Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3)

by Trish McCallan

  Except . . . Rawls had been so terribly stiff beside her, furious that she’d agreed to join them on the upcoming rescue mission. She hadn’t wanted to chance souring the fragile new relationship budding between them.

  Wolf had been utterly confident that they’d have confirmation of the “captives,” blueprints of the building, as well as head counts of the people inside, within twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-four hours . . .

  Which meant what, exactly? That she’d be down in San Jose sometime tomorrow preparing to attack a lab?

  A chill washed down her spine and prickled across her scalp. She shivered, but then squared her shoulders and headed for the bathroom. A nice hot shower was just the thing to relax her. It sure as heck beat standing around and stewing about things she had no control over.

  The bathroom carried the same bland, unoccupied-motel motif as the bedroom and its tiny attached living room. But at least the shower had a huge round showerhead and wonderful water pressure. She soaked for a long time beneath the spray, letting the beat of the water massage her tight, sore muscles. By the time she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a cotton robe, her muscles were limp.

  Her mind on the other hand had revved up rather than dialed down.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she listened to the strong, even beat of her new miracle heart and fought the sense of isolation.

  With the exception of a fling early in her freshman year of college with a grad student, which had ended with summer break, she’d spent much of her life alone, buried in her studies or experiments. But loneliness had never haunted her, until now.

  Except, she wasn’t lonely for just anyone, there was a specific face attached to this emotion. A specific name.

  Rawls.

  Somehow over the past two days, his smile, his drawl, his humor, and his patience had filled her mind and heart so full she felt diminished without him beside her.

  Empty.

  More than anything in the world, she wanted to get up and go to him, step into his arms and lean into his kiss, and explore this hunger simmering between them. The mission she’d agreed to was dangerous. Nobody was downplaying the risk. She knew full well she might not come back, and the thought of dying down there, in San Jose, without knowing the heat and tenderness of Rawls’s embrace, the beauty of his body on top of and inside of her . . . the thought of not knowing him in every possible way a woman could know a man was . . . distressing.

  Depressing, even.

  But the memory of the last time she’d seen his face held her prisoner on the bed.

  He’d been icy, detached, and furious. When Wolf had dropped them off in front of the sleeping quarters they’d been assigned, he’d vanished inside his without a word.

  She wanted to believe the strength of his reaction to her inclusion on this mission indicated he had equally strong feelings for her. She’d never seen him so angry—or so grim. But what if the emotions driving him weren’t as passionate as she hoped? What if he was being driven by a sense of responsibility instead? What if all the recent touching and light kissing meant nothing—or at least nothing serious?

  Or even worse, what if she had killed whatever they’d been building toward when she’d ignored his advice and dismissed his wishes?

  Her escalating list of what-ifs was cut short by a knock at the door.

  With her heart in her throat and her mind full of hope, she got up to answer the summons, only to jump back with a gasp.

  “Sorry,” Rawls said, his hand still raised and fist clenched for knocking. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s okay.” Faith’s pulse picked up speed again, only the rapid rhythm had nothing to do with fear. At least not fear of his hand, more like fear of his heart.

  He took her response as an invitation to come inside. As he closed the door behind him, he cast a quick look over her robe-clad body and heat kindled in his gaze. A moment later he broke eye contact and glanced around the room. “I see we got the same decorator.”

  She forced a smile along with the small talk. “At least they’re letting us stay. I got the distinct impression Wolf wasn’t supposed to bring us here.”

  “Yeah,” Rawls agreed.

  And that closed that particular topic. An awkward silence fell.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake.

  Faith cleared her throat and took the bull by the horns. “So are you still mad at me?”

  “Hell.” He raked a tight hand through his hair. “I was never mad at you, Faith. I was concerned, not angry.”

  She tilted her head and considered that. She didn’t doubt for a second he’d been—was still—concerned for her. But there had been definite rage there as well.

  “You were angry too,” Faith contradicted him quietly.

  He studied her, and his face softened. Lifting his hand, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Yeah, but not at you.”

  She quivered beneath the caress. “Then who?”

  “At Wolf. At Mac. At all of them. They’re usin’ you.” He stroked her cheek again and then his fingers trailed down to her chin and tilted her head up. “I won’t have you in danger.”

  She quivered harder, her skin so sensitive it burned beneath his touch, her insides all warm and tingly. There was a hot look in his eyes. A hungry look. She hadn’t been with many men, and the last had been a lifetime ago, but she recognized the look he was giving her—and responded to it on the most primitive level. Without giving herself a chance to analyze or quantify, she gave in to instinct and went up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck.

  Instantly his arms locked around her, dragging her against his body, sealing them together from shoulder to thigh. His mouth came down, found hers, and hot, hard lips forced hers apart. The kiss started off rough, marauding, but then he seemed to catch himself, and his mouth gentled. He backed off, brushed her lips with his, and started to pull back.

  Except she didn’t want him to stop. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, at a subconscious level, she’d been waiting for this moment since that kiss in the kitchen . . . anticipating it . . . wanting more . . .

  Instinctively she stretched up, pressing her mouth to his. Driven by some deep, primitive urge, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gently bore down.

  He jolted against her and then grabbed her butt, lifting her and grinding her against his crotch in the most graphic display of sexuality she’d ever been subject to. Her legs went weak. Her brain foggy. Her skin tightened.

  Good lord, that felt so . . . good.

  And then he turned the tables on her and caught her bottom lip in his teeth. Only he sucked on it, hard. With each pull of his mouth, she felt a corresponding tug deep in her belly and a flood of moisture between her legs.

  In an effort to alleviate the sudden violent ache throbbing between her legs, she rubbed herself against the bulge pressing into her belly. He groaned, and the bulge gained length and width.

  Breathing hard, he dragged his mouth away and pressed it against the sensitive skin of her neck.

  “Baby,” he said in a breathless voice before pausing to suckle at the base of her neck until she squirmed against him. “We need to either stop this, like right now—or get naked and in your bed.”

  She voted for the naked and in bed.

  Eager to show her enthusiasm for his suggestion, she grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and fought to shove it over his head. But the feel of his warm, smooth skin stretched so tight over hard muscles distracted her. Her hands slowed to a long, gliding caress.

  He groaned again, arching into her touch, his skin rippling beneath her fingers. And then he grabbed his T-shirt and yanked it over his head. She stared in fascination at his muscled chest, with its thin arrow of golden hair trailing down the tight muscles of his abdomen, only to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Without thinking, she leaned in to press her mouth against his heart. His skin tasted slightly salty, with the oddest tinge of smoke, and so damn good she wa
s quickly becoming addicted to it.

  He’d twitched with each stroke of her hands, but the brush of her lips earned a jolt. She smiled at that delightful discovery and slowly slid down his body, teasing the length of his abdomen with her lips, teeth, and tongue.

  When she knelt before him, her arms wrapped around his thick thighs, with only the buttoned and zippered waistband of his jeans preventing further exploration—he suddenly came alive.

  As she unlocked her arms from around his legs and her hands went to work on the button securing his jeans, a curse exploded from him. Urgent hands slid under her arms, lifting her.

  His face was hard as he stared down at her, his eyes dilated, his bottom lip swollen, a flush riding his cheekbones.

  “Last chance to call it quits, sweetheart,” he said between hard and fast breaths.

  Call it quits? Why in the world would she want to do that? She wanted him, wanted him more than she’d ever wanted any man before. Wanted him to be the man she spent her last night on earth with, if tomorrow meant the death of her.

  “I say we reconvene in the bed.” Her voice was so thick and sultry, she barely recognized it.

  He didn’t wait for a second invitation. Bending, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the queen-size bed taking up most of the room. He set her down on the foot of the mattress and slowly loosened the tie to her robe.

  Deliberately, almost reverently, he spread the garment wide and pushed it off her shoulders, leaving her completely bare. She sat there beneath his glittering blue gaze, her nipples puckering, her breasts tightening, her skin aching for his touch.

  Instead of joining her on the bed, he dropped to his knees and smoothed his palms up her legs, from ankle to calf to thigh. His hands were rough, slightly scratchy, leaving the oddest mixture of fire and chills in their wake. He pressed her thighs apart far enough to accommodate his body and leaned in, continuing his gentle assault at her belly, only this time with his mouth.

  Boneless, splayed before him, she lost herself in the heated sensation of his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth as he explored her body. He feathered kisses up the old silvered scars on her chest, his mouth so gentle she could barely feel the feathery caress, and then slid over to take a tight nipple in his mouth. As his warm, wet mouth closed over her breast and suckled, she arched into him, her arms stealing around his ribs and up his bare back—savoring the hard, smooth flow of muscles beneath her palms. He felt so good pressed against her, strong and firm, completely male.

  But she needed to know how he’d feel inside her.

  She skimmed her hands back down his back and slid them beneath the waistband of his jeans and underwear to cup the firm muscles of his ass. The fact that he arched into her touch brought her a smile and the confidence to move her hands around to the front of his jeans for some deeper exploration.

  He groaned into her breast and lifted his hips. Unbuttoning and then unzipping his jeans, she pushed them, along with his underwear, out of the way. His penis was thick and smooth, and it actually seemed to arch into her hand. With each long, slow stroke from the base of his penis to its bulbous head, he’d groan—a low animalistic sound. He was so caught up in her stroking, he abandoned her breasts and simply pressed his forehead against her chest, his hips rocking in concert with the stroke of her hand.

  But soon the heavy globes at the base of his penis caught her attention and she moved her hand down to explore.

  To her amusement, the simple act of cupping the warm, soft weights broke him. With an urgent grunt, he caught her legs, dragged them up and over his hips, and took hold of his penis, guiding it between her thighs.

  He looked up as he pushed into her, his eyes so intensely blue they burned like the laser in her lab. “Jesus, you’re makin’ me lose my mind.”

  She smiled at that, her chest melting. She couldn’t imagine a better compliment than that.

  With a deep breath Faith closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him pushing inside her, the hot, heavy force of him . . . the almost painful friction of him stretching her . . . She shifted uncomfortably, trying to hang on to that earlier delicious tension. But the sting soon turned to burning pain.

  He must have sensed something was wrong, because he stopped pushing and lifted his head.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered in a thick voice. Pulling back, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “How long has it been since—”

  Oh God, he’d realized he was hurting her and was stopping. There was no doubt in her mind that once she got past the initial adjustment of his body merging with hers, the pain would ease. It had in the past. Best to do the merging fast, and get on with the adjusting. With that in mind, she clenched her legs around his hips and arched up, impaling herself on his penis.

  Only it hurt much worse than she’d expected, or remembered.

  “Easy, easy,” Rawls said in the grimmest voice she’d ever heard, but the kisses he brushed across her mouth and cheeks were soft and soothing. “I got you, sweetheart. Easy, babe.”

  That’s when she realized the dampness flowing down her cheeks was tears.

  “I’m okay.” The reassurance had a hint of sob to it, but then the entire length of him inside her burned like molten steel.

  “Sure you are.” The grimness deepened his voice to a growl. Still, he brushed another kiss across her mouth. “That’s why you screamed.”

  “I did?” She didn’t remember that.

  “You did.” This time his kiss was less soothing and hungrier, but he broke it off and brushed another of those unbearably chaste ones across her forehead. “Hang in there. It’ll get better. Just don’t move.”

  Not moving sounded like a great plan. She settled back, her rigid muscles relaxing. Good lord, she’d been as stiff as a board. Slowly the burning pain eased.

  After a moment she sighed and smiled up at him. “You’re right. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much now.”

  “Good.” He pulled back to study her face, and whatever he saw there must have reassured him, because he scowled. “You mind telling me why the fuck you did that?”

  Lord . . . she’d rarely heard him use the f-word before, at least not with her. That didn’t bode well for the coming explanation. She swallowed hard.

  “You were stopping and—”

  “I wasn’t stoppin’,” he interrupted, his voice a little less grim, but maybe . . . exasperated. “I was slowin’ it down. I was going back to the basics, makin’ sure you were ready for me, makin’ sure I didn’t hurt you.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Oh,” she managed in a small voice.

  “Yeah, oh.” He sighed and kissed the tip of her nose. “So, are you ready to let me handle the penis work now?”

  That made her laugh.

  He caught the laugh with his mouth and then pulled back enough to whisper, “Don’t move. Let me do all the work.”

  She wanted to snap a salute and ask if that was an order, but one of his hands had moved to her breast and was slowly pinching and rolling the nipple between his fingers. The friction wasn’t enough to hurt; instead it sent a landslide of tingles coursing through her body. His other hand slid between her legs and began caressing the soft sensitive flesh, restoking her earlier fire. Slowly, lazily, he stroked her nipple, rubbed her clit, and caressed the inside of her mouth with his tongue.

  That lovely, winding tension seized her again. At some point, she wasn’t even sure when, the burning pain disappeared, or maybe it simply became unimportant. Her hips began to move in conjunction with the tug of his mouth on her bottom lip.

  He moved back from her mouth to search her eyes. “Okay?”

  The question was guttural, but at least he managed to speak. She’d apparently lost access to her lungs and could only manage a dazed nod.

  His smile held pure satisfaction.

  Still watching her face, he pulled back slightly. She groaned in protest and clamped her arms and legs around him.

  “No movin’,” he
reminded her, but the words were thick and teasing. Carefully, he pressed forward again.

  There was no way she could follow his directive. Not when every cell in her body was demanding that she match her rhythm to his. So she arched into his next thrust, and then his next and his next, until they were moving in concert.

  Somehow the sight of his bunched shoulders, corded neck, and the way his unfocused eyes were still locked on her face as he hammered urgently into her, ratcheted her pleasure to the next level.

  The tension twined tighter and tighter and tighter until it simply burst.

  Until they both burst.

  And floated down to earth with legs and arms still wrapped around each other.

  Rawls returned to awareness slowly, utterly content, his spent body stretched across a soft, damp pillow. When the pillow moved, he froze. Instantly his memory and hearing returned.

  Faith . . . ah hell—he had to be crushing her.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled, keeping her tucked against his body so that when they stopped moving, she limply draped him from thigh to chest. Sheer perfection.

  As his body and mind recuperated, an insane need to touch her nagged at him, to keep touching her, to cement this intimacy between them—which was rather redundant considering they were pressed together, naked torso to naked torso, as intimately as two people could possibly get . . . well, almost.

  They’d been a hell of a lot more intimately connected a few minutes earlier. He smiled at the memory, the satisfaction so thick inside him it had weight and substance.

  It had been a long time since she’d had a man in her. He had no clue why that knowledge filled him with such intense satisfaction. He simply accepted that it did. Hell, the thought of another man touching her made him want to throw the bastard down a flight of stairs—after breaking his legs and arms so he could never touch her again.

  He sighed and stroked a hand down her back, more content than he could ever remember feeling. In the past, he’d never cared how many lovers a woman had taken before him—or how many more she’d take after he parted ways with her. This possessiveness was new. Unexpected.