Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  I arch into his hand again, desperate for his touch. “Yes. Anything. Everything.”

  He lifts a brow. “Anything?”

  I exhale. “Yes.”

  Then he’s off me and standing, opening the buttons of his shirt one by one. I watch each new peek of skin as it’s exposed. The sprinkle of chest hair that covers the long scar that leads to the ripple of hard abs and the circle of his navel. Another sprinkle of hair that gets lost in the waistband of his jeans. I lie there and watch him shrug the white shirt from his shoulders, the scars and bruises revealing themselves one by one. Flaws that make him so sexy. So unique. So mine.

  His belt is unbuckled next, then the button of the jeans. He kicks off his shoes and I listen to them softly thump on the plush carpet. The whisper of the zipper, the thumbs hooking into the top of the jeans and black boxers, pushing them down his hips, his cock springing free and pointing in my direction. The jeans are off and only he remains. One strong, muscular thigh next to the steel one that looks so natural on him now.

  He rolls the bionic’s black sleeve down his thigh, slipping it off and balancing perfectly on the biological one, even as the jet hits a pocket of turbulence. He’s all flesh now. And he’s focused very intently on me.

  “I want your mouth,” he says and his hand falls to his cock, his long fingers circling the hard shaft, stroking head to base while I watch.

  Mmm … I sit up, sliding to the side of the bed and replacing his hand with my own. Moisture glistens at the tip and I lick it away, savoring his taste, savoring his groan, savoring how his fingers sink into my hair, pulling the strands exactly right.

  Taking him into my mouth, I close my lips around him, loving the weight of him on my tongue. I inhale him, wanting all of him, desperate for every inch.

  The hands in my hair try to pull me away, but my fingers dig into his ass, holding him to me tighter. I circle my tongue around his head and slide him back into my throat.

  “Grace, you’ve got to stop,” he grits out, pulling my hair again. I wait until I can feel him begin to swell in my mouth before pulling away. His eyes are closed, his jaw tight, he’s desperately fighting for control. He opens an eye and I smile up at him, all innocence.

  “You’re a wicked, wicked woman.” He grabs me by the arms and hauls me to my feet before reaching for the hem of the dress, pulling it straight up and over my head. “And you should be careful, because paybacks can be a bitch.”

  Before I can say anything, he whips me around and pushes my head down on the bed, leaving my ass up in the air. Before I can be embarrassed, he’s pulling my panties down my thighs and pushing my legs apart. Then he’s on his knees and his mouth is there, his fingers are there, his tongue is there, deep inside me, sucking on my outer lips, his thumb circling my clit, his other thumb circling my ass and I’m lost in a million sensations.

  He lifts a hand and smacks my ass as his tongue slides into me, followed by two of his fingers. He stands, fingering me from behind. I can’t see him, but I can feel everything. I feel his fingers twisting inside me, stroking me hard as his hand comes down and smacks my ass again.

  “You like that?” he grits out and brings his hand down again as his fingers increase their intensity. He leans down and licks the area he spanked, his tongue soothing the sting.

  I cry out as his tongue finds my anus and circles the tight rim. I cry out as he twists his fingers again, his thumb increasing pressure on my clit. I cry out as my body tightens when he slips a finger into my tight hole. When his teeth sink into my flesh. When I race toward the edge of an orgasm that will shake my core. Then he takes it all away.

  “No!”

  He chuckles and slaps my ass another time, pushing my head back down when I try to rise, try to turn, try to reach for him. “Payback, baby,” he says behind me, his hands stroking the cheeks of my ass. “So pretty and pink now. So soft.” He slides a finger down my crack, circles my anus again and my fingers clutch at the bedding. “I want you here.” A finger pushes past the tight ring of muscles and I gasp at the invasion.

  Before I can change my mind, I whisper, “Yes.”

  The finger circles inside me, stretching me and I groan against the pain. Groan again when it’s joined by another.

  “Yes, what?” he asks, his voice low.

  I grip the duvet tighter, wishing I could see his face, those beautiful blue eyes. “Yes to anything.”

  He growls deep in his chest and he pulls away from me, his hands circling my waist. I squeal as he flips me onto my back, lifting me and turning me so easily. So strong. He’s so very strong. “I want to watch your face,” is all he says.

  Reaching for a bag I didn’t know was beside the bed, he pulls out a box of wet wipes and some lube. I smile at him. “Prepared much?”

  One side of his mouth lifts. “I’m a ‘just in case’ kind of guy,” he says as he cleans his fingers with a wipe. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this. Wanted all of you. I’ve dreamed about it. Daydreamed about it. Dreamed of you lying in front of me, spread open and waiting. Nervous but trusting me.”

  I swallow. “Will it hurt?”

  He nods. “Yes. Then it won’t. Then I’ll make you come so hard you forget everything.”

  Picking up the bottle of lube, he squirts some in his hand before stroking it along the length of his cock. So sexy, watching him like this. Watching the desire in his eyes. The anticipation of what we’re about to do. Then his fingers are on me, spreading the wet over my clit, down my slit and lower.

  My heart rate increases as he wraps his hands around my thighs, pushing my knees back and hovers over me, his cock at my entrance, his eyes on mine. “Breathe,” he says, pressing forward and pain flares.

  “Breathe, baby.” He’s staring at me intently as his cock head slips past the rim. I cry out. I can’t help it. The pain. The pressure. The sense of being filled so completely is awful. I begin to wonder if he was wrong. If there will be no pleasure. No release.

  Then he’s all the way inside me and his eyes close with his own pleasure. And as I watch him, feeling split open and vulnerable, I’m glad we’re doing this. Glad I’m giving him this gift it seems he’d been longing for. Taking one for the team.

  Then he begins to pull out and my nerves engage and, oh my, I arch into the feelings. I don’t know what that was, but I hope he does it again.

  When I open my eyes, he’s watching me. He holds out a hand and I take it, linking our fingers together. He pushes back in. Pain. He pulls back out. Pleasure. A roller coaster of sensations.

  He begins to move faster, not a lot, but enough to change everything. I cling to his hand as I feel it all. His other hand moves to my clit, rubbing me, pressing into the bundle of nerves and I relax my legs further, giving him greater access even as the rest of me begins to tighten.

  “That’s right,” he says as my eyes roll back in my head. “You’re going to come so hard. Be ready.”

  There is no getting ready, there is no preparing for what is to come. I can’t know. I don’t know. I can only feel.

  His speed picks up again. In—pain. Out—pleasure. Over and over until the two become one. His fingers slip inside me and I’m filled up. Filled to bursting. Filled with everything. Everywhere.

  “Yes, sweetheart. So beautiful. You’re so beautiful right now.” The words wash over me as a tide of sensation sweeps me away.

  He doesn’t allow me to rest. He pushes on. In and out. In and out everywhere. I build again. Build and tighten. Tighten and build. Then crash again, just a few moments before he does.

  I feel the loss of him as he pulls out. Feel lost without him by my side while he cleans us up. Then he’s back. He’s beside me, pulling me against his warmth. “Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers into my hair, his fingers stroking up and down my back.

  I close my eyes, holding to him tightly, grateful for him. Grateful to him for pushing me past what I thought I was capable of. Pushing me out of my comfort zone. “I love you so much,�
�� I say. The words so simple. So important.

  He nuzzles my face until I open my eyes again, see him only an inch away. I focus on his eyes. So blue. So clear. So filled with love for me. “You’re everything to me. Everything that’s good and right in the world is represented by you. And I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found you. I’m never letting you go.”

  He kisses me softly, a tender touching of our lips. And later, when he closes his eyes and sinks into sleep, I watch him, stroking his hair. After a while, his eyelids begin to flutter, his fingers gripping into a fist. Then he smiles and relaxes into the dream. He laughs softly and my eyes grow hot, my throat clogs as I watch him, his subconscious being kind to him for the first time.

  He laughs again and I don’t even wonder what he’s dreaming of. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s found this moment of peace. This moment of redemption.

  Chapter 13 – Duffy

  I wake to a knocking at the door and look around, wondering where I am. Grace is curled beside me, her lips pressed to my shoulder. She stirs as the knocking grows more insistent, but doesn’t wake.

  Pushing myself up to my elbows, I toss the blanket over her, covering her more completely. Then I find my boxers and shirt and slip them on, before hopping my way to the door.

  It’s Tate, looking rested and a little cocky. “Land in thirty,” he says. “Get your ass dressed and ready.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You might want to change yourself. Lipstick on the collar. Same shade of the flight attendant if I’m not wrong.”

  He grins, showing his entire mouth of teeth. “You’re not wrong. I like your dad’s plane. Good customer service.”

  Closing the door on Tate, shutting out his laugh, I make my way back to Grace, sitting on the bed and tickling her nose until she wakes up. She swats at my hand and hits herself in the face, then swats at me when she realizes I’m acting like a child.

  “Time to get up, beautiful. Take a quick shower if you want, then we need to get into our disguises. We land in half an hour.”

  She stretches and her eyes widen. I laugh, knowing exactly what just happened.

  “Sore?” I ask and she swats me again. I move out of the way before saying, “Just wait until you have to take a dump. Don’t curse me too badly.” She throws a pillow at me, only missing by half a mile this time and I go on. “You’ll have to give me a full report next time you have to take a shit. Poop-gate, the sequel.”

  I wish I’d strapped on the c-leg before letting that one fly out of my mouth because she catches me way too easy. “You’re a horrible, terrible person,” she says, punching me in the arm. Her left hand is getting stronger and way more accurate. That one hurt a little.

  I slap her on the ass. “Hit the shower, I’m right behind you. Got to hurry, we slept too long.”

  She tosses her hair and marches past me with all the dignity she can muster. A second later, the shower turns on and I hope we don’t hit unexpected turbulence. Okay, I’m lying. I’m really hoping we have a little. I love to hear her squeals.

  I hop—literally—into the shower the second she steps out. She actually smiles at me when she sees the white, fluffy robe. She’s tinkering around in front of the mirror when I step out and towel dry. She turns and my mouth falls open. She’s wearing make-up. Quite a lot of it. She’s transformed into some starlet beauty queen and I’m not sure I like it. I mean, I do. But I immediately find myself missing my Grace.

  She blinks rapidly at me and I smile, unable to believe the transformation from her usual, gentle beauty. She ties her hair into a knot on top of her head and then pulls on the wig. Long, black hair, straight bangs brushing her eyebrows and I blink. My Grace has officially gone MIA.

  “You don’t like?” she says, pouting and looks back into the mirror.

  I shake my head. “It’s not that. You look amazing, just so different.”

  She giggles and swipes more lipstick on her mouth. “I think that’s part of the whole ‘disguise’ part of this plan.” She giggles again when I just keep staring at her. “Stop. You’re making me feel self-conscious.”

  Back in the bedroom, I pull on the c-leg and get dressed myself, finishing with a fuller beard than my scraggly week-old growth. I slip on glasses and pull my jacket up my arms. Grace comes out of the bathroom, wearing a red wrap dress on her slender frame. The amount of weight she’s lost over the past week is evident.

  “Wow,” she says, her eyes going from my face to my shoes and back again. “I like the sexy professor look.”

  “Better than Stan the pedo?”

  Her head goes up and down. She slips on strappy black shoes, the first time I’ve seen her wear anything with heels. When she stands up, we’re damn near eye to eye.

  Another knock on the door is followed by, “Get your ass out here. We’re landing in two.”

  I smile at her and take her fingers in mine. I exhale. Those long fingers that fit so perfectly in mine. Evidence that my Grace is still in there. I lift them to my lips.

  The press all around us go wild when the man at the podium stops speaking and calls for questions. They all jump from their seats, raising their hands, seeking his attention.

  The man scowls at the crowd he’s facing. He looks around and points at the short redhead in the front. “Sir, Claire Robbins with WCKR. How have our armed forces been able to recover from the tremendous loss of so many Special Forces soldiers in Syria?”

  “We are the United States of America, Ms. Robbins,” he begins. “We are resilient, but even we are struggling to recover from such a terrible loss. Which is why I have been and will continue to urge our president to increase our attacks against ISIS. It is why I have been and will continue to plead, beg if I must, that we declare official war on that evil. They may have cut off the end of our US Forces sword, but we still have the blade and we must…” he pauses for emphasis “…we must strike.” He pounds the podium with his fist. “We must strike with all the forces we have left and I urge our American people to pressure our leader into doing the just and right thing.”

  It takes everything inside me not to jump over this crowd and kill the man.

  The reporters grow wild again, hands in the air. The man points and everyone sits except a man in a navy suit. “Thank you, sir. There have been many conspiracy theorists who believe that the deaths of over fifty Special Forces soldiers in the past number of weeks is connected to the failed raid in Syria. Can you please respond?”

  The man scowls. “I don’t think a response is necessary. You said it yourself, theorists. People who attempt to make something from nothing instead of focusing on the truth right in front of them. The truth that we must become more officially involved in this war of terror. I urge the theorists to spend their time petitioning our leader to join the fight.” He slams his fist down again. “No. Urge him to end the fight.”

  Clapping all around.

  Another hand goes up in the crowd and the man nods in its direction. “Sir, can you confirm that billionaire playboy Link Duffy was a member of Delta Force and was severely injured in the failed raid.”

  The man scowls. “I, unlike other leaders, will not name names. I believe it is important to hold the names of our special force soldiers sacred. Next question.”

  “Is Link Duffy still alive?”

  The man straightens his tie. “I have no idea. Next question.”

  My turn.

  I push to the front of the crowd. “Mr. Secretary, what did you think when you received an email with pictures of Link Duffy and Grace Johnson dead this morning?” I hold up my iPad with the photo Tate took of Grace and me earlier today.

  Richard Doss, Secretary of Defense of the United States of America, stares at me, his mouth open, but recovers quickly. “I have no idea—”

  I flip the page on the iPad and hold up the screenshot for him to see. “And do you also have no idea who wired two million dollars to a security company who claimed responsibility for their deaths and that that two mil
lion dollars was paid to cover the bond that you, Mr. Secretary, held over their heads.”

  The room is totally silent, all eyes going between Richard Doss and me.

  I flip the page on the iPad. “And do you have no idea how Russia learned of the Syrian raid? How they knew which buildings to rig to blow? Where the Rangers on the perimeter would be?” I flip the page again. “And do you have no idea how the intel gathered prior to the raid was false?”

  Richard Doss is looking around him, then gathers himself, shaking off his assistant who is trying to get him off the stage. “I don’t know who you are or what you think you know…”

  His words break apart as I reach up a hand to slowly peel off the fake beard. Then I toss the eyeglasses aside. “Why did you want us dead in Syria?” I ask him, cameras flashing in my face, but everything quiet except for the clicks. It’s the only time in my life that I’ve welcomed the press. “Just so you could force a war? Is that it?”

  I give him a moment and he doesn’t answer. He seems rooted to the spot.

  “And what did you think we survivors knew? Why go after men lying in hospital beds? Me?” My anger grows. “What the hell did you think I knew that put you in so much danger that you would blow up my home? Shoot an innocent woman?”

  I take several steps toward him before Tate moves to my side and grabs my arm about the same time Richard Doss’ security finally kicks in.

  As they begin to pull him from the stage, I watch men in black suits take over. I can’t hear what is said over the rush of questions falling like hail around me, but I know. Mr. Secretary has an appointment with the president.

  The moment Doss is gone, all attention falls on me and Tate and his men surround me, giving me cover. As we had already planned, they escort me to the podium where I turn toward the reporters. Tate takes the iPad and hands it to his assistant, Deakins, who connects it to the projector and the screens on each side of me illuminate to life.