by Nina Bruhns
“You okay?” Rebel asked, coming up beside the captain’s chair where he sat white-knuckling the cabin cruiser’s wheel.
“No! I’m not fucking okay,” he snapped. Then squeezed his eyes shut to compose himself. Hell.
“Language, Zane,” she said, but with such compassion that it made him even more furious.
His temper had gone totally haywire since returning from captivity in the Sudan. His therapist said it was probably a reaction to having to hold in his rage for so long under so much duress. But Alex thought it was just that his whole fucking life had gone to shit since coming back from the dead. There were days when he actually yearned for the basic simplicity of his imprisonment.
And not having anyone nag him about his goddamn language.
“I’ll stop swearing when you start fucking me,” he gritted out.
She just gazed at him with her big, sympathetic green eyes. “They found the bodies of the two dead men from the yacht this morning,” she said, ignoring his outburst. “They were floating half out of the water onshore farther up the bay.” Then she sighed and walked away.
Shit.
“Angel, wait.” He swiftly slowed the craft, threw it onto autopilot, and went after her, catching her by the wrist before she could escape below. She didn’t want to come, but he pulled her into his arms and held her. “I’m a fucking bastard,” he murmured. “No wonder you don’t want any part of me.”
If he’d hoped she’d deny the notion, he was sorely disappointed. “Yeah. You are,” she said. “When you want to have a clean, civil conversation, let me know.” She tried to pull away.
He held her tighter. “I do want to,” he said. “I’m a goddamn mess, I admit it. But I need you, Rebel. Even if it’s just to talk, I need you with me.” He grazed his lips over her springy red hair, kissing her temple. “You’re my rock, baby. The only one I can tell what I’m really feeling. You do know that, don’t you?”
It had always been that way between them. Since the first time he’d met her. One of her first assignments as a new FBI agent had been as liaison to CIA’s Zero Unit, where he’d already been an operator for a half-dozen years at the time. They’d talked endlessly in those days, sometimes right through the night. They’d never so much as kissed; it hadn’t been a sexual thing between them. Not that he hadn’t been incredibly attracted.
But that was exactly why he hadn’t let himself feel that way about her. Not consciously, at any rate. To a woman like Rebel Haywood, sex meant commitment. Long-term, picket fence, baby-making commitment. None of which he’d been willing or able to take on. Not with a woman he actually loved. Because of the job, he’d told himself. Yeah, and then there was that other not-so-little issue.
But that was five years ago. A lot had changed in five years. He’d definitely changed. And now he was free of that ill-conceived marriage of convenience to Helena . . .
Hell, Alex had always been a one-woman man. For better or worse. He could commit to being true to Rebel, no problem.
Sexually. If nothing else. Because he couldn’t give her anything else.
Not that she’d want any more than good sex from Alex Zane, once she’d seen the real him. Not if she was remotely sane. Or like any other woman he’d ever been involved with. Rebel wanted marriage and children. And Alex was a fucking wreck of a man. She’d get that soon enough.
“I’ve been miserable without you to talk to,” he confessed. Meaning it.
She remained silent. But at his reminder of their former closeness, her unyielding stance softened a little.
“Please, Rebel,” he whispered. He trailed kisses down the side of her face, blazing a path toward her mouth. God, there had been times in his al Sayika prison hell when he would have sacrificed a whole goddamn year of his wretched life to hold and kiss her like this. He’d wanted her comfort, and her body, so damn badly. He still did.
Screw talking.
His own body grew hard as he pulled her up against it, showing her graphically just how much he wanted to be with her. He sought her lips.
She shied away. “Alex,” she groaned softly. “You have to stop.”
His gut twisted. And now he was too late. Fuck. “So you do love him, then . . .”
“Who?”
“Your lover. Montana.”
She shook her head against his chest. “No.”
She’d told him once before it was only sex between her and her former SAC. No strings, just a good time. Not that he’d actually believed her. She wasn’t the kind of woman to sleep with a man she didn’t have feelings for. She’d practically thrown the affair in Alex’s face. Understandable. He’d still been engaged to her friend at the time, yet had callously confessed to wanting to sleep with Rebel. Had nearly kissed her, too, overwhelmed by his feelings of frustration.
God, what a fucking complicated mess.
“If you don’t love him, then why should I stop?” he asked, sounding petulant even to himself.
Hell, he was close to getting down on his knees and begging. He hadn’t had sex with anyone but himself in over two years. Her fault. He hadn’t wanted to be with anyone but her. Not for ages. Helena, he’d never had sex with—though to be fair, his own sadly misguided and sex-starved hormones were not even a factor in that whole fiasco. But after the wedding fell through and he was set free, he’d seen Rebel’s face in every woman he’d started to pick up and walked away from in disgust—because it wasn’t the woman he really wanted. And believe him, he’d tried more than once.
“Why stop, Rebel?” he asked again, pushing it. Pushing her to do what they both wanted.
“You know why,” she said, and he stifled the urge to scream like a little girl.
His hands were still on her ass. He coaxed her a fraction of an inch closer, so her mound pressed into his aching arousal. For a moment she let her body melt against his, all the way from her cheek down to her toes. Goddamn , she felt good.
“Let’s say I don’t know why,” he murmured, on the verge of imploding from frustration. “Tell me.”
She let out a long exhale against his neck. “Because,” she said, “you’re going to hurt me.”
“Never,” he refuted hotly. Of all the things she might have said, that was the easiest to deny. Hell, women hurt him, they left him, not the other way around. “How can you say that?” he asked, bewildered.
“Because,” she said simply, “you already have.”
He felt shame. Okay, it was probably true. He’d always suspected he’d hurt her terribly by choosing Helena over her. Rebel had been sure there was something lacking in her body or her personality that kept him away, something in her character he couldn’t live with, that made him prefer the other woman to her. But she had no clue. The lack was purely within himself; the fatal flaw his. The person he could not live with if he misled her with promises he couldn’t keep was himself alone.
“I’m so sorry, angel,” he murmured. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”
Anything but tell her the truth. That would drive her away for sure.
Rebel tipped her head and gazed up at him, the look in her eyes more heartrending than anything he’d ever seen.
“All I’ve ever wanted was for you to love me best, Alex. But you never did. And it’s much too late to change your mind now.”
And that broke his heart completely. Because she was so damned wrong.
He had always loved her best. And that was why he could never give her any more than just sex.
SEVEN
REBEL couldn’t believe she’d actually had the courage to say those words aloud. At least now her wounded feelings were out in the open, no longer bottled up in that dark, empty space in her aching heart. She felt better. Not much. But a little.
Until Alex choked out, “Fuck it. You’re wrong, Rebel. God, you are so very wrong.”
He swept her up into a crushing embrace. Before she knew what was happening, he’d thumbed her chin down and wrapped his f
ingers around her jaw, dragging her up on her toes for a deep, drowning kiss.
She meant to wriggle away, honestly she did, but she just couldn’t resist stealing a long drink of him. He felt too good, tasted too sinfully seductive, smelled too arousingly male—and far too much like the man she knew she would love forever . . . even if he didn’t love her back.
Around Alex Zane, she had no will of her own.
He lifted her farther off her feet and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips. Her arms curled around his neck, bringing her body so close to his she could almost melt over him, like warm chocolate on an ice cream cone.
“Oh, angel,” he murmured as his mouth moved over hers. “I want you so much.” His tongue slid between her teeth and this time she opened willingly, eagerly, to its wet thrust. Her senses spun, dizzy from the onslaught of him. Of all she had wanted for so very long. Even if he didn’t love her.
“Alex, please,” she groaned. Afraid that instead of begging him to stop, she was begging for something entirely different. But needing it so badly she thought she might die.
“I’m here,” he told her. “God, I’m here for you.”
She clung to him as he took one swift look around to make sure they were near shore and well outside the shipping lanes, then he spun to the Stormy Lady’s controls. Seconds later the anchor dropped and the engine shut off. He swept her up and in three strides had carried her to the steep stair-ladder that led belowdecks.
She held him tight. “I don’t want to let you go,” she murmured, knowing she must. If not now, certainly later. She was terrified if she let him go she’d wake up and this would all be just a dream.
The thought was so painful, she let out a soft cry.
He kissed her hard, reassuring her that this was all very real. “Get below,” he ordered in a hoarse rumble, depositing her feet on the top stair. “Hurry.”
She almost slipped down the ladder but Alex’s strong hands caught her and he swung her down, following two treads at a time to keep up. They both landed at the bottom and grabbed for each other. Kissing mindlessly, they backed up along a narrow path through the salon, then he lifted her feet over the high transom leading to the tiny stateroom. As soon as they touched the floor again, the backs of her knees hit something soft and firm.
The bed.
The FBI T-shirt she’d changed into from her ruined suit flew over her head. Followed closely by her bra. She gasped. His fingers scraped over the sensitive fronts of her hip bones, making her gasp again as he jerked her jeans and panties down over them. Before she had time to blink—or think—he pushed her back onto the bed, drew off her sneaks and jeans, and threw them aside.
She reached for him, already missing the touch of his hands, the warmth of his mouth, and the scrape of his formidable body against hers. But he just stood there, his chest heaving, his golden hair spiky from her fingers, his stormy eyes fastened on her nude body like twin blue lasers.
“Alex?” she whispered between panting breaths. “Is something wrong?”
He swallowed heavily. “Are you real?” he asked, his voice as thick and hard as the arousal under his jeans. “Please tell me you’re fucking real this time.”
“Language, Zane,” she breathed, wondering if he was still here with her, or if he’d somehow stumbled into one of his nightmarish flashbacks.
But the language admonishment caused the corners of his lips to curve. “Close enough,” he said, and threw off his own T-shirt. He kicked aside his shoes.
Her heart caught in her throat at the sight of his body.
So beautiful. Or it had been, before his terrorist guards had used his flesh as a palette for their sadistic amusement.
But no, he was still by far the most gorgeous man she had ever known. His blue eyes were clear and bright, his blond hair like spun sunshine. The hours he’d spent outdoors swimming laps had restored the muscles of his wide shoulders, corded biceps, and six-pack abs, and tinted his skin with a wash of golden spring tan. Before his capture, Alex had been as big and broad and dangerous-looking as a Viking warrior, but now, even with the many scars marring his arms and chest, he looked more like a handsome faerie king hero from some fantasy kingdom.
“Do they disgust you?” he asked softly, brushing his hand over the worst of his scars.
“No,” she said, and melted a little at the vulnerability in his eyes. “Nothing about you could ever disgust me, Alex.”
Still wearing his jeans, he crawled on top of her and pulled her up the narrow bunk with him until they lay in the middle. “You haven’t seen all of me yet,” he murmured and touched her cheek with his fingertips.
“Actually, I have.”
He paused. “Oh?”
“Mm-hmm. Every”—she reached up and slowly trailed her finger down his chest and abdomen to the waistband resting low on his hips—“last”—she punctuated the word by flicking open the top button—“inch of you.” She slid her fingers into his hair and pulled his head down, whispering in his ear, “By the way, I like your . . . tattoo.”
He snatched her wrist away from dangerous territory, and slipped his knee between her legs. “And how, exactly, did you happen to be looking at my . . . tattoo?”
She blushed at the memory of her blatant curiosity. His tattoo was an intricate circle of ink around the shaft of his cock, just under the head. As liaison to ZU, she’d heard the rumor that every member of Zero Unit bore one, with a pattern unique to the individual man. A rite of initiation, a way to tell friend from foe . . . and an object lesson in the endurance of pain.
“At Haven Oaks,” she confessed, parting her knees for him. “You were sedated. A nurse was giving you a bath so I peeked. I wanted to see it.”
He knelt between her thighs, his lips curved. “My prick or the tattoo?”
“Both,” she admitted with a naughty smile.
He grasped her behind the knees, lifted them, and spread her legs wide. “Hmm. Isn’t that sexual harassment?”
“I wanted to know if reality lived up to my fantasies.” Her face heated from the candid confession. And from his casual positioning of her body. It felt strangely arousing to be completely naked and exposed while he was still half dressed, touching her like he had every right to. And talking about his male anatomy.
“And do I?” he asked, his eyes going dark and slumberous. “Live up to your fantasies?”
She licked her lips. “No,” she whispered, giving her head a minute shake. At his raised brow, she said truthfully, “You’re so much better.”
“Good answer,” he murmured, looking smug as only a man very confident of his masculinity could. He ran the backs of his hands erotically down her body and the insides of her thighs, spilling a trail of spine-tingling sensation and gooseflesh in its wake. “Because, angel, so are you.”
His thumbs brushed intimately along her moist folds. She sucked down a gasped moan.
“No, don’t hold back on me, baby,” he told her. “No hiding. I want to hear your moans and feel your shivers. I want it all when you come for me.”
“I want to see you,” she told him, and reached for his waistband.
She thought he might stop her, but after a slight hesitation, he allowed her to unbutton his jeans and spread open the fly. He sprang out, thick and long.
He was bigger now than he’d been at Haven Oaks. A lot bigger.
The infamous ZU tattoo circled the neck of his penis, exotic and intriguing. Unconsciously, her tongue peeked out and moistened her lips. She wanted to take him in her mouth and run her tongue around that band of blue to taste it. To taste him.
As if reading her thoughts, he smiled. “Later.” And he spread her thighs wider. “Me, first.”
His mouth came down on her, hot and wet. He groaned, and his tongue slicked over her, drawing out a sharp cry of pleasure from deep within her. He teased her and played her with his tongue and teeth, bringing her expertly to a crest, backing off just before she tumbled over, then starting all over again.
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br /> Desperate to touch him, she reached for him, buried her fingers in his hair. Thrashed and bowed as he pleasured her.
All the years of pent-up feelings poured out from her heart and washed through her, lighting her up from within. This was Alex! She was making love with Alex! She could scarcely believe it.
Her body wept as his tongue ravished her. “Please,” she begged, writhing in exquisite agony. “Please!”
His mouth covered her and he sucked, his teeth clamping around her just hard enough to send her into the stratosphere. She shattered in a thousand, million pieces and cried out, her body convulsing with the power of her release. She rode it out, drowning in the pleasure of his unrelenting tongue.
Long moments later, when at last she could open her eyes again, he was kneeling above her, watching her with an intensity that might have scared her had she been able to feel anything at all but stunningly good.
“More,” she managed, and reached for his jeans. “You now.”
She pushed them down his hips. He let her, rolling onto his back to help shuck them off his feet when she didn’t have the strength.
When he lay down again, she canted over him. Oh, yes. And took him in her mouth.
He shot up like a cannon. “Whoa!” He grabbed her and pulled her off him. “Jesus wept, woman,” he groaned. “You can’t do that to a man who hasn’t had sex in two years. I won’t last three seconds.” He let out a long, long breath. “Let’s save that for next time, yeah?”
Next time? But—
Suddenly she was under him again, and he was between her thighs, pushing them apart with his knees. Pinioning her with his eyes. Fisting his cock, he fitted it to her center. Her breath caught. How long had she waited for this? Slowly, he levered his body down over her. His lips met hers and she could taste her desire on them. He kissed her, deep and long, then lifted and gave her that look again. Intense. Hungry. Dangerous. A vein beat wildly in his neck, pulsing in unison with the head of his penis as it pushed against her entry.
“What’s my name?” he asked, his voice rough like the tear of raw silk.
