In Her Sights (Away From Keyboard Book 2)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  The ring fits her. Understated. Five rubies in a simple silver band. Her lips curve in what I think is an unconscious gesture as she stares down at the sparkling new addition to her wardrobe.

  “I’m going to ask you once, Pint.” The seriousness of my quiet tone has her pulling away so she can meet my gaze. “You ready for this? A couple of weeks ago…you talked about it like it was the scariest thing in the world.”

  West was right. No matter what else was going on in her life, good or bad, Cam’s gaze always held a hint of restlessness and fear. Now…all I see is her happiness.

  “I’m ready for this. I didn’t think I would be, but when he asked me—” she huffs out a little laugh, “—the ring was tied to the handle of my mug when he brought me coffee in bed—I knew. He’s my home.”

  When I hug her, she holds on for an extra few seconds. “Please say you’ll um…stand up with me when we do this thing?”

  “What? As your maid of honor? In a dress?” I pull back in mock horror. “Would I have to shave my legs? Because that’s a deal breaker.”

  She punches me in the arm. “You can wear a suit. Wimp.”

  “Well, in that case…” I take her left hand, running my thumb over the ring. “I’d be honored.”

  15

  Inara

  As I unlock the studio door, Royce’s hand on my hip steadies me. I haven’t been able to settle since I told him about this side of me. No one knows I paint. Not Sonia. Not West. Not Ryker. I don’t share that part of myself with anyone.

  “Remember those coping mechanisms I told you about on our second date?” Flicking on the light, I take a deep breath, then lead him over to my little corner.

  “I figured you took out your frustrations on a heavy bag or sang off-key in the shower.” He presses a kiss to the back of my neck, and I shiver.

  “I do not sing off-key.”

  “Prove it.” His low, husky voice does something to my insides, and if the studio were a little more private—or had a single soft place to lie down—I’d have his slim black shirt off in a heartbeat.

  I hum a few bars of the Hamilton soundtrack—badly—and he swats my ass. Turning, I press my hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I’ve never shown these to anyone. Sometimes…there’s another artist or two in the studio, but they don’t really know me.”

  “Baby, whatever’s on those canvases isn’t going to change how I feel about you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Royce cups my cheek, leans in, and kisses me so thoroughly, I can’t feel my toes.

  But I can’t let him distract me, or I’ll lose my nerve. When I turn the first canvas around, I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. Royce takes the painting and sets it on an easel, taking his time studying the swirling waters that seem to swallow up a small island in the middle of a vast ocean.

  “When did you paint this?” He traces the brush strokes an inch above the ridges of paint, almost reverently. “It’s amazing.”

  “Two years ago. Bad mission. We lost the target.” I can’t force my voice above a whisper, and Royce reaches for my hand, linking our fingers. My emotional pain unfolds as I pull out canvas after canvas.

  Dark colors, stark angles, bare trees, and rocks…even one painting with a gash through the center that’s nothing more than angry splatters of color against a black background. “I fell out of a fucking tree that mission. Snapped my rifle stock in half and broke two ribs. I couldn’t manage to draw a straight line—or really…any kind of line. So I just threw the paint on the canvas.”

  With each piece of my soul I reveal, Royce says less and less, until I pick up the piece I painted after Coop died.

  “What happened here?” He wraps his arms around me as we gaze at my pain laid bare. The solitary figure with long, flowing black hair stands at the edge of a cliff, the waters below her red and frothy. Lightning pierces the sky, with a single shaft of sunlight illuminating a path behind her. One covered in twisting vines.

  I force myself to clear my throat so he can hear me. “Colombia. When we lost Coop. I…wasn’t sure I could ever pick up a gun again.”

  “Tell me.” Royce slides a stool in front of the easel, sinks down, and settles me on his thigh with his arms around me.

  My back to his chest, I let his warmth seep into me. “West planned the op. The Colombian president’s son was kidnapped by a guerrilla group—the People’s Army. Poor kid’s only twenty-two. Doesn’t participate in politics at all.

  “The ransom video…” My voice drops to a whisper. “We see a lot of shit in our line of work. And training teaches us to put it all away. Turn off the emotions. Don’t let the target’s pain influence our actions. That’s always been my superpower.” I manage a choked laugh. “My unit called me ‘the statue.’ I could tune out everything. But after this job…I’m pretty sure I’m more dust than stone.”

  “Baby, you’re anything but dust. What do you think that painting is?” Royce rests his chin on my shoulder as he rubs up and down my arms. “It’s you putting yourself back together again.”

  I tell him everything. Changing the plan at the eleventh hour, Coop’s frustration with Ryker at being relegated to backup, seeing West go down, the look of shock on his face as the blood soaked through his fatigues.

  “Ryker held him together with duct tape—literally.” I chuckle. “I heard them on comms. ‘You’re a goddamned SEAL, Sampson. If you can’t run five hundred yards while bleeding from a stomach wound, you don’t deserve to wear the uniform.’”

  Royce laughs along with me. “Some of my Special Forces buddies used to say the same sort of thing.”

  “Coop wasn’t where West told him to be. He was across the compound. By the time I saw him…I just hesitated for a second.” A tear spills down my cheek. “But that was enough. He went down. I…watched him die.”

  Royce holds me tighter. “And the painting?”

  “I’m stuck. Can’t go forward or back. We’ve had two successful missions since. And I managed to keep myself in check. Be that statue. But every time it gets harder. I’m terrified one day I won’t be able to do it. And then…who will I be?”

  Turning on Royce’s lap, I bury my head against his neck and let go. My tears soak into his shirt, choking sobs scrape over my throat, and I’m shaking. But he just holds me, one hand tracing gentle circles on my back.

  When I pull away and start to wipe my nose with the back of my hand, Royce already has a handkerchief in his hand and dabs my cheeks as his deep blue eyes bore into me. “You’ll be you. Inara Ruzgani. Translator. Painter. Decorated veteran. The strong, intelligent woman I’m falling in love with.”

  Neither of us speak as the weight of his words sink in. He almost…

  Royce’s cheeks flush, and he stammers a little. “You’re ssspecial, baby. And I want this relationship to lassst. I—”

  Fear grips my heart. I’m not ready to hear him say the words. In part, because I suspect I’ll say them right back—and mean them. “Take me home, Royce. Make love to me. Then hold me. All night.”

  Sex as a distraction? Absolutely. I’m—we’re—good at this part. The rest…maybe in the light of day I’ll be braver. For tonight, though, my heart’s taken enough enemy fire. It’s time to retreat.

  “Strip.” Royce doesn’t even give me a chance to drop my phone in the charger before his hands are on me, unzipping my dress, biting along the curve of my neck to send shivers of pleasure straight to my core.

  I shrug out of the sleeves, and he cups my breasts, pinching my nipples until I whimper and my thong soaks through.

  My knees tremble as he replaces his fingers with his mouth—and teeth. “I fucking love this bra,” he says as he switches his attention to the other breast. “But it’s got to go.”

  With one deft movement, he unhooks the front clasp, and the lace falls, the straps catching on my wrists as he pins my hands behind my back. “How thick are your walls?” Another searing kiss leaves me breathless, and I fight to keep my legs
from buckling as he backs me up towards the bed.

  “Very.”

  “Take off your stockings. Slowly.” Royce bends to help me out of my boots, then steps back so I can release the little clips that hold the thigh-highs in place. Rolling first one, then the other, down and slipping them off, he half-growls when I’m left in only my thong. “That goes too.”

  Naked before him, I have no defenses when he slides a finger into my slick folds. My eyelids flutter. “You smell like summer,” he says, his voice rough. “Open your eyes, Inara. I want you to see everything I do to you.”

  I obey, and when he withdraws, he brings his finger to his lips and tastes the evidence of my arousal. He grins as he unbuttons his shirt. The muscles under his tattoo shift, and I run my hands over the Army Ranger logo that tops the shattered heart in a pool of tears, then lower to the flames peeking out of his low-slung black jeans.

  Sliding my palms along the sculpted planes of his chest, I want to look away from the intensity of his gaze. He sees through me—or perhaps into me—in a way no one has before. After the studio, I should be scared, off balance, out of control, but this man knows me and knows what I need.

  His shirt flutters to the bed after I give the soft material a little tug. I’m faster this time and manage to undo all five buttons on his jeans before he can bring my wrists behind my back and hold them there. “Not yet, baby. You’re going to come at least twice before you get your hands—or your mouth—on my dick.”

  I can’t go anywhere. Pressed against the mattress, I’m helpless against his greedy kiss. My nipples scrape over his chest, my knees buckle, and he guides me down to the bed, my wrists still pinned in his grasp.

  “Okay?” he asks as he presses his body to mine, the hard bulge of his erection sending delicious pleasure arcing through me.

  “Uh-huh.” I struggle, but I don’t want to get away, only get my arms around him, feel the corded muscles of his biceps, dig my nails into his back, show him I need him as much as he appears to need me. “If…you’re not…going to fuck me,” I say between desperate kisses, “you’re going to have to tie me up.”

  The deep groan that rumbles through his chest makes my heart race, and I jerk my head towards the nightstand. “Bottom drawer.”

  Royce rolls on his side, keeping me trapped, and yanks on the handle. “You’re fucking perfect, Inara. In every way,” he says as he pulls out the padded cuffs.

  After he kisses each wrist, he buckles the leather around them—loose enough for comfort, but not escape. A hemp rope with a carabiner on each end connects the cuffs to my wrought-iron headboard, and then I’m stretched out before him, naked, wanting, unable to do more than wriggle my hips as he kneels between my thighs.

  “What do you like?” He fastens his mouth over one aching nipple, and I arch my back as I cry out. With lips, tongue, and teeth, he tortures the tight bud, and when he slips his fingers back between my legs, I implode, great waves of pleasure drowning out all sound, all sight, everything but Royce, and what he does to me.

  His fingers plunge deeper, faster, and then he’s nipping my neck, my shoulder. I can’t think until he cups my chin, forcing me to meet his dark gaze. “Look…at…me,” he growls, then adds another finger. “I want…to see you come.”

  I can only whimper as he circles my clit with his thumb; I start to keen as he lifts one of my legs and rests my calf on his shoulder, and when he leans forward, pinching the neglected nipple with enough force to make me cry out, I give in to a second, more powerful climax roaring through me.

  A light sheen of sweat covers my body, and my over-sensitized skin feels like I’m about to combust. Royce kisses the inside of my thigh, down to my knee, then stretches my leg out on the bed.

  I tug at the cuffs, desperate to hold him, to give him half of the pleasure he’s given me, but he slides off the bed, and I’m left to watch as he sheds his jeans, then those sexy black briefs. His cock stands at attention, already glistening with his own desire.

  “My…turn…” I manage, unable to look away from the most gorgeous man I’ve ever fucked.

  He chuckles as he frees my wrists. “Well, you did come twice.”

  I stop him before he can climb on top of me, directing him to a short width of uncluttered wall. “Brace yourself.”

  Royce’s gaze turns hungry when I sink to my knees and grab his hips. He twines his fingers in my short locks as I press a teasing kiss to his crown, and once I swirl my tongue along his hard length, he groans and tightens his grip.

  “That’s it, baby,” he says when I take him deeper. “All the way.”

  Relaxing my throat, I suck him down, running my tongue along the underside of his shaft. When I hum, he lets loose with a string of curses, so I draw back, hollow out my cheeks, and slide one of my hands down to cup his balls. I draw out each stroke until his thighs are trembling and he can’t manage more than a few well-placed “fucks” and the occasional “Inara.”

  Before I can send him over the edge, he twists his hand in my hair. “Stop. God, baby. I’m so close, and I want to be inside you when I come.”

  As soon as I draw my lips gently over his crown, he hauls me up and claims my mouth. I taste both of us, and the overwhelming need to feel more, do more, say more almost has me confessing the one thing I couldn’t say at the studio.

  But before I can utter a word, Royce spins me around. “Get on the bed. On your knees. And hold on.”

  The thrill running down my spine makes my movements jerky, and I’m afraid I’ll come if he so much as breathes on my clit, but I do as he asks, watching over my shoulder as he retrieves a condom from the pocket of his jeans and climbs up behind me.

  Strong hands palm my ass, warming the skin, and I push back, hoping he’ll get the hint. The first slap has me whimpering. By the second, I’m begging.

  “Again. Please. Hurt me, Royce. Make me yours.”

  Four more, and my ass burns in the most delicious way. My channel weeps for him. If I can’t have him inside me soon, I won’t survive.

  As if he can read my mind, he grabs my hips and grinds against me. “I need…you,” he says. “T-turn over.”

  Once I’m on my back, he curses as he fumbles with the foil wrapper.

  “Let me.” Easing the packet from his hand, I tear it open, and fuck, if rolling a condom onto his throbbing cock isn’t the sexiest thing in the world. His eyelids flutter at the contact, his thighs trembling.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper as I lie back down and scrape my short nails over his hips. “Hard.”

  He sinks deep in one move, and I gasp as my body struggles to accept his girth. But the delicious pressure starts to build immediately, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

  Bracing himself so he can lean down and seal his lips over mine, he starts to thrust. I slide my fingers into his hair, tugging at the short strands as he groans and takes up a punishing rhythm.

  As he breaks off the kiss so he can meet my gaze, I find the one thing I never believed I needed, but now don’t know that I can live without.

  “So…fucking…perfect,” he whispers as he reaches between us to find my clit.

  “Harder!” I match him stroke for stroke, desperately trying to hold off my release to prolong the all-encompassing pleasure that’s turned my entire body into a trembling mess.

  “Take me.” Royce pinches my throbbing nub. “Take all of me.”

  Pulling his head down so our foreheads touch and I can see nothing but his deep blue eyes with bright silver streaks, I let go and scream his name.

  He falls over the edge with me, my name on his lips, and as he collapses next to me, I think I hear him whisper, “I love you, Inara.”

  16

  Royce

  I struggle awake, the air thick and warm. At my side, Inara coughs weakly. My sleep-addled brain can’t make sense of the haze in the room until I try to take a deep breath and smoke fills my lungs. “Fire,” I choke out. “Inara! Fire!” Sliding an arm under her shoulders, I sit her up, a
nd she moans and tries to push me away.

  “Fuck, baby. Wake up. We have to get out of here.” A light slap to her cheek rouses her, and she shakes her head, coughs, and digs her fingers into my arms.

  Her eyes wild, she stares at the smoke hovering in the air for only a second before she scrambles out of bed. I yank on my jeans, throw my bag on the bed, and peer out her bedroom door.

  “Royce!” Inara tosses me a fire extinguisher, and I try to beat back some of the flames as she heads for her closet, but in under two minutes, the damn thing’s empty, I can’t stop coughing, and the heat drives me back as the flames lick up the walls to the ceiling.

  I slam the door, then grab the bedspread and wedge it under the door jamb. “Out…the window. N-now.”

  “I have to get,” she struggles with something in her closet, her wheezing getting worse, “my go bag.”

  “We don’t have time.” I skirt the bed, not bothering with shoes, but when I try to grab her arm, she shakes me off.

  “Go, Royce. Get…out. I’ll be right…behind you.” She wipes her eyes, and through my own watery gaze, I see her try to enter an electronic combination on a floor safe. She curses as the lock beeps in error.

  Striding back to the bed, I rip off a pillow case and tear it into two strips. Once I dump the contents of her water glass over the fabric, I tie one of the makeshift masks over Inara’s mouth and nose, then hold the other to my face.

  “I can’t open the window unt-t-til you’re ready to go, baby. The rush of oxygen’ll suck the fire right in here.”

  She swears, then yanks the safe door open. “Got it.”

  I can only dimly see her heft a large bag over her shoulder, but she rises, so I throw the window wide open and kick out the screen. With a great whoosh, the flames attack the bedroom door, and the old, dry wood bursts with orange sparks.

  Inara tosses her bag out the window, then grabs my arm and tries to urge me onto the sill. “Go.”

  “You first.”