by Cindy Gerard
But now he had to.
“I was fifteen. Bobby”—God it hurt to say his name—“he was always wanting to tag along with me,” he said, remembering Bobby’s wiry grin, his freckled face, and gangly gait. “Bobby was . . . hell, he was Opie, walking barefoot down a dirt road with a fishing pole. Earnest and honest and a persistent little pest. Always begging to go with me. Always promising he’d be my wingman. Always trusting me to have his back.”
He stopped pacing. “Sometimes I’d let him have his way. I’d take him along. Hunting. Fishing. Just being boys.
“One day . . .” He stopped again, closed his eyes, “One day was the wrong day to give in.”
He’d replayed this scene a thousand times in his head. What if he’d said no? What if he hadn’t seen that big buck and chased after it? What if . . . what if . . .
“We took off on the three-wheeler,” he finally said, forcing himself out of the spin cycle of could-have-beens and should-have-beens. “I was going too fast—Bobby always wanted me to go fast. I . . . I didn’t see the washout on the side of the creek. I swerved too late. The ATV flipped and rolled and . . . and ran over him.”
His breath felt like it had backed up in his lungs for a decade. He let it out, feeling weighted by the mistake of a lifetime. “His chest was crushed. I didn’t even have a scratch.”
He dropped back down onto the edge of the sofa, propped his elbows on his thighs, and stared at his clasped hands. “He hung on for three weeks. On a ventilator. In isolation, because of the infection that set into his lungs. Every day, I promised him I wouldn’t let him die. Every single day.”
Silence.
Ringing.
Hollow.
“So much for my promises.”
Her hand touched his shoulder; her face pressed against his neck. And then she was curling her body around him, loving and giving and warm. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He hung his head. Yeah. He was so, so sorry, too.
For a long time, she simply held him. Then she turned her face to his and kissed him.
“Tell me about him,” she urged gently, just as she urged him gently back onto the sofa, and climbed back onto his lap.
He wrapped his arms around her; hung on tight. Silence ticked by like the lost years since Bobby had died. Long, bleak silence while she waited, and he stalled—then finally, haltingly, began to talk. About his little brother. About his quirky little smile. About how he could always make his dad laugh, his mother beam. How he could eat his weight in fried chicken, then stuff down half a peach pie without breaking a sweat.
He told her about his father, the stoic, keep-it-all-bottled-up-inside former Army staff sergeant who had never looked at him the same way again after Bobby died. About his mother, and how she’d promised him they didn’t blame him. How the laughter had left her life from that moment on.
He told her about his guilt, his grieving, how he’d become completely, despondently disillusioned with life. So he’d joined the Army, so he could cope like his dad. So he could shut down, zone out, and just do the job, and not have to think about Bobby or his mom’s sad face.
“And the CIA?”
“Upped the stakes. Required even more of me.”
“Yet you left it to work with Nate.”
“Didn’t leave willingly,” he said, a small smile tilting one corner of his mouth. “I was recruited for Task Force Mercy, like Wyatt. He embraced it. I went kicking and screaming.”
“But Nate eventually won you over.”
“Yeah. Nate and the guys.”
“Your other brothers,” she said, reminding him of their unbreakable bond.
Yeah. His other brothers. Men he’d fought beside, lived with, would die for. Men who would now die for the women who stood by their sides.
“I get it now,” he said reflectively.
“Get what?”
“How they do it. How they separate what they do from who they are. How they compartmentalize and compromise, and live in life instead of avoiding it. How they stay sane in the face of insanity. How they stay human doing a job that could suck out your soul.”
“And how do they do that?” Her eyes were full of understanding and hope that he was going to give her the right answer. The one she’d figured out a long time ago.
“They found their true north,” he said, shifting her so she was straddling his thighs with her arms looped around his neck. “Like I found mine when I found you.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. Spilled down her cheeks. He tenderly kissed them away. He would never fully recover from Bobby’s death. He’d always feel the loss. And the guilt. But with Stephanie in his corner, he knew he would someday stop beating himself up. Because of her, he was ready to start looking ahead, instead of always looking behind.
“I’m sorry I shut you out for so long.”
“I’m sorry that I let you,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his, then slowly, deliciously, kissing the corner of his mouth. The fading bruise on his temple. The hollow beneath his jaw where his heartbeat quickened.
“How could I ever have thought you were fragile?” he asked, leaning deeper into the sofa, giving her access to his throat, to his collarbone, as she scattered increasingly hungry kisses along his rapidly heating skin.
“How could you not?” she whispered, her warm breath stirring the embers of arousal into licking flames. “What had I ever shown you that would make you believe I wouldn’t fall apart like a tissue if life got too messy?” The tip of her tongue grazed the curve of his ear. “Or too scary.” Her teeth tugged ever so sweetly on his lobe. “Or too tough.”
“Well, you’ve shown me now. You have definitely shown me now.”
She pushed away from his chest so she could look into his eyes. “So we’re squared away, then? No more secrets? No more of you protecting me from your big bad self?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “We are definitely squared away. Thank you, Stephanie.”
She cupped his cheeks between her palms and looked deep into his eyes, making certain his full attention was riveted on her next words. “I love you, Joe. I want to marry you.”
Enormous, uncontainable happiness filled his chest.
“I love you, Stephanie. I don’t deserve you, but I love you, and there is no way on earth that you’re not going to become my wife.”
She smiled joyously, and if he didn’t miss his guess, a little smugly. “Took you long enough to ask.”
He laughed, something he didn’t do easily. He had a feeling that was going to change. “So that’s what I just did?”
“Close enough. So,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Looks like we’re getting married.”
He cupped her sweet, sexy ass in his palms. “Looks like.”
They shared an insanely giddy look.
“Something this big . . . something this special,” she said, leaning in and bussing her nose against his, “it seems like we should celebrate. Do something special to commemorate the occasion.”
Oh, he knew that look. And he knew where this was leading. God, he was a lucky man.
“Seems like we should,” he agreed, sliding his hands up under her sweater and unhooking her bra. “What’d you have in mind?”
She reached between them and pressed the flat of her palm over the ridge of his zipper. “Let’s give it a little thought. I’m sure we’ll come up with something.”
He laughed again as “something” came up beneath her hand.
“You’re such a guy,” she said, biting his lower lip. “I was thinking of something more along the lines of a party.”
“The hell you were.”
She shrieked and laughed when he flipped her on her back. He leaned over her, his hands braced on either side of her head, fun and games suddenly transitioning to something deep and needy. “Take your clothes off.”
“I’m a little busy right now.”
He sucked in a sharp breath because yes, her very busy hands were making quick work of his zipper.
> “Fine. I’ll”—he groaned when she freed him and took him in her hands—“do it myself.”
“That’s one of the things I love about you. You’re a can-do kind of guy.”
He stood abruptly, because if he didn’t, he was going to be finished before she even got started. He loved the look in her eyes as she lay sprawled wantonly on her back and watched him shuck his jeans then whip his shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. Loved the sounds she made when he pulled her sweater up and over her head, her bra going with it.
And God, oh, God, he loved the look of her, naked to the waist, her arms above her head, her eyes sensual and alive and aroused.
He dropped to his knees beside the sofa. Cupped the generous weight of a pale, creamy breast in his hand, lowered his head, and nuzzled. “You have the most beautiful breasts,” he whispered against her flesh, then covered her nipple with his mouth, sucking and sipping and indulging his senses in her heady response.
Her nipple hardened. Her hand flew to his head, pressing him closer, begging for more attention. More of his mouth. More of his tongue. And more, he gladly gave. He bit her gently, tugged and teased, then pulled back to see the results of his work.
The tight bud of her nipple glistened and quivered as she arched her back and offered herself completely.
“Touch me. Please touch me,” she begged, taking his hand in hers and guiding it to the snap at her waist. “Please,” she sighed, breathless, yearning, as he slipped his fingers under her jeans, glided inside her panties, and cupped her where she was wet and pulsing and ready for him.
She gasped and he drove his fingers lower. Teased her. Enticed her enough to make her writhe against his hand, lift her hips off the sofa, and shove her jeans down and off.
She whispered his name, whimpered a prayer when he slipped a finger inside and stroked her. Once. Twice, and sweet mother, she came in his hand.
Her breath stalled. Her back arched. And her shocked exhalation of breath came out on a cry.
“Oh, God,” she murmured, and dropped a hand heavily on the back of his head when he bent to kiss her stomach. “I didn’t want . . . didn’t want that . . . to happen yet. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? That was beautiful, Steph,” he whispered, nuzzling her navel, spreading butterfly kisses where her ribs gave way to the softer, pliant flesh of her waist. “Beautiful.” He lightly bit her hip point, felt a rush of arousal when she shivered. “And I’m so not through with you yet.”
So not through.
He ran his hands along the inside of her knees, asking her with gentle pressure to part them. Never taking his gaze from hers, he kissed the silky skin of her inner thighs. First the left. Then the right. Back and forth between them, nuzzling, nipping, moving leisurely toward her center and the part of her he could never get enough of.
She was hot and wet, swollen and slick. She tasted like woman and sex and the essence of life and love and everything good and giving. He burrowed a hand beneath her hips and tilted her toward his mouth. Then he worshiped at the altar of her sexuality, delving deep into her silken folds with his tongue, parting her with his fingers and opening her wider to the relentless attention of his mouth.
Her response was wanton and lush as she dug her heels into the sofa and pressed herself against him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. The sounds she made . . . God, the sounds she made had desire coiling tight and hot in his belly.
He could wait. She couldn’t. He didn’t want to merely make this good for her. He wanted to destroy her with sensation, make her scream out in pleasure, make her incapable of looking at him, at his mouth, at his hands, without thinking of them together this way.
She was frantically begging him to stop, I can’t take any more. Then begging him to please, please, don’t ever stop, until finally her entire body stiffened. She cried out. And wept. And laughed as her release pulsed through her.
He lifted his head, pressed loving kisses to the inside of her trembling thighs, then watched her ride it out, her breasts heaving, her body flushed and tender and drained.
“Hello,” he said with a soft smile when she finally opened her eyes. “Welcome back.”
A limp hand landed on his cheek. “Come up here.”
He crawled slowly up her body, loving that place she made for him between her thighs.
“You have totally ruined me.”
“God, I hope so.”
She drew his head down to hers and kissed him with such sweet, open love that he swore he felt his heart swell. Nothing else could explain the sensation that made his chest hurt because it felt so full.
“I love you,” she whispered, then reached between them. She found him thick and pulsing and aching for her, and finally guided him home.
Home. With this woman for the rest of his life.
Epilogue
“Babies and bad boys. A pretty appealing combination, wouldn’t you agree?”
Yeah. Stephanie agreed wholeheartedly with her mother as she scooped a bowl of chips and a plate of pickles off the kitchen counter and followed her into the great room where, indeed, the array of babies and bad boys inside and just outside the terrace doors was darn near irresistible.
The entire boisterous team and all their wives and offspring had gathered at her parents’ Virginia home to celebrate Selena Rossella Janine Mendoza’s happy and healthy entry into the world six weeks ago.
And they were celebrating so much more.
Her mother’s thrilling appointment to the secretary of state position, for one. Stephanie and Joe’s engagement for another.
And in an unexpected turn of events, they were also celebrating Nate’s announcement that Black Ops, Inc. would not only be relocating to an as-yet-undisclosed location in the States, but would also soon become a recognized entity under the Department of Defense and enjoy all the protection that the U.S. military machine had at its disposal. They were officially no longer unofficial.
With most of the BOIs married now and producing babies at a steady rate, the commuting had started to take a toll, so this had been most welcome news to everyone. Even Sam Lang, who had settled in Vegas and opted out of active duty a while ago, was considering coming back into the fold.
Stephanie caught Joe’s eye where he stood talking with her dad across the room, looking relaxed and happy and healthy six weeks after his imprisonment in Freetown. He smiled and winked at her—Joe Green winked—and her heart got all swishy and light.
Life was very, very good.
Joe was back in fighting form. She was on the way to getting fairly ripped herself. No more desk jockeying for her. As the newest member of the BOI team—joining Crystal and B.J. among the BOIs who were GIRLS—she had to be in shape. So she and Joe had trained together the past four weeks. And she’d found out what kind of stuff she was really made of.
Setting the chips and dill spears on the sideboard with the rest of the lunch spread, Stephanie stood there a moment taking it all in.
Jenna, Gabe’s wife and a highly acclaimed journalist, sat in a relatively quiet corner with Wyatt’s wife, Sophie, who had founded a school in San Salvador for underprivileged children. With Ali asleep in Jenna’s arms, and little Mariah scooting around near her mother, Sophie’s, feet, the two women were discussing an article Jenna was pulling together on education in the Central American country.
Stephanie couldn’t hear everything they were saying because the noise, as always when they all got together, was joyously deafening. Even with some of the big boys and little girls outside.
Her mom looped an arm through hers and nodded toward the terrace doors where a take-no-prisoners snowball fight was in progress.
“I thought they were building a snowman,” Ann said, grinning.
“Looks like Reed may have preempted that idea.”
The accusatory shouts and jeers that petite, redheaded Crystal, aka Tinkerbelle, was launching at her laughing husband, Johnny Reed, pretty much confirmed that he was the culprit. Aided and abetted by W
yatt and Sophie Savage’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Hope, and by Sam and Abbie Lang’s ten-year-old niece, Tina, the three of them had apparently staged a sneak attack against Rafe, Tink, and Nate Black’s wife, Juliana, of all people. The sophisticated, demure Argentina native, Dr. Juliana Flores-Black, was joyously enamored by the white stuff.
“We never got snow where I lived growing up,” she’d said earlier as she’d gazed out the window at the fluffy white flakes drifting down. “Sometimes we’d drive to the mountains just to see and touch it, but I’ve never actually been in a snowstorm.”
Stephanie hadn’t wanted to break it to her that this wasn’t a snowstorm. What they’d lived through in Minnesota more than a month ago . . . that had been a snowstorm, she thought with a shiver. This was an anomalous stalled front that had dumped an unprecedented eight inches of snow throughout the day.
Most of it would melt away by tomorrow; the sun was already peeking out to help the thaw along. But in the meantime, Rafe—Colombian born and Miami raised, and apparently snow deprived like Juliana—had also fallen victim to the lure of a romp in the snow. The gorgeous Latino was laughing like a kid as he dodged a missile Reed fired that barely missed Rafe’s head.
“Whoa.” Gabe Jones winced as he watched the action. “Reed just got nailed. Juliana’s got one helluvan arm.”
Luke “Doc Holliday” Colter, the BOI team medic, straightened from the pool table where he and Wyatt Savage were squared off in a game of eight ball. “Everything she learned, she learned from you, right, boss?” He grinned at Nate Black.
“Reed’s mistake was underestimating her,” Nate said, watching his wife with quiet pride. “I learned not to do that a long time ago.”
It was good seeing the BOI founder this relaxed, Stephanie thought. Nate carried a lot on his shoulders. She was glad that he took advantage of these infrequent gatherings and let himself unwind a bit.
“Your shot, Colter.” Wyatt Savage leaned a hip against the pool table, studying the balls scattered over green felt.
Doc took his time chalking his cue, his Indiana Jones fedora tilted rakishly on his head. “Papa Bear, are you really that anxious to part with your money?”
