He’d saved her. First in the market, then when they were pursued, and finally from the mud. She’d been attracted to him a month ago—before he’d been the least bit personally heroic—and now that attraction had magnified to epic proportions.
With the heavy rain, tomorrow they’d have enough water collected in the bins for washing, and she’d break out the precious bar of soap. For now, she fantasized about lathering his skin. Washing the sweat and dirt from his hard body.
She released a quiet breath. She had no doubt Bastian found her attractive, but there was no way he would ever see her as anything other than the embodiment of everything he hated. He might screw her, but he’d never respect her. And while she was a fan of the string-free lay, respect was a key component. She wouldn’t share her body with a man who didn’t respect her.
She might be the embodiment of corruption and greed, but to her, he was the embodiment of heroism and redemption. The very things she craved for herself.
Her mental take was obvious: if she could win the respect of this one man, she would prove to herself she’d changed. That she didn’t have a black soul. That she wasn’t the horrible thing she’d been raised to be. It was a ridiculous test to hinge her self-worth on. He was practically a stranger, and he had every reason to think she was a fraud.
But she couldn’t help it. She wanted to win him over. She felt it like a craving. A compulsion. As a recovering addict, she knew about resisting cravings. She could resist this need.
Given their current situation, resistance was the only option.
Breakfast on their second morning together consisted of a handful of trail mix for each of them and as much water flavored with iodine they could drink. In the years she’d worked for USAID, Brie had gotten used to the taste of the purification tablets. She’d also adjusted to smaller meals. USAID provided enough for them, but she hadn’t consumed more calories than needed. Exceptions were made for birthdays and holidays, but otherwise, she and her coworkers had been careful, self-rationing to make their own supplies last.
Of course, even that food was gone now. Lost in the fire. Raising the question of whether or not it was aid workers in general who’d been targeted. Ezra, Alan, and Jaali couldn’t work without food any more than the locals could survive without it.
This breakfast shared with Bastian was only slightly smaller than she was used to, and she’d be fine for several days on the low rations. Bastian was probably prepared for this sort of thing through training—like the way he could fall asleep at the drop of a dime—but given his muscular build, he needed far more calories than she did. She tried to get him to take more of her portion.
He was stubborn and refused.
The first half of the day was spent inside, avoiding the rain. Bastian taught her Arabic curse words, and she taught him a few words in the various local dialects she’d managed to pick up. He told her stories about the Army and she told him about her months in South Sudan.
They played the drinking game “quarters” using a South Sudan pound and an old cup. They didn’t have beer for the penalty, which was fine because Brie didn’t drink, so instead, whenever one of them managed to drop the coin into the cup, the other had to answer a question.
Fortunately, the coin didn’t bounce well on the dirt floor, and there were more misses than hits until they both found their groove.
“Who did you lose your virginity to?” Brie asked after making her shot.
“My first girlfriend. Cece.”
“How old were you?”
Bastian shook his head. “You don’t get follow-up questions without sinking the coin.” He took a shot and made it. “Who did you lose your virginity to?”
“Alejandro, the gardener’s son.”
“Isn’t that a little cliché?”
She raised a brow. “No follow-up questions without sinking a coin.”
He laughed. “Touché.”
She sank another one. “How old were you?”
“Nineteen. I was a sophomore in college.”
She cocked her head, surprised he hadn’t been younger. But she refrained from asking. She had to earn it.
His next shot landed flat on the rim, wobbled, then dropped into the cup. “Yes!” He curled his fist and pumped his arm in the international teenage boy symbol for victory. “Why Alejandro, the Mexican gardener’s son?”
She laughed. “Who said he was Mexican?”
“Gee, I don’t know how I figured that out, Ms. Cliché.”
“For your information, he was Costa Rican. And oh, so very perfect.”
“I think I hate this dude.”
“But not as perfect as you.”
“That’s more like it. But you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I was eighteen and”—she held up her fingers in air quotes—“‘dating’ the son of one of my dad’s business associates who was ten years older than me. And by”—more air quotes—“‘associate’ I mean the dad was a Russian oligarch, and the son an oligarch-in-training. I was expected to make the young asshole son happy so our families would be joined in unholy kleptocracy.”
“At eighteen, you were expected to marry the guy?”
“Not marriage, not yet. It was clear blowjobs were expected, though, to keep him on the hook. His family had a home near ours in Palm Beach and another next door to ours in Morocco. I was friends with his little sister when I was thirteen. Then when I was eighteen, things changed, and it was assumed I was cool with the arrangement.
“We were at the Palm Beach house one evening, and my dad and brothers were out for the night. I realized this was supposed to be the night, the one where I blew him or screwed him to seal the deal. But he was the kind of guy who tortures small animals—his little sister told me stuff when we were girls that freaked me out. There was no way I would ever put my mouth on his dick.
“I still had stupid romantic notions back then and believed sex could mean something. But at the very least, I wanted to like the first guy I let in my pants. I knew he might get violent, so I faked food poisoning. When he was in the bathroom, I stuck my fingers down my throat and vomited all over the bed. He was so grossed out, he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. As soon as he left, I crossed the yard to the gardener’s apartment and jumped Alejandro, who’d been my friend for a while.”
Bastian just stared at her, openmouthed, so she picked up the coin and dropped it in the cup. She didn’t even bounce it in the dirt first, but he didn’t seem to notice. “So, did you love her, when you had sex with your first girlfriend?”
Bastian’s jaw snapped shut. “You cheated. There was no bounce.”
She flashed an innocent smile and batted her eyes.
He laughed. “Does that always work for you?”
“Usually.”
He plucked the coin from the cup. “Yes. I was in love. It took a long time for me to fall out of love with her, but once I did, love turned to resentment. Damn, your eyes are effective. If it wasn’t for your unfortunate nose, you’d probably have my social security number already.”
She licked her lips. “Your social security number isn’t what I’m after.”
Bastian’s eyes flared with heat, and he shifted on the floor in a way that made her suspect his pants were binding at the crotch. “It’s one thing to play a silly game to pass the time in a rainstorm, but sex would distract us both, and we can’t afford that.”
“I know. Plus you smell like moldy swamp.”
He laughed. “Moldy? I’ll have you know I only swim in the freshest of swamps.”
She plucked at her sarong. She still wore the dirty one, because she hadn’t wanted to don the clean cloth she’d gotten yesterday until after she’d washed. One of life’s small pleasures. She glanced at the roof. “We should have more than enough water to bathe and drink now.” He’d replaced the full galvanized bin with an empty one under the water-collecting tarp several times in the last hours. They had enough water to see them through days if needed.<
br />
“I’ll set up one of the huts for you to bathe in once the storm lifts.”
Her whole body lit at the prospect of being able to get clean again, and she smiled and resisted the urge to kiss his bearded cheek in thanks.
The rain was a double-edged sword. It erased their tracks—unless someone had followed them closely yesterday, there was no way they’d be found here now—and provided them with water to drink and bathe. But it also trapped them—inside, off the roads. Even walking to Juba would be impossible. Not that she could walk two hundred miles on her ankle anyway.
Fourth-world problems.
“The food drop is tomorrow. The plane might fly over us on the way to the drop site in the north. The pilot might see us if we’re outside.”
Bastian’s gaze snapped to hers, all flirtation gone. “Who handles the food drop?”
“The UN provides the food, plane, and pilots. They have an agreement with the government so the plane isn’t shot down, but the president has blocked other food aid, so it’s not without risk. I wouldn’t be surprised if government forces grilled the pilots after the run, demanding updates on the condition of rebel forces. Not that they’d reveal anything, but still, if they saw us, something could slip.”
Bastian’s gaze unfocused, telling her he was lost in thought. Then he leaned forward, wrapped a hand around her neck, and pulled her face to his. Right before his lips met hers, he said, “I know how we’re going to phone home, without forcing you to walk on that ankle.” Then he kissed her, hard and fast.
She closed her eyes as the kiss went on a beat longer than she suspected he intended, but not long enough. He released her and said, “Thank you,” then relaxed back against the support post.
“For what? How are we going to make like ET?”
“That’s just it. We’re going to skip the radio and talk to the stars—or rather, satellites.”
“And?” she asked, knowing he was drawing out his answer on purpose, making her want to both jump him and strangle him.
“Crop circles. SOCOM must have satellites searching for us. I’m going to write a note big enough for the satellites to see, but we’ll have to wait until after the food drop.”
14
In the late afternoon after the rain had slowed to a drizzle, Bastian carried the galvanized bin into one of the roofless huts. It would make a decent bathing chamber. He couldn’t forget how Brie’s eyes had lit up when he told her he’d set up a place for her to bathe.
He was such a fucking sucker for her eyes.
He didn’t have to wonder why she’d been successful as a model in her early teens. She could sell him a surfboard in the desert just by fluttering those long, dark lashes.
But it wasn’t just her eyes. It was also her far from unfortunate nose.
And her ass.
He shook his head, thinking of the quarters game. He hadn’t played a drinking game since he was twenty. And it had never been that fun. Or revealing.
Bin placed, he set out to find a stool for her to sit on, so she could wash without putting weight on her ankle. Helping her bathe was out of the question. Not if he wanted to stay sane. And celibate.
He found a light cloth in one of the huts and shook it out. It smelled musty, but it was intact. He could hang it over the door to give her privacy as she bathed. Another celibacy aid.
In the same hut, he found a folding chair that needed only a few screws to fix, which he salvaged from an old truck that was returning to nature. Repairs complete, he placed the chair in the bathing hut next to the bin full of water, then hung up the curtain.
He returned to their shared hut and scooped her from her seat on a tarp. She squealed in surprise, but then draped her arms around his neck. “What are you doing? I can walk.”
He knew she could. But this was more fun. “No point in risking slipping in the mud.” He was pathetic in his excuses but didn’t care if she saw right through him.
He set her on the chair in the middle of the hut. “I’ll be back with the soap.”
“And the tobe cloth for me to change into.”
He bowed. “And clean clothes. Anything else?”
“A loofah? And bath salts. Ohh…and conditioner. I would sell my left kidney for hair conditioner.”
“Sorry. No loofahs, salts, or conditioner. But I might have some gauze you could use as a washcloth. And it’ll only cost half a kidney.”
“A bargain at any price.” She ran her fingers over her short hair. “Good thing I went for the buzz cut. But I still miss conditioner.”
“When you get back to the US, you can have a Costco-sized bottle. On me.”
She pressed her hand over her heart. “You do know how to woo a girl.”
He tweaked her nose. “Damn straight.”
Minutes later, he was planted outside the hut, her vigilant guard, as she set to work scrubbing the dried swamp from her skin. Bathing was important. She could have more cuts hidden under the muck that needed to be cleaned. He’d forgotten about the stripe she’d received from the whip. He really should have considered that yesterday and insisted she bathe then in spite of the rain.
With the missing roof, sunlight poured into the hut at an angle. What he hadn’t counted on was that the light would shine through the curtained doorway, offering up a titillating silhouette.
Holy fuck.
Brie stood on one leg, with her bad one kneeling on the chair. She used the jar he’d provided to pour water over her head and down her body.
In profile, he saw a silhouette of pert nipples jutting from small, high breasts, a flat belly, and a perfect round ass. She let out a soft sound of pleasure as she worked the soap into her short hair.
Bastian cleared his throat to stop his own groan.
Brie froze. She made no sound, not even water dripped. Hell, he could swear the birds stopped chirping.
How low could he be? He was being a voyeur—even if it was unintentional—and she knew it.
She began massaging her scalp again. “You can see me,” she said. Her hands left her hair and slid down, over her breasts, which she then rubbed, as if soaping with enthusiasm.
“Yes,” he said. No point denying it. “I didn’t mean to.” He turned his back to the hut. “I’m not looking now.”
“You can look, but it’s only fair that I get to watch you bathe next.”
He kept his gaze averted. “Sweetheart, I’m Special Forces. I can go weeks without bathing.”
She snorted. “Not if you want to share a hut with me.”
“Given our situation, it would be smart to have me smell like a swamp thing.”
“Screw smart. I refuse to share a hut with a guy who smells like Sasquatch.” He heard dripping water and the soft lap of cloth on skin. “I want you to watch, Bastian.”
He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. His imagination was vivid enough. In his mind, he saw water flowing in rivulets down her back and the cleft of her ass. She’d been so coated in dirt from their swim in the bog, water would leave trails through the silt, running down her breasts, across her belly, and around her hip to that rounded ass.
Fantasies from ten years ago had nothing on the image conjured now. He had to marvel at the situation. He was in the middle of a rescue op, stranded in South Sudan, and he had a massive fucking boner.
Brie didn’t know if Bastian was watching or not, but the thought he might be turned her on. The mud had caked when it dried, and it was no act that she had to take her time lathering and scrubbing her skin. Knowing Bastian might be taking voyeuristic pleasure made the act of washing sensual. She slid her hands between her thighs and very thoroughly washed her clit. She gave a soft moan.
If he hadn’t been watching, had he turned now?
She stroked and cleaned. Her body coiled tight with the building pleasure. She wished she could see him, but the sun entered the hut from above and behind her, making the sheet opaque from her perspective.
The moment was strangely intimate. Separated by a flimsy sh
eet, he was invisible to her, and she didn’t know if he watched, yet she had no doubt he was as aroused as she was.
She scooped water from the bin with the jar and poured it over her head. The lukewarm water cascaded down her body and splashed into the tub. The water caused her nipples to tighten, and she pinched them, calling them into peaks he would see in her silhouette if he watched. She imagined his mouth at her breast, sucking as his hands cupped her ass. He would pull her against him as he sucked her nipple, so she could press against his erection. She groaned.
From the other side of the sheet, Bastian let out a guttural sound. That answered the watching question. He grunted and said, “Fuck me.”
She let out a throaty laugh. “Is that an offer?”
“Hell no. It’s a description of my situation. I am so totally fucked.”
“How so?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Brie, but right now, you are my mission. That’s all. For your safety and mine, I can’t let my guard down. I can’t even sleep unless you’re on guard duty. Sex is not an option. Not here.”
She smiled. “See now, I told you if we kissed, you’d want to have sex with me. I’m a great kisser.”
Bastian barked out a sharp laugh. “You win. I wanted to fuck you then. And I want to fuck you now.”
She liked his honesty. He wasn’t shy, and she was never coy. When they got out of South Sudan, they could have some serious fun together. But sadly, that was probably days away.
She picked up the soap again and resumed bathing. She wouldn’t tease him or herself anymore and washed perfunctorily, getting the job done quickly so as not to prolong the temptation. She owed him that much after all he’d done for her.
15
Bastian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Brie’s bath turned all business. Relieved. He should definitely be relieved. But that didn’t mean that was how he felt.
How the hell could the woman be so damn sexy even now, in this situation?
This was the most bizarre mission he’d ever been dropped in. He was guarding an oil heiress who wasn’t an heiress anymore, and they were stranded like castaways in the middle of a brutal civil war.
Catalyst: Flashpoint #2 Page 12
