by Angel Payne
And maybe he had to be more careful about the uptake on the miracle shit.
“So she went from kicking your ass last night to gazing stardust at you today, because you—what?—let her use most of the armrest in the plane? Brought a copy of the rom-con starring the dude with the dreamy hair and sat through it with her? Gave her the best foot rub of her life?” A gape took over as Reb looked away, his expression clouding over. In return, Rhett took his own turn at confusion. “Christ. So what the fuck did happen?”
Rebel poured more water and gulped a giant swig. Elbows on the chopping block, he stared out into the herb garden. “She turned applesauce on me when she saw the Piper. Turned white as a ghost as soon as Sam fired up the engines. So I…distracted her.”
“Distracted,” he echoed. “Without your cock?”
Reb’s fingers, flattened on the wood counter, compressed until the nail beds whitened. “I didn’t say that.”
A chuff escaped. “But you didn’t fuck her.”
Rebel shoved up. “Does it matter? I got her here, didn’t I?”
He had no idea what re-sparked his rage more: the dickhead’s callousness, or his righteous claim to it. Did it matter? His anger was back, blistering and hot, firing into his arms, ramming them into Rebel’s shiny chest. “It does matter, you arrogant prick. In case you haven’t picked up on it yet, Brynn Monet isn’t a panting little thing who wants to bow at your feet and beg for your flogger.”
Reb stumbled back but cocked a smirk through every step, his moves like an insolent rag doll. “Buddy, you might be very surprised at what that girl wants.”
“Woman. She’s a woman, damn you—one who’s had her heart fucked with enough by players like you.”
The guy stopped. No more rag doll. The grin fell away, too. “Right.” His eyes narrowed, all traces of color gone. “Because a catch like you is what she’s looking for, huh? Love songs and long walks on the beach, with sex on the side? A Dom who’s willing to settle on limits that keep her ‘happy’ because the alternative just may be—oh, gasp—losing her and being alone. And God help poor little Rhett Lange if he’s alone, discarded again by the world, wandering the Earth in search of his lost, broken—”
One fist. Driving straight for that asshole’s face.
Stopped midair, skin smacking skin, sweat exploding.
The monster who stopped him—
Now the friend who stared at him, unblinking and unrelenting.
Daring him. Like so many times before.
Drawing him closer. Like so many times before.
“Let. Go.” His lungs shook on the syllables. He twisted his wrist inside Reb’s.
Rebel just kept staring, with those eyes as fathomless as midnight. “I won’t ever discard you, Rhett.”
Rhett. Not Double-Oh or dude or dickhead. His name, so simple, nearly sanctified…rasped with that baritone intimacy. Yet asking for even more.
“I said let go.”
“Why?”
The fucker tugged harder, bringing him eye-to-eye. Breath to breath. Heat to heat.
“Because I’m pissed at you.”
“Pissed?”
He had the nerve to say nothing else. To say everything else. To arch one black brow, turning it into the curve of a question mark…without the finishing dot.
Beckoning Rhett to be that completion.
Firing every drop of his blood with the same goddamn need.
Making him wonder…once more…what it might be like. To reach out, to touch, to fill his senses with this sun who’d been lent to the Earth as a man. Just once…
No.
A matching sound, low and vicious, clawed up his throat. He finally shoved free, chest laboring, eyes glaring. That was the trouble with dreams about touching the sun. They could only be dreams. Taken to reality, they incinerated a man.
He wheeled around, heading back toward the door out to the grounds. “Take a shower,” he growled in the doing. “You stink, asshole.”
His own plans?
He was going to jump in the lake.
And hoped, when he got out, that his mind and his cock wouldn’t still be raging beyond any semblance of control.
Chapter Five
‡
Peace in our souls.
Paradise in our hearts.
BRYNN GAZED AT the framed needlepoint, hanging on the wall in the little den next to the office, and wondered whether to laugh or cry.
Or cut to the chase and scream.
The temptation bubbled from her belly into her throat as one of the guys—at this point, they were both being such ogres that it didn’t matter which—slammed a door off the living room. It had been like this for hours between them, increasing as the afternoon turned to twilight, pushing through the whole house like a pressure cooker about to blow. She counted on the night bringing an equally murky mood between her mission mates.
What the hell had happened since this afternoon?
She certainly didn’t have anything interesting to report. After stomping out on them, she’d found one of the guest bedrooms with the intent of sulking away her frustration for a while. Instead, a wall of exhaustion had hit.
Two hours later, she’d been yanked from half-asleep to fully alert by the sound of skin smacking skin, then a duel of low growls. She’d been too far away to distinguish the cause of the fight, only knowing it ended in Rhett’s escaping toward the lake at a jog, the tension in his torso turned to ironic beauty beneath the sun. Half a minute later, she’d heard rushing water and the clack of a shower door.
Process of elimination led her to think of Rebel beneath that spray—and the heated temptation to join him there. But unnerving instincts had held her back. She couldn’t help but remember Shay’s words from last night.
You go through a different submissive each month, asshole.
Though Shay’s rage had spawned the words, Rebel sure as hell hadn’t denied them—meaning the “diversion” he’d given her on the plane was exactly that for him. A pleasant way to pass the time No more, no less.
But as the minutes passed, even that truth had been eclipsed by the cloud that spread through the house, undeniable and thick, the aftermath of whatever had gone down in the kitchen. The toxic aura was an affront to every gold and pink thread of the needlework on the wall. Brynn could practically feel the tenderness put into every inch of the piece, and wondered what special lady in Dax Blake’s life had created it. Mother? Sister? Wife? And what would that woman think about the way the males in this place were acting now, avoiding each other in stony silence—when they weren’t grunting profanity under their breaths or abusing every piece of furniture they could?
Whump.
A lot like that.
She pegged the perpetrator of the cabinet slam as Rebel, since the rat-a-tats on the computer in the next room could only be Rhett’s. In the kitchen, plastic crunched. A soda can thwopped.
Rhett cleared his throat. “Hey. The Sriracha chips are mine.”
The cabinet creaked. “There’s two bags.”
“Right. And they’re both mine.”
A gritted curse in French. Steps that pounded so hard, the walls jittered.
Brynn exhaled as the needlepoint bounced on its hanger. So this was what it felt like to referee three year-olds.
She swung out of the chair, setting aside her e-reader. Just when she was getting to the best part of the novel, too. The rock star and the geek scientist would have to deny their desires for a few minutes longer.
Maybe longer than that.
Deciding to hit Rebel first with the censure about playing nice, she rounded the corner into the office—
Just as Rebel entered from the other door, already dressed in head-to-toe black for his subterfuge tonight. He had a bag of Sriracha chips in each hand—that he suddenly turned over, raining the spicy contents onto the floor.
“What the hell!” She gaped at Rebel, who glared only at Rhett—who simply leaned back in the chair and rolled his eyes.
The internal echo didn’t dilute the shock. Was this kind of shit normal for them?
“Here you go.” Rebel tossed the bags back over his shoulder before whirling back toward the kitchen. “Have at it, pal.”
“Rebel!”
Brynn hurried after him, catching up only after he’d stalked out the front door of the house itself. It was then, while pulling him by an elbow, that a wave of energy poured off of him—jolting her with a crazy new awareness.
The violence he’d just hurled at Rhett…wasn’t just violence. She knew it because he redirected all of it at her now, and a lot of it was already familiar to her. A force she’d already experienced once today—in the depths of his gaze and the magic of his fingers—during the flight down here.
“Holy shit.” Her grip slipped from his elbow. She curled in her fingers again, trying to reestablish the hold, but the uniform’s slick fabric was made for escaping much more determined attackers than her.
For a second, Rebel stared like she’d blurted that his dog died. But only a second. He erased the expression as fast as he’d brandished it, making her wonder if she’d imagined everything, until his vicious rasp cut down at her.
“I’m taking off.”
He spun and headed for the car, his steps eating up the front walk. Only then did she notice the duffel bag in his hand—and the mouse cam’s hard-sided case in the other.
“I’ll get dinner in the city. Tell Double-Oh I’ll patch in for a comm check as soon as I’m on the road.”
“From the—” She scurried to keep pace though it took three of her steps to one of his. “But that’s not how you’re supposed to—”
He halted her by whipping back around. “Do you think I give a fuck about the supposed-tos right now?”
A glower took over his face. His shoulders rose, hulking him up. Brynn glared right back, hating him for every breath that shook her rib cage. What was this? Where had the bold wonder woman of last night gone? Why wasn’t she stepping forward to knock him on his ass now—at the moment it really mattered? What the hell had he done to her today, that all she could focus on was the tightness around his eyes, the sharp twists of his mouth, and the breaths that made his chest lurch in rhythm with hers?
“Yeah,” she finally murmured, “I think you do.” She edged a step toward him while digging her gaze deeper into his. “You care deeply about the supposed-tos, Rebel—the right kind of them. If you didn’t, you’d be back in Tacoma right now, enjoying a beer, having wished Shay the best with finding his wife. No, not even that. You’d be in Louisiana, wouldn’t you? Running a bar or a jazz joint, or maybe even a fishing boat—” She halted, caught off guard by the sudden spike of his tension. “Okay, not a boat. But something other than this, getting ready to risk your own hide because of your loyalty to the brother of a brother.”
She lifted a hand to his face. Tenderly combed back a bunch of his inky waves, teased against his forehead by the approaching night wind. “Yet you’re ready to walk out on the guy who’s closer to you than anybody else.”
He flinched from her. Everything but his eyes. Those he kept fixed and steady, not even blinking, as if she’d become some harpy and laid a hex on him. It freaked her, too. Her arm froze, hand still upright, fingers trembling.
Something passed over his face.
Heat. And determination.
Frantically, she dropped her arm.
Too late.
He caught it, snapping fingers around her wrist. Hauled her against him so hard, she winced from the brutal surprise—
For a second.
Until he submerged the sound with the crush of his lips. The invasion of his tongue. The heat between his thighs…spreading through the space between hers.
Brynn struggled. Then didn’t. First, there was the whole issue about futility. He wasn’t accepting supposed-tos from her in this, either. But more extremely, why? What use would it be to fight him, when her senses had craved this all day? What good would it be to struggle, when she’d wondered if he’d feel this good without seatbelts in the way…when she questioned her memories of his sinful mouth, his dominant grip, his commanding body? And now, even his bold growls as she molded tighter against him, twining her hands around his neck…all the things that made him a collection of Cajun hotness she wanted igniting her blood again and again and again…
But as swiftly as he’d started the clinch, he cut it short.
Set her away from him, letting her stumble back with balance swaying, hormones careening.
Before he slashed a hand across his lips.
Never in her life had words completely evaded her—until now. In hindsight, the asshole probably should have been grateful for that. Instead, he repeated with even deeper clarity, “I’ll radio in from the road.” Then over his shoulder, while turning from her for the final time, “Tell Double-Oh to be ready. We have to run this thing true as scripture.”
* * *
TRUE AS SCRIPTURE.
A little under an hour later, she still wasn’t sure she’d heard that little tidbit correctly—from the mouth of the asshole who’d given her mixed signals of—it really did apply—biblical proportion. The kisses of an archangel, followed by the stare of a demon. A heaven of arousal, ruined by one motion that dipped her into hell.
Excuse the hell out of me for tainting your mouth with my taste, Monsieur Jerkwad.
She barely tamed a grimace as the moment filled her mind again. If he’d been testing out his version of the ice bucket challenge, she’d vouch for him. It worked. His disdain had turned her from fire to ice in no more than three seconds. She’d have said that to the bastard’s beautiful face, too—had he not sprinted for the car like a rocket was jammed up his ass. There was another item for her pile of pissed-off.
Which, as Karma would oh-so-poetically dictate, fired back at her with vengeance now.
She could barely believe what she witnessed, looking on from the doorway of the office, as the guys ran through their comm check. It wasn’t what they said—the alpha-soldier protocol and crazy acronyms were actually as hot as foreplay to her—but how they said it, that ratcheted her tension. Their exchanges were smooth and easy, sometimes bordering on banter, reminding her of the buddies who’d been synched with each other last night instead of the adversaries who’d slunk and snarled around here all afternoon.
By the time they ran the final diagnostic on the mouse cam and agreed Rebel would click back in two hours for intel support on getting the device inside the Verge building, her composure approached prickly status—discernibly so, if Rhett’s narrowed gaze was a clear alert system. The Viking didn’t waste any words addressing the issue, either. Damn it.
“Well, peaches, I’d cut to the compliments about your mission gear choice,”—he waved at the shorts and Dance Your Ass Off sweatshirt she’d changed into—“if you didn’t already look like we’d failed the damn thing.”
Her face flamed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m just wondering how the hell—” She averted her gaze and pursed her lips, acknowledging what she was about to say and feeling three inches high for it. “Forget it.”
Rhett spun the chair around and rose from it. He didn’t stop there, flowing right into the three steps it took to get closer to her. When only a foot separated them, he folded his arms and charged, “You’re kidding, right? You really want to ‘forget it’, knowing how a guy like me will respond to shit like that?”
She shifted a little. Shifted? Who was she kidding? He made her completely squirm, edging closer with those hard ropes of forearm, slicing her deeper with his steel-toned stare. She vacillated between backing up or simply bowing her head.
Idiot.
You don’t do submissive, Brynn Monet—not even for a chest that broad, a focus that sexy, a stance that daunting. Your heart isn’t a play toy for any man, anymore. Not even “a guy like him”.
The thought did the trick. Flipped the switch on her fortitude, yanking her
chin up. “I’m not asking you to ‘respond’ at all. That’s the point.”
Tiny creases cinched the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t expected her lip, that much was clear. But the follow-up she expected—the disappointment, the disgruntlement, perhaps both—never arrived. Instead, a slow, knowing smile took over his lips.
Damn it.
“Got it.” He murmured it softly but reinforced his posture sharply. Like he needed the extra inch of height? “And now that it’s clear, you’ll have no trouble spilling.”
He dipped the end of it in enough of a growl for her to squirm again—in much different ways. Now it was really time to move back. She did so by a step. Another. Neither diluted the force of what he did to her now…of the deep place inside that his snarl reached.
The place that was afraid of him.
The exact same spot that had been afraid of Rebel.
The corner of her psyche that liked it.
God. Good thing she wanted to be a shrink, because she was going to need the peer discount.
Mask the mess, Brynna. Now.
Regrettably, the fastest way to do that was divulging the truth he’d demanded. “I was just wondering about your whole buddy-buddy on the radio with Sergeant Sasquatch.”
He spurted a chuckle. “Sasquatch? That’s new. And damn good. Mind if I borrow it sometime?”
Now close enough to do so, Brynn leaned against the wall. “Sure—though I don’t imagine it’ll be soon, now that you two have kissed and made up.”
His laugh vanished. Taut lines took over in its place, a blatant expression that hid a thousand messages. “I wouldn’t kiss that ape if you paid me, sweetheart—and don’t mistake any of that radio chatter for ‘making up’.” He unfolded his arms, not erasing an inch of his imprint on the air with the move. But maybe she just thought so because he paced closer again, filling more of her vision with every inch covered. “Finding Zoe is still the first priority on this playing field. Pissing contests and bitch-slap fests belong deep on the sidelines. Reb and I both know that. I promise you that we’ll continue to, as well.” He stepped fully into her personal space, lifting a hand to the side of her neck…sending instant waves of warmth down her arm and through the nearest breast. “We’re going to find her, Brynn. I promise.”
