. Hell, I should have been the one to run away. I growl. Hobble away.

  But I wasn’t.

  And I didn’t want to.

  There was something so calming about her.

  Calming and something else … that ass.

  As I look down at the top of her head, at the wild curly hair that doesn’t seem to know what color it wants to be, I feel calm. She’s writing notes in a book, detailed notes on all my wounds.

  She started at my head and is working her way down my body, measuring scars and looking for signs of infection.

  “This looks like a bullet wound,” she says, touching the tricep of my left arm, then turning it to look at the bicep.

  “Shrapnel,” I lie.

  She moves closer, squinting at the scar. “I know. That’s what your record says, but I swear it looks like entry and exit wounds. That must have been some blast.”

  She’s observant. Smart. Too smart.

  I should call my parents right now and have her replaced. It’s like she can see right through me. It’s like she knows all my secrets.

  Her eyes meet mine. They look different than they did even an hour ago. They have more yellow to them now, the circle of bronze around the iris is more pronounced.

  I blink and look away from her. “Yes, the blast was tremendous.”

  Inch after inch she scours my back, my arms, my buttocks and now my right leg, adjusting the sheet lying over me as she goes. She touches, writes notes and touches again. Normally, I would hate this. The silence. The slow, deliberate movements.

  The calm.

  Like the Boldrum in Turkey. Water so clear you could see right through it and so calm you could float for days.

  I close my eyes, just for a moment. Then snap them open, furious with myself.

  No rest.

  No rest!

  I reluctantly allow myself to sleep because our bodies can’t survive without it. But I can’t rest. Not until I’m on my feet and doing what I can to take out the bastards who set us up.

  And look at me! Lying on a fucking table, having fucking daydreams about my nurse, enjoying her fingers on my skin.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, her hand moves to my shoulder blade, a thumb working the tight muscle along my spine.

  My fury grows.

  I don’t deserve to be the one who lived. At home in the lap of luxury. A personal nurse and therapist. Personal chef. Getting a fucking massage!

  “Nothing,” I bark at her.

  “Didn’t seem like nothing to me. You were relaxed, then suddenly very tense. Did I touch something wrong?” She moves both hands to the muscles of my shoulders and begins to knead them.

  I don’t look at her; just shrug away her hands. “You didn’t do nothin’ to me,” I say, mimicking her accent. “Just hurry up. I’m ready for breakfast.”

  I hear her inhale, pause, then the long exhale of her breath. “Okay, turn over and I’ll assess your front. Who do I need to call about ordering your breakfast?”

  Nodding toward the iPad sitting on the table, I tell her, “Press ‘kitchen’ and someone will pick up.”

  I turn over on the therapy table while she walks over and pulls off her latex gloves before picking up the pad. She swipes the screen and her finger punches at a button. She has really beautiful hands.

  Fuck.

  “May I help you?” a voice comes over the speaker.

  “Yes,” I snap. “Breakfast. Four scrambled eggs, five slices of bacon, two pieces of toast. Fruit. Juice and coffee.” I look up at her. “What would you like?”

  She swallows and I snap at her again. “What do you want for breakfast?”

  Her eyes narrow and she speaks into the device. �
��Oatmeal and fruit, please. Thank—”

  Her eyes narrow even more when I snatch the pad from her hands and punch the exit button.

  I can tell she wants to say something, is itching to say something, but I just stare at her, daring her to open her mouth.

  She stares back and pushes my shoulders down. “I’m not finished yet.”

  Then she pulls on another pair of gloves and her thorough inspection begins again. Small wounds. Large wounds. The long scar from my sternum to my naval.

  “These are all healing really nicely.” She glances up at me. “I need to check your scrotum next.”

  “My balls are fine.”

  She sniffs and for a moment reminds me of my mother. That pisses me off even more. “If it’s all the same to you, I need to inspect them. Don’t want the jewels to fall off from infection.”

  I whip the sheet off and toss it to the floor. “Be my guest.”

  Feeling the slightest moment of guilt, I watch her face crumble in confusion before she straightens it into a polite mask and pulls her shoulders back, lifting her chin. Her fingers move my dick out of the way and, holy hell, the touch sends a spark of primitive lust through my system.

  Getting up onto my elbows, I watch her press my thighs apart. Her hair dangles down and touches my thighs as lightly as a spider web.

  My cock jumps. Hell yeah, it fucking jumped. This is the first time it’s done anything but dangle like a worm.

  She ignores it and bends her head further down to inspect my balls. Her fingers cupping them, a thumb running down the incision. My cock swells and I watch it grow. There’s pain with the swelling, but I don’t care. It’s working.

  I see her eyes flick up to it and I can’t stop the grin as they widen and flick back to my nuts. She raises her arm and pushes her hair back with her bicep. Nice. She’s sweating. I can’t help myself. I reach for the long strands, holding it back myself.

  She says nothing. Does nothing. She’s not even breathing when I pull her hair. Her eyes raise to my dick, then further up until she’s looking at me. God, I want to push her head down. I want to convince her to take me in her mouth. To run her tongue up my shaft. To suck me between her full lips. Or just press her cheek to me. Let me feel the warmth.