Hunter (In the Company of Snipers Book 14)

by Irish Winters

  “I am not one of your Marine buddies!” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Blonde tangles trembled over her shoulders. “What did I just say? You don’t get it, do you? You’re all I’ve got, and I’m all you’ve got. Hate each other or not, we’ve got to work together if we want to survive.”

  She ceased her attack to rake her fingers through all that hair. He couldn’t help himself. She looked like a beautiful lioness with her mane wild and free, so damned fierce and mad, her chin sticking out, her lips asking for another kiss. And that was the problem. He didn’t hate her. God knew there was a time he’d wanted to. He’d sure as hell tried. He just never could.

  “Anything else I can fucking do for you, your highness?” he bit out to break the spell.

  Her chin jutted out. “And that’s another thing, Hunter. Stop swearing at me! Everything out of your mouth is just plain demeaning and ugly, and I’m... I’m sick of it. You’re not in the Army now, and I never was. You will treat me like a lady from now on or there will be consequences. Do you hear me?”

  She stabbed her index finger in his face, and his stupid male heart four-wheel-drifted to a screeching halt, wishing she’d do it again. He wanted to suck on that pretty little finger, maybe wipe the snarl off her mouth with his lips while he did it. Hot damn, she all but glowed she was so angry, and he was falling head-over-heels, not able to catch his balance.

  But he couldn’t let her uppity commands go unchallenged. “At least get the service right. I was in the Corps. They’re not interchangeable like Tupperware lids.” He gave her his best USMC stare down. “The Marine Corps. Ever heard of ’em?”

  “I don’t care. Stop cursing. That’s the point!” Her voice ratcheted higher with every word. “If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.” Her lower jaw jutted forward like she meant to look mean. It wasn’t working for her. All it made him do was want to bite that full lip before he jerked her into his face and kissed the hell out of her. Every finger clenched to take hold of that hard head of hers, to hold her tight, and kiss her into oblivion.

  But he didn’t.

  “Fine,” he hissed, because a more manly declaration would’ve been too coarse for her delicate ears.

  “Fine,” she hissed right back at him, her swagger on.

  They stood locked onto each other’s radar like Wyatt Earp and Ike Clanton at the OK Corral, only Ike was incredibly sexy, sweaty, and wearing the skimpiest underwear. And boots. No gunslinger had ever—ever—looked so hot. Her chest heaved. Those luscious, pillowy breasts were peaked and pointing straight at him. Beckoning. Begging for a nip of his teeth.

  She bit her lower lip, pulling it into her mouth in that cute way she had, and—

  Meredith damned near bowled him over she crashed into him so hard. He groaned but took the hit, scooping her into his arms, his hands on her ass, want to or not. Oh, what the hell. Who was he kidding? He wanted her in his arms, and he wanted a whole lot more.

  They staggered backward a full step before he caught his balance. The hoarse female sounds coming out of her throat didn’t help. All that urgent moaning and growling did was make him want to please her in every way, shape, and position no matter what that knife wound in his chest was telling him. This was no helpless little girl in his arms. This was a woman who knew what she wanted. This was—a married woman.

  Shit! He pulled away from her at that annoying fleeting reminder, really, he did, but she was having none of it, not with her fingers hooked around his ears like they were. She’d turned them into handles, pulling him forward and steering him back to her mouth like he’d better damned well obey. Any hesitation on his part was met with a grumbling course correction that brought his lips back in line with hers.

  And just like he remembered, Meredith’s mouth was hot, sweet addiction. His body responded, hardening to steel that would soon shred those silky black panties out of his way if she didn’t take them off.

  Lifting one foot off the ground, she hooked both arms around his neck and climbed on board, anchoring her leg around his hip like he was a stepladder. Once more, he adjusted his stance, widening his thighs to make it easier for her to catch hold and hang on.

  Damn, he was losing ground fast. Some damned loud-mouthed bird squawked far off in the distance. It might be one of those alerts that birds made when a predator was afoot, but she kept rubbing her core against his damned zipper and he forgot the bird and whatever might be hunting it. Was she trying to knock him over? Okay. He got the hint. She meant to go to ground. Good thinking. Horizontal always worked better than vertical.

  Easing one hand to the ground behind his back, he took her down with him. So much feminine bare skin presented itself for his touch and taste. Everywhere his hands and mouth strayed felt silky and soft, lush and tempting. Pushing the cups of her bra down brought both plump breasts to his mouth level. Fire flamed the last shred of logic in his head away.

  When she arched her back and whimpered, it was all the invitation he needed to take one succulent nipple into the heated cavern of his mouth. A long dormant hunger roared to be satisfied. He wanted to swallow her whole, bite her, eat her up, and never let her go. This wasn’t the time for tenderness and savoring. His right hand slid down her bare back to the soft swell of her ass, and she was putty in his big hands, hot, taut putty that held a universe of pleasure and pain within easy, tempting reach.

  His fingers easily breached the silk panties, smoothing over one spanking hot cheek on his way down to her core. He’d always dreamed of this moment when he and she... when he and she...

  She’s a married woman.

  Shit!

  “No.” Of all things, Hunter never expected to say that word to a turned on and incredibly hot female who was doing a helluva good job breaching his belt and zipper all by her lonesome. Her demanding fingers stroked his ears, tugging him to turn into her pushy mouth again.

  Okay, I can do that.

  He tasted, his tongue probing deeper, and every ounce of him demanded the sustenance he craved. His taste buds wanted more of her sweet mouth. His heart couldn’t resist the seduction of imminent satisfaction. There was no way he could get enough. Eat her up. All of her. Drink her in, every last bit. Only...

  She’s married.

  Her fingers slid beneath the waist of his pants. “Meredith. No,” he breathed as he lifted his palms up and off her steaming-hot ass and planted them firmly higher on her back where they couldn’t wander. “You’re...”

  “But Hunter,” she whined, rubbing her nose up his jaw to his ear, framing his face in the tenderest embrace of silky-soft fingers, another feminine assault in progress.

  He closed his eyes at the sultry plea in her voice, the enticing promise of the best sex of his life in his ear. He very nearly succumbed to the very sensual temptation of all that sizzling bare skin. Her breath mingling with his. The honey-dipped taste of her tongue and lips, but...

  She’s married, dumbass!

  “No.” With strength he didn’t know he had, Hunter eased her off of his lap and moved her to his thighs, fighting for restraint to do the honorable thing. To retreat. To protect her. If he didn’t get hold of his senses right there and then, there’d be no stopping either of them. And stop he must, because Hunter Christian might be a lot of things, but he didn’t use nor abuse women. He didn’t lead them on, and he didn’t make promises he didn’t intend to keep. His mother had taught him right. If you want to dance, you have to pay for the music.

  And a smart man never danced with a married woman.

  He swallowed hard, trying like hell to get the hot blood pounding through his veins to cool down. There would be no dance, and the only music he’d ever paid for was never this good.

  With a petulant huff, she rolled to her side, taking all that luscious fire and heat with her. He could barely breathe, so he brushed both palms to the earth to scrape the satiny feel of her skin off his fingers. It didn’t work. He dug his fingers into the compacted dirt, willing the tas
te and feel of her away but wanting to strap her luscious body back onto his hips. Shit. He couldn’t think of anything but how much he’d needed her for years. How all those lonely nights could be wiped away. All that self-loathing...

  If he weren’t an honorable man.

  If he could forget.

  But he wouldn’t.

  Meredith lay beside him, her back to him and panting as heavily as he was. “I’m sorry. It’s just that... I thought... I mean...”

  He gulped. Every minute with her seemed incredibly backward. A woman telling a man she was sorry for taking things too far? A man refusing a sexy woman’s advances? How weird. Maybe she was right. Maybe they did need to talk.

  He reached for her hand. “I think maybe it’s time we set—”

  She sniffed, batting him away. “No, Hunter. I get it.” Pushing up into a sitting position, she adjusted her bra, covering herself. She glanced at Teague, still out cold where they’d left him. Her eyes glimmered in the dim light.

  Oh great. I’ve made her cry.

  She pushed that adorable backside of hers up off the ground and went straight to Teague. Instead of checking him, though, she rummaged through the bundles of men’s clothing on the litter beside him. Hunter felt like an ass, but he couldn’t ignore the view. She must work out. That ass inside those skimpy panties that were low enough he could see the upper crack of her backside, was taut. And tan lines. Holy shit. What had he signed up for? Murder? Mayhem? Hot steamy sex? Sounded more like a bad B movie instead of an operation on foreign soil gone sideways.

  Rising onto one elbow, he searched for a way to diffuse the cold war while his body calmed. All he could do was watch; there was no getting to his feet. Not yet. Not with that backside still on display and the baseball bat in his pants.

  Somehow, their roles had reversed. She was mad. Still, the ring on her finger made it clear. He should’ve never allowed this second moment of passion. Hunter didn’t play with another man’s wife, even if the other man was a jerk and a liar from the ground up. Welch was Meredith’s choice. Her problem.

  Giving the dead man’s shirt one final shake, Meredith sniffed, shuddered, closed her eyes, and put it on. Finally, the fabric did what Hunter had wanted all along. The filthy black shirt hung to her knees and covered her body, only it didn’t make a damned bit of difference after all.

  He wanted her just the same.

  “Can you help me change Teague’s bandage? Please?” she asked without making direct eye contact, her voice tight and fragile as if it might crack.

  “You bet.” Finally under control, he scrambled to the supply crate, retrieved the medical kit, and knelt alongside the litter. Poor Teague was covered in sweat and still out of it, which was good. He didn’t need to witness what had just almost happened between the two people who were supposed to be saving his life.

  As much as Hunter strove to be gentle, he knew what a bullet hole felt like. Silently, they worked together. Meredith made a good nurse. She took care of the little things, like cleaning Teague’s face and mouth, wiping him down with a cool, damp cloth, even rinsing his hair while Hunter removed the saturated packing from Teague’s chest, repacked the wound with another homemade wick, and rebandaged it. He forced a drink between Horton’s dry lips, then ran a quick hand over his own head. It seemed like days since he’d been submersed and relaxed in the river back at the TEAM camp.

  “You’re next,” Meredith stated, not asked. By then, Teague was semi-clean. His bleeding had slowed, but the bullet was still inside of him.

  “No, I’m good,” Hunter answered, but when he stood, she stood too.

  She was all of five-feet nothing, and he towered over her. He gave her his best USMC stare, the kind that was supposed to intimidate his enemy, but she didn’t back down an inch. Her moment of weakness seemed to have passed. Bossy Meredith was back in action. “I’m not asking, Hunter. Sit down and let me look at that knife wound. You can’t save the rest of us if you get sick with infection, can you?”

  She made sense, but how was she working him like she was? One minute scared, the next tough—all she had to do was throw in a good dose of lust and his head was spinning.

  Another man wouldn’t play these kinds of mind games. Guys were the same from sunup to sundown, steady and not prone to temperament, the ebb and flow of tides, or stormy weather. They bucked up and they marched on. They obeyed orders, but Meredith? She was complicated. He could smell it in her. Sweat and sass, fire and ice. Worse, try as he might, every last nerve of his seemed to be in league with her. For lack of a stronger, harsher word he’d normally use—sheesh! She was the one made of smoke, not him.

  Fine. He sat cross-legged beside the litter.

  Fine. Without asking, she knelt beside him and unbuttoned his borrowed shirt. He looked away and let her do her thing, let her murmur when she saw how sore that hole in his chest was. How bloody. The damned knife wound did hurt, and their tumble hadn’t helped, though he’d never admit that to Meredith. He’d had worse wounds. On a scale of one to ten, this was probably a solid five unless it got infected. He’d had a couple of eights before. Lots of fours. Ten was dead. That wasn’t going to happen.

  She leaned in closer to examine the mess. “Oh, my,” she breathed, all the tenderness of an angel come to life and just that fast, he was lost again. His nose flared, seeking after the fragrance of shampoo in her hair. Blonde tendrils brushed over his clenched hand. Was she doing that on purpose, teasing him with what he’d declared he wouldn’t do with her? Was she daring him? Tempting him?

  Hunter stilled. He dared not move. She had the softest, sweetest touch his skin had ever felt while she doctored and cleaned. Her fingers whispered like angel wings over a weary man’s ragged skin instead of hurting it. Every inch of him wanted her back in his arms. Every depth of his tired warrior’s soul called to take her, to mate with her, to bend her—to love her.

  He was a better man than Welch. Hunter knew it to his soul, yet he closed his eyes to silence the crescendo of rising need in his loins. On a scale of one to ten, he was fast on his way to fifteen and losing control.

  She scooted her butt closer as she wiped the area just under his collarbone clean. It stung, but then she made it worse. Without asking, she surprised him when she flattened her palm to the middle of his chest and pressed him easily to his back.

  That hand. Those strong and very tender feminine fingers. It had been years since a woman had touched him like Meredith just did. Hell, it had been years since he’d let any woman close enough to touch him at all.

  He watched the motherly emotion play across her pretty face. She seemed determined not to meet his eyes—probably a good thing. Rotating her waist, she turned from the first-aid kit at her right, then back to him as she carefully cleansed the wound. She helped herself to a thick layer of cotton packing and gauze. She doctored, and she—cared.

  His chest didn’t hurt any longer. Not a bit. Okay, maybe a little, but the gentle touch of her fingers on his skin was an unexpected balm that seeped all the way into his very cold heart. A woman’s touch healed so much more than medical care could.

  He caught a glimpse of her long legs peeking out from beneath the shirt again, her knees bent, her boots tucked under her butt, and the last of the pain went away along with his last shred of self-control. At least her lush, warm breasts were covered. Like that helps.

  Hunter closed his eyes and willed himself back to the blast furnace scorch of the Iraqi desert, to the frigid North Pole, anywhere but there in the jungle beside her. He knew what lay beneath that damned dirty shirt—a smoking-hot body in the cutest damned bra and panties, yes. But more? The woman he would always love, but could never have.

  She pressed in closer, her hip against his, and he stiffened, fighting the urge to lay her flat and field strip her down to her barest, most intimate bits and pieces. “Am I hurting you?” she asked, finally looking down at him, blonde corkscrews dripping over her shoulders like a centerfold bombshell straight out of Playbo
y.

  He shook his head, which she mistook for a man in too much pain to speak.

  “I’m sorry if I was too rough,” she murmured, the tip of her tongue slipping over her lush lower lip when he wanted it slipping over him. Anywhere. Anytime.

  How did women not understand how the male mind worked? They should since they were why men went to war, pillaged and plundered, raided foreign countries, and drove themselves stark raving crazy. His body had perked up and instantly, his predatory thoughts sprang back to life, painfully obvious, at least to him.

  Her glance shifted downward to his zipper. And now she knew.

  “Stop,” he rasped before he got any harder.

  “No, Hunter. Not until I’ve finished bandaging this wound. It’s deep, and I—”

  He latched onto her wrist, halting the most incredibly tender nursing he’d ever endured. “Please, Meredith, for God’s sake, stop.”

  She trembled, her neck muscles constricting as she swallowed. “But you need stitch—”

  “No.” With a groan, he rolled to his side away from her and faced the litter. Teague rested peacefully beside him—Hunter—the weakest man on Earth. The deepest feelings of his heart spilled out of that wound in his chest to the jungle floor. She just couldn’t see them. She mustn’t.

  Meredith’s soft fingers on his bicep didn’t do anything to strengthen his resolve. “I’m sorry I hurt you before,” she whispered, a catch in her voice. “I only wanted to help. I hope you know that.”

  God, I know! He just didn’t know which pain hurt worse anymore—the one in his chest, the one in his pants, or the one breaking his heart.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Damn him. Who does he think he is anyway? Vin Diesel? John Wayne? Superman?

  Hunter’s rejection was the last straw.

  Slowly, Meredith sliced the papaya-like piece of fruit she’d grabbed on their way through the jungle. It was nourishment, and she needed something in her stomach after a bad night of run-and-hide.