by Rie Warren
Storm, Bane, Walker, and I studied the layout of the residence and the surrounding grounds with no way of knowing how far away the US military had set up their barricade, or if they’d just given up in light of the thirty-six hour bombardment from the rebels.
I placed my Heck beside me, meeting each of their eyes. “There’s too much heat outside. Safer to stay put for the moment and keep pooling our resources as we’ve been doing.”
“The resources gonna run dry soon enough, Sarge in Charge,” Storm said. “In fact, I heard there was an incident in the kitchen earlier. Some folks makin’ the misere.”
Walker snorted. “An incident.”
A little warmth splashed across my cheeks, and I couldn’t believe I was sitting there, fucking blushing. “My fault.”
“Yeah.” Storm rubbed his neck. “That’s what I heard too. Something about flour and biscuits?”
“Like I said, Matilda had nothing to do with it.” I refused to look at any of the guys.
They did not need more ammo to razz me.
“Awww. Look. He’s taking responsibility.” Walker snickered.
“Growing up.” Bane heckled.
“Pretty soon he’ll be ready to fly from the nest,” Storm added.
“Shut it, dickwads,” I snarled. “Let’s get back to the situation at hand.”
“Well, we can’t just keep sitting around here like fish in a barrel.” Bane agreed with Storm.
I almost fell over.
“What if they just decide to bomb the whole place? Raze it to the ground?”
Bane was downright talkative today. I preferred it when he kept his mouth clamped shut.
“We already know they’re trying to mole their way in through that fucking tunnel they destroyed,” Walker said.
This was my proving ground, but more than that, people’s lives were at stake. My team. The ambassador.
Tilly.
“But if we can find a way to get Matilda out—” I started.
“Matilda,” Bane rumbled. “Why do you keep calling her that?”
Because I need a barrier, just one thing to hold onto to make her less here, less real, less wanted so much my palms itch to touch her and my eyes dry up watching her.
“Tilly is not the package.” Storm remained predictably, annoyingly on point. “Lawless is.”
“I know, but . . .” Chewing on the inside of my lip, I inspected my hands that had wrought so much death. “She’s a woman. We don’t let women die.”
“And we can’t let Lawless bite it either.” Walker nodded.
“So I guess we rehash all the impossible shit about this mission and make it goddamn work.”
Walker slapped me on the back. “That’s how you earn your stripes.”
“I already had my stripes. Three of them with two rockers.” I held their attention. “And we don’t leave anyone behind.”
Four more times we went over every square inch of the residence on paper whether it was blocked off, destroyed, still-standing or not. The tunnel was a no-go—there’d be no backtracking. The rooftop was out—no escape through it, just as there’d been no entry. And of course we couldn’t just walk out the front door like we owned the place. There was no front door left.
That left one and only one option. In the end, after two hours of planning, we came up with a strategy. It was monumentally stupid, would be damn near impossible to pull off, and required every single one of our skills.
The success of this mission involved split-second timing, no more surprises, probably a case of Walker’s favorite plaything, and one hell of a Hail Mary.
I sent a little prayer upward before I left the bunker room.
****
I needed some sort of release and hopefully a refuge from Tilly.
That’s right. The big bad scary ex-military dude . . . hiding out from a woman.
Jesus.
I stripped off the combat gear I’d put on earlier and lugged on a pair of shorts, socks, and crosstrainers bundled at the bottom of my kit.
I stormed into the gym then skidded to a goddamn stop.
Release?
Refuge?
Fuuuuck.
Not likely. Not with Tilly already shredding rubber on one of the treadmills, which she’d set at a steep incline.
Goddammit.
I just wanted to work out the fever she raised in me. Burn off some steam.
I stared at her, my hands balling at my sides.
She didn’t look directly at me, her eyes on the mirror in front of her, but her jaw set with a hard edge to the soft contours, and her fists punched forward with each faster stride she took.
Blasting out of the room again, I pressed my forehead against the wall. My fists curled against the plaster. The muscles in my back and arms tightened to corded ropes.
Screw this.
Whipping off my muscle shirt, I strode back in. I flung my shirt in a corner and hit the mats.
Tilly and I didn’t exchange one single word of greeting.
Reps of sit-ups, one-armed push-ups, single-handed pull-ups didn’t even wind me. That was just an easy warm-up.
Flicking off the treadmill, Tilly hopped to the floor and mopped her face with a towel. She moved to the opposite side of the room while I started cardio, practicing fast-paced Krav Maga moves to get my blood pumping.
’Course, with Tilly in the same room stretching out her body, a whole lot of blood was already pumping. Pumping south at a rapid rate where hot tingles speared into my groin and spread to my balls.
Miraculously, the mirrored surrounds of the gym had withstood the blasts that had crumbled half the residence, and the place was well equipped. But my gaze wasn’t on the bench presses or elliptical machines or the fucking hit it until you burn punching bag.
My eyes were drawn to Tilly time and again.
There was no escaping her.
Drops of sweat trickling down my chest and into the dangerously low-hanging waist of my shorts, I grabbed a pair of fuck-yeah-heavy dumbbells, and pumped up and down in weighted squats. The handheld free weights gripped tight, I lowered my stance. Rising from the squats, I punched the dumbbells up above my head only to repeat the process over and over.
My glutes stung, my quads stood out in sharp sweaty relief, my biceps hilled into unyielding mountains of sinew.
Tilly ignored me, working up her own sweat. She still wore the top I’d noticed earlier in the kitchen—aqua and moist with perspiration between her breasts. Shorts in clinging gray Lycra accentuated the sweetheart swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, and a peach-shaped ass I wanted to get my hands on.
In between the shorts and the sports bra was a bare stretch of her belly, and below, her long, lean legs with just enough muscle and meat to make me think of biting and licking the insides of her thighs until she whimpered for me to taste her, fuck her, make her come.
My cock was just about as hard as the hand weights when I lowered them to their resting place.
Tilly ignored me, but the smell of hot woman was an aphrodisiac. Fuck perfumes or body washes or gels.
Tilly—wearing no makeup, dressed in gym gear, her ponytail swishing back and forth—was the sexiest woman I’d ever seen.
And then she started jumping rope.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I watched, mind-boggled.
She kept up the fast slap-slap-slap of the rope. With no more than a half beat between each soft footfall she performed double jumps, criss-cross, backward . . . she never fucked up her fast rhythm.
Impressive.
I tried to ignore her, crossing to get my kill on with the leather punching bag.
Impossible.
Her tits bounced some more, damn hypnotic.
“You work out much?” I asked.
I gave up on the swinging bag and stood with my thumbs hooked into my shorts at the vertical grooves of muscle cut into my pelvis.
“Enough.” She didn’t even pause to look a
t me. “Sometimes I just want to hit something, you know? Or someone.”
So that would be me.
My scowl turned the planes of my face to concrete.
Guess I didn’t like being given the old fuck you, too treatment.
Probably because I’d never been on the receiving end of it before.
And I could damn well tell she worked out enough. Just enough, and not too much. She wasn’t skinny or stringy or hard. She was toned and creamy and possessed the right amount of curves to make my mouth water.
And those fucking freckles glistened with her sweat—on her nose and across her shoulders and down to her constricted cleavage.
She moved to a machine stationed directly in front of me, sat her sweet ass down with her back facing me, grabbed the handles, and began lat pull downs.
The slow exercise emphasized the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the slim muscles of her arms and shoulders, and all the fucking way down her sinuous back.
Mesmerized by her sexy form, I licked my lips. “Hope you stretched first.”
“Are you my personal trainer or something?” Tilly glanced at me with a scathing glare.
Shut down.
Double goddamn.
I considered pulling some bodybuilder poses to gain her attention, but going all Mr. Universe wasn’t my style. Instead, I sat on an incline bench with my back to her, in her direct line of vision. My muscles rippled, flexed, relaxed with each upward crunch of my stomach.
She swallowed loudly then muttered quietly, “Damn.”
That’s right, babe.
The legs of my loose shorts came to rest on my upper thighs. Each rep carved out my traps, lats, and abs.
Behind me, I heard a muffled thud.
Oops.
Sounded like Tilly dropped something.
I grinned.
Standing, I stretched from toes to top, twisting my slick torso and glancing down to make sure my cock hadn’t ripped a hole through my shorts yet. I ambled over to the bench press—my gaze trained straight ahead—calibrated the weights, and lay down with my upper body on the business end of some serious punishment.
Tilly appeared behind me when I reached up. Stilling, I squinted at her upside-down through the sweat in my eyes.
“Spot you?” Her hands curled over mine on the bar.
Chapter Twelve
Gettin’ Sweaty
WITH TILLY SO CLOSE, I didn’t trust myself to talk. A simple sure would probably come out as a fuck yes grunt. I nodded instead.
She was no newbie to bench-pressing. She hovered close but not too close. She didn’t distract me with talk or any sudden movements. She stood there as a safety precaution only, but I figured she was getting a good long look at my long hard body.
Couldn’t say I minded because I was doing the same damn thing. At this angle her thighs were so close I could lick them, and the view above . . . damn . . . her tits proudly jutted up and out from her chest.
I didn’t even feel the burn. At least not from the weight lifting.
The fire in my veins came from Tilly’s firm flesh so close by me.
I expelled a curse with one last heave-ho and placed the barbell on the stand. Sliding beside me, Tilly gave me a hand up. My fingers swallowed hers, and once topside I didn’t let her go.
Steam practically rose from our bodies. One more step and I’d be pressed against her. I inhaled her fragrance, looking down at her. This close up her eyelashes were an amazing gold-red hue at the base and thick and black and feathery where they brushed her eyebrows.
I cupped my other hand around hers, sandwiching her palm, tangling our fingers together. Beneath the flush born of physical exertion, a new blush spread across her face.
She glowed, a saucy grin lifting one corner of her mouth. “You usually hold hands with girls, Justice?”
“No.” I didn’t step back or release her.
Her fingertips tickled my palm. “So?”
Leaning back from my waist, I perused her head to toe. “What can I say? You have nice hands.”
“Mmm.” She tilted her head and gave me her own appraisal. “So do you.”
We stood there, smiling at one another, holding hands between us. That simple touch became more powerful than any kiss I’d ever had, any fuck or orgasm or blowjob. Thrills and chills shot all up and down my body, and I was gonna have a hard time hiding my hard-on if I didn’t break contact soon.
Extending a finger, I brushed the pad against her wrist where her pulse hummed. Her eyes drifted closed, and her smile relaxed into a soft parting of lips with the tip of her tongue curling into the corner.
I either had to make a move or cut her loose.
I knew this woman was not a fuck-and-run option. Not by a long shot. Not the way she got under my skin and inside my head in so short a time.
I couldn’t just take her to bed and write her off at the end of this mission.
And that was what I’d have to do.
She deserved better. Much, much better.
Gently, I pulled my hands away, stroking her palm one last time.
Her eyes fluttered open. This time there was no anger, just . . . solemn understanding.
“Friends?” I wondered if she could see how hard it was for me to smile easily at her, how almost impossible it was to make my voice work.
I held out my hand, for a shake, nothing more.
“Friends.” Tilly gave my hand a hearty shake before relinquishing it. “I might even make that batch of biscuits for you once we get out of here.”
An undeniable kick hit me in the chest at the thought she might want to see me again . . . no matter how impossible it would be and not gonna happen.
I couldn’t help myself from reaching for a tendril of her hair, kinked up into a tight curl from the heat and moisture. “I’d much rather see your photographs.”
In feigned relief, she swept the back of her hand across her forehead. “Shew. That’s good. I’m not much of a baker anyway.”
“I noticed.”
We laughed together, caught in that spell again, the attraction always present between us.
My thumbs tucked once more into my waistband, I shook my head at the floor, grinning. I backed away a few steps before turning around to retrieve my shirt.
“Justice?”
“Yeah?” I craned my head around to find Tilly lingering behind me.
I waited, watching her saunter closer. Her gaze locked on my back, and I tightened my muscles in anticipation moments before her fingertips danced from my shoulder to the base of my spine.
“This tattoo . . . it’s magnificent.” Her voice whispered across my skin like her fingers ghosting up and down over the full back piece.
I gulped hard.
Her hand curled around the thick bands of muscles covering my ribs, and I nearly choked.
I leaned one forearm on the wall, peering over my shoulder at her.
“What does it all mean?” she asked.
My back was covered in ink. Across my shoulders, an arc of Marine Corps helmets marked my skin. For Peterson. Danvers. Crockett. Hill Billy. All the rest, and lastly, Texas.
I’d added to the symmetrical piece. Year by year. Loss by loss. Wound by wound. Until designs in every color of the spectrum decorated my skin in memories I wrapped around myself like blankets, memories, wishes that couldn’t keep out the cold.
Tilly’s fingers dipped along my spine, and I knew she was tracing the words. Words marked on my skin in large bold color like graffiti tags:
Semper Fi
Live or Die
Honor, Strength, Courage
“It means I’m not a good guy.” My voice husked out.
“I beg to differ.” She ranged closer until she was right up against me.
The lush curves. The sweet heat of her. Her lips—warm and moist and wet—snuck onto my back.
A groan formed low in my chest, a rumble that shook through me.
Tension warped between us—sexual and heat
ed.
Nope, the workout didn’t wind me, but Tilly sure as hell made my legs wobbly all of a sudden.
“I scare you. Don’t I?” Her lips moved to my shoulder.
“Yes.” I clenched my hands at my sides.
“You’ve been hurt.”
I inhaled deeply, nodding slowly, grinding my teeth. Unwilling to break free from her.
Goose bumps followed the scattered sensation of her fingers and mouth touching me. Thick desire rocketed to my cock, heavy with blood and ready to come. The bastard thing plumped up and thumped hard against the material of my shorts.
Fuck me. I was so ready my cock was tight, hot, and ripe to burst.
Tilly’s fingers halted between my third and fourth ribs on my right side before walking along the jagged inked-over scar as if she was reading braille, reading the history I wore on my wounded flesh.
“Oh, Justice!” Her lips pressed against my neck. “What was it? What hurt you?”
I wondered briefly if she meant only the scars on my skin or the ones I carried in my soul, too. “IED. That was a really bad night.”
She slid fully behind me, running and rubbing her hands up and down my entire back, now easily finding each wound I’d disguised.
Each caress healed me in a way surgery, stitches, skin grafts never could.
Folding her hands around my middle, she kissed the center of my back.
I stiffened all over, growling, “Tilly.”
She jumped back as if singed. “I’m sorry!”
I rolled around to face her, my shoulders and heels firmly planted against the wall. “Don’t be. When you touch me like that, I want . . .” I scanned her slowly—the hot cheeks, the disastrous hair, the bright green eyes swathed by eyelashes I’d been close enough to feel like moths’ wings. “I want you.”
“You said—”
“Friends. Yeah.” I laughed roughly. “I know what I said. And that’s the way it has to be. I’m dangerous for you.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.” My nostrils flared and my fists clenched.
Then a bead of sweat formed on her temple.
My sharp eyes snapped to it.
The shimmering drop trailed from her temple to her delicate jaw to her long neck before meandering toward the valley between her breasts.
