Impossible Choice

by Sybil Bartel

  Bracing his weight on one arm, his back covered mine and one of his hands ran down the inside of my thigh. “What makes you think I’ve been holding back?” he asked, his voice liquid velvet.

  His weight holding me down, I had no leverage to push back into him. Needing the pressure, aching for him, I reached behind me, fisted handfuls of the expensive material of his pants and yanked.

  A low chuckle tickled my ear. His heat left me and my hands were brought to my lower back. Holding my wrists firm, he did a slow grind into me.

  “Take your pants off and try that again,” I dared.

  His body covered my back, and his lips skimmed across my ear. “Answer my question.”

  I ached to touch him. “Let my hands go.”

  “Is that want you want?”

  “Yes.” No.

  “You’re lying.”

  “You’re right.”

  I could feel his smile. “Good girl, now answer me.”

  “You’re usually gentle with me.” Aggressive, but gentle. I knew he held himself back, he shook with restraint sometimes.

  “You don’t like that?”

  “I love it.”

  “So,” he breathed the word in my ear, “what are you asking for?”

  Jesus, my brain was going haywire. I knew Buck was aggressive. I knew he was a trained marine. I knew he liked being in control. But this—this bedroom talk? Holding me down, whispering in my ear, teasing me? I didn’t know if I was pissed off or turned on or just a puddle of wanton desire. Then he rocked forward and my desire exploded into desperation.

  “Take. Your pants off.” The demanding, guttural voice didn’t sound like mine.

  Two fingers slipped inside me.

  “Ahhh!” I jerked forward from the shock, then crashed back into his hand from the pleasure.

  Metal tinkled and a zipper sounded. His fingers left me and in one merciless thrust, he slid in to the hilt.

  His teeth grazed my ear. “No holding back?”

  “Oh God.” I couldn’t think, he felt so good.

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, please, yes.”

  He pulled out and slammed back into me.

  It felt amazing. And deep. “I’ve never...” I couldn’t speak. Stroking me from the inside, his length hitting the end of me, I just, I couldn’t, oh my God.

  Releasing my hands, he snaked his arms around me and brought me upright into a full kneeling position. Slow, agonizingly slow, he rocked back into me. Splaying his hand gently on my throat, he tipped my head up and back. His tongue licked my neck as his fingers stroked my clit.

  “You’ve never what?” He sucked the sensitive flesh of my lower ear between his teeth.

  Chills ran up my body. “Done it...like this,” I admitted.

  He pulled out, grasped my hips then thrust back into me. “Hard?”

  Out of breath, I grunted the next words, “No...yes, from behind. It’s just...” I couldn’t reason, I couldn’t breathe, I could only feel.

  Fisting my hair, my head fell back against his chest. A possessive growl erupted from his throat, and he started pounding into me. “You like this, baby?”

  Heat, light, a million sensations all at once, I started to fall. “More,” I pleaded.

  “Say my name.”

  “Blaze,” I cried, shuddering against his thrusts.

  “Come,” he demanded.

  His fingers swirled over my clit and my world shattered.

  Pulling out, Buck spun me in his arms, caught the back of my head, and his lips found mine. Kissing me, he eased me down to my back and the hard length of him slid inside me.

  Grasping my face in his hands, his eyes found mine and he made a slow, controlled grind of his hips.

  Aftershocks threaded into the breath of new arousal as he began moving in and out of me in an escalating pace. My heart rate quickening, my fingers shook as I traced the fullness of his bottom lip. “My husband,” I whispered.

  His chest heaving, the intensity of his stare unwavering, his deep, quiet voice touched my soul as he thrust forward one last time. “I love you,” he breathed, coming inside me.

  * * * * *

  To purchase and read more books by Sybil Bartel, please visit Sybil’s website here or at http://sybilbartel.com/.

  Turn the page for an excerpt from IMPOSSIBLE PROMISE by Sybil Bartel, now available at all participating e-retailers.

  Now Available from Carina Press and Sybil Bartel

  Marine Sergeant Blaze Johnson offers Layna Blair a way out—her freedom, his rules, no questions asked.

  Read on for an excerpt from IMPOSSIBLE PROMISE

  Chapter One

  Glancing over my shoulder, I crossed the parking lot. I didn’t see them but that didn’t mean they weren’t close. They were always close, but I’d found a place where they wouldn’t follow me. One hour a week—when you had nothing, it was something.

  I breezed into the last pew and kneeled just long enough to cross myself. I wished the gesture still held some significance but I’d stopped believing three years ago. The thought of three years ago made the familiar panic surface. Sweaty palms, shortness of breath, heart clamoring to get out from under my ribs. They were all a precursor to the terror. I dug my nails into my palms, desperate to take my mind away from the past.

  Maybe tonight had been a bad idea. I should’ve stayed hidden in my apartment. Then I wouldn’t be here, studying the side exit, counting the steps, wondering if I slipped out the back how long it would take before they found me. Because they always found me. I wasn’t stupid enough to go far. I glanced at the exit again. No, tonight, I was going to be just stupid enough to give them something to do. I grabbed my purse and stood.

  He stopped in the aisle and fear more familiar than my own name prickled across my skin. His deep, quiet voice hit me a fraction of a second before his scent.

  “This seat taken?” Soap and musk mingled with old church, and blue eyes the color of winter ice stared down at me.

  My stomach in my throat, I shook my head, and he stepped into the pew. When he focused his attention forward, the air whooshed out of my lungs. He wasn’t one of them. They never got this close, not in public, but the fear was ingrained—three years ingrained.

  My exit strategy shot, I set my purse down and snuck a glance at the wall of muscle next to me. Legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front, he stood perfectly motionless. Square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, his features were too harsh to be beautiful and too beautiful to be harsh. His close-cropped haircut screamed military, but the bottom of a tattoo peeking out from his shirt sleeve was the giveaway. USMC.

  For one impossible moment, I closed my eyes. He smelled amazing, like freedom and strength and security—everything I’d never have again. Resigned, to my one hour, to my life, I glanced at the stupid exit and swore under my breath. “Damn it.”

  Quick, precise, the marine turned and locked his gaze on me. Heat hit my cheeks, my mouth went dry and the sweater over my shoulders fell to the seat. Shit. Shit. I quickly looked away but the damage was done. I’d drawn attention to myself.

  For the next forty-five minutes I tried to go through the motions of the service, but the closeness of the marine was making me want to crawl out of my skin. Vibrating with raw power, he was so distracting I wanted to shove him into the aisle...or cower under his huge biceps and hide. And that would be disastrous. Fuck-my-whole-life-up disastrous. I came here for an hour of peace, not soapy musk and unleashed strength. I didn’t have time for bullshit fantasies. I glanced at my watch. I didn’t have time at all. My hour was almost up.

  I reached for my purse. Black boots, worn but polished to a high shine, had caged it in. And because I’d done nothing right since I’d walked through the church doors, I let my traitorous e
yes sweep up. Hard muscles strained against black cargo pants. A fitted T-shirt skimmed a flat stomach and stretched across impossibly wide shoulders. A cut jaw ticked and cold, knowing eyes waited.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  My leg began to bounce.

  “Everything okay?” he whispered.

  Okay? No, everything was not okay. I was sitting next to a marine who made me wish I was anyone else besides who I was—utterly alone yet followed everywhere. Nothing about that was okay. But before I could do something really stupid, like acknowledge him, the haunting sounds of the organ filled the church and mass ended. I grabbed my purse and shot to my feet.

  But the marine didn’t step out of the pew. He rose to his towering height, blocked my escape and waited for every single person to file out of the church. Then he stepped out and back a foot.

  I told myself not to. I really did, but it was as if this complete stranger had destroyed all of my self-control. So, I glanced up.

  And the marine glared at me.

  Struck dumb, I stared for two heartbeats before self-preservation kicked in. Then I scrambled forward and tripped. Viselike heat gripped my upper arm and I was immediately righted. Stunned by the strength in his hand, I jerked away and rushed out of the church.

  The priest’s crinkly face smiled in my direction then looked past me with concern. “Sergeant Johnson, good to see you. How is your mother?”

  “Not well, sir.”

  I flew down the steps. The last words I heard were his.

  “Who is that, Father?”

  Chapter Two

  I didn’t bother looking for the men that’d been following me since I’d moved to Gainesville. I never should’ve left Miami but I couldn’t breathe for the memories. Fumbling through my purse, searching for my keys, I didn’t recognize the name being called behind me.

  “Ms. Blair.”

  Where the hell were my keys?

  “Ma’am.”

  My hand palmed my keys the instant recognition hit. Layna Blair was my new name.

  “Ms. Blair, you forgot something.”

  Damn it. I never should’ve told the priest my name. Tempering my rising panic, resigned to getting this over with, I turned around.

  “Your sweater, ma’am.” Anger gone, arm outstretched, the marine studied me.

  I silently took the sweater.

  “In a hurry?” Patient, deep, his voice was almost cathartic.

  I didn’t say anything. What was the point? I’d be gone in ten seconds and I’d never see him again. I flipped the sweater over my shoulders and got one arm shoved in before he reached out to hold the other sleeve. When his fingers brushed over my shoulder, I shivered.

  He frowned. “You’re cold.”

  This was taking too long. Sucking in a breath, I forced out polite words. “Thanks for the sweater.” I turned back toward my car.

  He moved with me. “You’re not from here.”

  I scanned the parking lot. He’d been talking to me too long. “No. Good night.”

  His eyes narrowed and without moving, he seemed to come closer. His voice went even, quiet. “Everything okay, ma’am?”

  “Yeah, fine. Thanks again.” I unlocked my car and reached for the handle.

  The marine’s hand shot out, bracing against the driver’s door. “Wait,” he commanded in a hushed whisper.

  “Is there a problem?” an accented voice asked.

  Shit. Shitty shit shit. I’d lingered too long. Play it off, play it off, I silently chanted. Maybe they wouldn’t do anything to him. I took a deep breath and turned around to face the men who followed me.

  “That depends,” the marine said in his even, quiet voice.

  The shorter of the two men laughed and my skin crawled. They were like all the rest over the years. Hispanic, muscled, too non-descript to be anything but purposeful and they always traveled in pairs. But I’d found out this past week what Shorty was capable of, and he was a hundred times more dangerous than the others. He nudged the taller one.

  “Depends on what, G.I. Joe?” Shorty smirked.

  The marine’s hand dropped from the door and closed over mine. As he squeezed, my keys dug into my palm.

  The act didn’t go unnoticed by Shorty. His forced humor instantly disappeared and his face twisted with venom. “So it’s like that, huh?” he spat out.

  “Step back,” the marine warned as he slowly took my keys from my hand.

  “Or what?” Shorty asked, casually lifting the front of his shirt a few inches to reveal a gun tucked in his waistband. “You’ll bench press me?” He grinned eerily.

  The marine didn’t blink. “You won’t be alive to know what I did to you.”

  A cold, sick dread rose like bile in my throat.

  Shorty turned to me. “You even know this joker, girl? Cuz I ain’t seen him before and we both know I know you real good.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him where to shove it when my hand was squeezed hard in warning. I snapped my mouth shut and the marine took a step forward, shoving me behind him.

  “Disrespect her again and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

  Shorty shook his head. “Hope he was worth it, girl.” He reached for the gun.

  Faster than I could scream, the marine moved. His left arm shot out, elbow first, as his right hand grabbed Shorty’s gun. With a sickening crunch, the tall one’s face erupted with spurting blood, his eyes rolled back in his head and his arms went limp. Before his knees even buckled, the marine had twisted Shorty’s arm and jammed the barrel of the gun back into his stomach.

  The tall one hit the pavement face-first with a nauseating thud as the marine clamped his left hand down on Shorty’s throat. Three successive pops sounded and Shorty let out a choked howl as his broken hold went slack.

  “Get in the car, Layna,” the marine said calmly.

  I stared at the bloody carnage on the ground.

  “Layna.”

  I looked up. Shorty’s good hand was futilely clawing at the marine’s death grip on his throat.

  The marine spared me a glance. “Passenger side, get in.”

  I snapped out of my stupor and scrambled around the car. Still pointing the gun at Shorty, the marine let go of his throat and executed a merciless knife strike to the side of his neck. Shorty crumpled to the ground.

  Hands shaking, I tried twice before I got the car door open and fell into the seat. Thirty seconds later we were doing seventy in a forty-five zone, putting distance between us and them.

  The marine leaned forward, tucked the gun in his back waistband, and scanned the rearview mirrors. “Are there more?”

  There were always more. I concentrated on breathing. “No.” Jesus, were they dead?

  He glanced at me. “You’re lying. Why?”

  For some reason, having him call me on my bullshit was calming—like a-syringe-full-of-Valium calming. My breathing evened out and I looked out the window. I should’ve been taking stock, figuring out how to lose the marine, but I wasn’t. I was drowning in the surreal feeling of not being alone and wondering why he’d protected me with no questions asked. I fixated on his superhuman soldier skills and a dangerous sense of relief washed over me. I leaned back in the seat. “Did you kill them?”

  “No.”

  Did I believe him? “The tall one didn’t look like he was breathing.” Facedown, blood everywhere, he’d stopped moving after a twitch and a gurgling sputter.

  “I broke his nose and some surrounding facial bones and knocked him unconscious. He’s not dead but he’ll need surgery,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I swallowed. “And Shorty?”

  “Unconscious, broken wrist, broken hand.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was trying to figure out if I was glad or mad
.

  “Should I have killed them?”

  I whipped around in my seat. Surreal jumped ship and insanity came crashing down like a ton of bricks. “You in jail for second-degree murder would be a waste of tax payers’ dollars, not to mention what the Marine Corps spent training you.” I was incredulous. This soldier’s life wasn’t worth mine, no way.

  He completely ignored what I said. “They were in their car when I went into church, they circled the parking lot twice while we were talking and they seemed intent on making me go away. What’s the deal?”

  Shit. “Drive back to your car or wherever you want to go. I’ll drop you off and you can be on your way.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What?” Was he crazy?

  “You heard me.”

  “You don’t want to get involved,” I warned.

  “I got involved the third time you looked behind us in church. I’m not going to leave you to fend for yourself—unless you have another option?” He glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “That’s what I thought.” He eased my car onto the highway.

  “Where are you going?” This was kidnapping. Except I couldn’t put any force behind my words or the sentiment.

  “I’m hungry. We’re going to dinner.”

  Dinner? Shit. This was like going from one hostage situation to another. I didn’t do dinner. I didn’t know how to do dinner. Years of solitude and avoidance of any social interaction, I didn’t know what I’d say to him, not that I felt like talking. I was busy thinking about the ramifications of what he’d just done.

  We drove a few miles before he spoke again. “You haven’t asked my name.”

  “I heard the priest, I know your name. It’s Sergeant Johnson, not that it matters. I won’t see you again after tonight.” One way or another, he would disappear.

  “Is that a threat or a request?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you telling me to go away or asking?”