by Angel Payne
He was ready for the stab. Still didn’t mean he had to like it—or the fact that he’d earned it. “I know what it’s like to come down from an intense session, yes.”
“An ‘intense session’?” Her features wobbled, struggling for a thread of humor in the words, but just unlatching her composure for more tears. “Oh, sheez. That’s exactly what it was, wasn’t it? A ‘session’.”
“Minette—”
“Don’t. Please don’t with the minette right now.” She backhanded her forehead, balling her hand into a fist. “I still have to wrap my head around ‘session’ without wondering how many other sub—” Her lips parted, revealing clenched teeth. “How many others you’ve used that one on.”
“None.” He snubbed Rhett’s scoff—also fully justified—while pushing upright. “Fine. Have I lied to you—either of you—about what I’ve done and what beds I’ve done it in before this week? Even now, as shitty as it is to admit, I won’t hide the truth from you. I may be a slut, but I’m not a liar. Ponder that when you hear this: I’ve never experienced anything like the last hour of my life. I won’t fry and sugar this like a goddamn beignet. You two just devoured me, body and soul, like a couple of rougarous from the Mancharac.”
Rhett raised a wry brow. “Fun. I always did want to be a half-wolf zombie.”
He ignored that as well. Simply hoping he could conjure the right mix of strong and sympathetic, he looked back down at Brynn. “It’s my clumsy way of saying that I get it. If you need a good long cry, you go right ahead.”
She’d already beat him to the punch, more shiny streams cascading down her cheeks. Now they were interrupted by a real laugh. He joined Rhett in observing her with open bewilderment—and enchantment. “Clumsy,” she finally clarified, “and then you, in the same sentence. Doesn’t add up, Sergeant Stafford.”
Rhett snorted. “You’ve never seen him in a blast suit when he has to take a leak.”
Her eyes clouded as the image took hold. Then burst back to full intensity, brilliant copper and gold, as she succumbed to a new laugh.
Rhett shot a stare dunked in deeper confusion. Rebel tried to urge continued calm in return, but how did he explain a subbie’s emotional overload and endorphin drop in the space of a glance, especially when it was only being half-heeded? Already Rhett attempted to fold Brynn against him again, but she was a goner, consumed by her brain’s new chemical dump. And yeah, he was pretty damn certain about that—since it was stamped across her face as she rolled over, seeking his embrace.
He sent his friend an apologetic look—not that it was noticed. As usual, most of Rhett’s “big head” was now officially tied into the urges of his little one, slamming him into a world-class fume. Wasn’t anything to be done about that. She’d sought safe shelter as her catharsis continued, galloping out of her in hiccupping sobs. No way was Reb going to refuse her, not after all the passion she’d given them with such heart-stopping openness. If Rhett wanted in on the comfort jamboree, he could get his ass over here. Rebel would never refuse him on the giving or taking.
They passed the next few minutes focused solely on the woman between them. As she continued crying against Rebel, Rhett pushed past his shit long enough to scoot close once more. Gently, he ran a hand through her hair, running his fingers through the tresses that wrapped against her back.
She finally huffed hard. Sniffed harder. Pulled away, shaking her head. “I’m a horrible person.” Punched the heels of her palms against her swollen eyes. “And a hypocrite.”
Rebel yanked up—and openly glowered. “Excuse the fuck out of me?”
“I—this—” Fresh tears brimmed. “This isn’t me. None of this…is me.”
“Not you?” He let her see his wry smile. “Hmmm. Not you. Which part might you be referring to? The ‘not you’ who dropped her whole life in order to help two near-strangers search for her kidnapped friend? Or the ‘not you’ who’s been rotating shifts in that office with same strangers, who’ve been doing this kind of shit for years? Or the ‘not you’ who managed to tame those same imbeciles with an hour they won’t forget for the rest of their lives?”
She pierced him with a gaze that gleamed like morning sun. “And I won’t forget it, either.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Good.”
Weirdly enough, Rhett appeared the somber one now. “But you refuse to feel good about any of it.”
Rebel dipped his head, adding his silent support of the query. The insight couldn’t have been more spot-on.
Brynna drew in air through her nose. Let it out on a long sigh. “Because I’m right. You guys see that, yeah? Here I am, cup running over with warm and gooey because of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, while my friend—my best friend—is still wondering if anyone will be coming for her—”
“Whoa.” Rhett tugged on her shoulder, urging her back around. “Right there. Just whoa.” As she scooted back up against the cushion, jabbing the sheet into her armpits, he persisted, “Do you really think Zoe has given up on us searching for her? Does that woman think, for even one second, that her husband will let that happen?”
Her lips pursed. “That doesn’t excuse what happened. What I allowed to happen.”
Rebel propped an elbow up on a knee, narrowing his gaze again. “Right. And neither of us had anything to say about it.”
Rhett jogged his head in open sarcasm. “I know I had plenty to say about it.”
Rebel smirked. “You sure as hell did.”
The guy chuffed. “You had some good shit to chime in, too.”
Brynn tucked her arms in, staring at the tops of her own knees. Though her gaze warmed a little, the rest of her face maintained resolute lines. Humor was clearly not the key past her tension—once more, not a surprise. Even without a missing friend in the mix, many submissives threw themselves onto pyres of guilt, using it as a coping mechanism to help deal with the freaky flag they’d just let fly. As a Dom, it was often hard to combat, since no argument but the obvious made sense: that sexual pleasure wasn’t created for shame or guilt or remorse.
But this, at least, was an argument he could deal with. All it took was getting pragmatic to the point of tough, and turning it into a resolute stare at her adorable frown. “Listen to me. We’re both just as desperate to find Zoe as you, but in doing it with the best tools, with the right timing. This morning’s snag was just that: a snag. I’m sorry that this didn’t happen twelve hours from now, but at this moment, we’ve got no choice. We’ll formulate a new approach into the building then hang back until nightfall for execution.” He let darker emotions drag his head down. “Nobody—nobody—wishes that wasn’t the case, more than I do. As the guy who fucked this all to hell in the first place—”
“You don’t know that.”
Rhett tacked on a significant glower—which weirdly warmed Reb’s chest. The sex hadn’t affected the guy’s views on the mission, thank fuck—including his support about the mouse cam’s failure. Nonetheless, Reb muttered, “Well, you don’t not know it.”
Rhett glowered. “Really, shithead? Weren’t we right here an hour ago?”
Nothing was the same as it was an hour ago.
Rhett illustrated the point by caressing a hand along Brynn’s calf. The move, given in lazy reassurance, pulled Reb right back into the unnatural thrall the man had over him. Damn it. He could stare at those powerful, graceful hands for an hour…or ten. In this instance, he wasn’t alone. Nobody in the battalion had escaped being captivated at some point by Double-Oh’s magic with a recon intel screen, a GPS box, or even fixing kids’ toys in third world villages across the globe.
But witnessing the reverence Double-Oh emanated over the skin of a woman…
Fuck.
Yeah. An hour. Or ten.
Brynna herself cut that dream short. She jerked up her head like the world’s sexiest CEO about to conduct a board meeting. “I just want to focus on what we do now. Sitting here in a stupid funk isn’t…going to…” Her voice crack
ed on fresh tears. “Damn it! This is the most ridiculous…why am I still doing this?”
As if moving with one mind—and maybe they were—Rebel swept up with Rhett, surrounding her once more. Crisscrossing their arms over her chest and tucking their heads against her shoulders, they each captured the wet streams of her desperation with their lips. Rebel prepared for her resistance, perhaps even for her total flight, but the woman only tensed for half a heartbeat before urging them closer, then weeping even harder.
They stayed like that, in a three-way cocoon, as Brynn’s sobs mingled with the morning songs of the birds outside. Minutes went by, as if he even cared. Vaguely—maybe not so vaguely—Rebel considered the concept of heaven on Earth. If there was one for everybody, his may just have just been revealed.
Like every law-abiding heaven, it was over all too fast.
Brynn brought her hands in, swiping again at her puffy eye sockets. “Thank you.” She gazed from one to the other of them, though clearly struggled for focus. “Thank you both…for…well…”
Rhett pressed a thumb across her lips. “We know. And you’re welcome.”
“This still isn’t me,” she rasped. “I don’t know who this is, but it’s sure as hell not—”
“The woman who told us she ‘doesn’t do submissive’?” Rebel filled in.
Her gaze had been melting to a gorgeous milk chocolate shade. It re-hardened inside of two seconds. “What does that have to do with any—”
“It has to do with everything.” He didn’t let her go, securing her wrist as she dug in her heels, trying to push away. “Especially because it was part of what just happened.”
“I’m not going to discuss this.” Her tone was rebellious but her stare pleading, especially as she lifted it to Rhett. The move earned her only a pair of raised brows and a nod toward Reb.
“Sorry, peach. I don’t have a golden Dom patch, but even I can see he’s right—with a pretty huge R.”
She squirmed. Rebel held tight. He felt like a complete shit for it, but her waterworks flooded back on, confirming just how big his R really was. “Easy, mon chou. Easy. It’s only us. And just to refresh your memory, we both really enjoyed it.” He dropped his gaze along with his voice, making sure she felt just how much he meant the words. Enjoyed was the hugest understatement for what she’d given him with her submission, but this was going to require baby steps. Lots of them.
Rhett leaned in with the same message taking over his face. Though his lips were firm, the oceans in his eyes swelled with sensual waves. “You enjoyed it too…right?”
She flung a glare. “I appreciate your respect for my interpretive acting work—but I’m not that good.”
Rebel pulled her wrist against his lips. “Actually, you’re still enjoying it.” He nuzzled her skin with his nose. “Your heartbeat. Racing and ready. You like the fact that we’re even talking about it—”
“The hell I do.”
“As well as every moment you gave in to it.”
Rhett performed the same treatment on her other wrist. “Gave in to us.”
“The hell I did.” She wrested both arms free. Jabbed them close to her torso then under the sheet, like a kid hiding a stolen candy bar. “I’m not going to talk about this.”
Rebel rested back on his haunches. “Well. That’s completely your prerogative, Miss Monet.”
She huffed. “Oh, it’s ‘Miss Monet’ now? Turning on the ice water, so I’ll coerce you to heat it back up by baring my soul?” Her eyes rolled. “You want to try something that I didn’t ace a psych exam on two years ago?”
He teeter-tottered his head before quickly nodding it. “Fair enough. But at least I cared enough to try, considering you’ve tied my hands against using the method that’ll really work here.” He settled back a little more, folding his arms. “But that’s exactly how you want it, isn’t it?”
She wasn’t so snappy with her next retort. With hands still rustling beneath the sheet, she pressed, “Fine. I’ll bite. What method would that be, Sergeant Stafford?” Slinging the payback on the formality had her preening a little, proud of herself—
Until Reb issued his rebuttal.
“Brynna Cosette Monet…you need to be spanked.”
“Pardon the hell out of me?”
“Nothing to pardon.” He shrugged, ignoring her stiff spine and plummeting brows. “The lines have clearly been redrawn, so there’s no need.”
“Lines?” she demanded. “Redrawn? For what?”
“For whatever you now want them to be. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“I—” If she were on a stage in rehearsal, she’d be the one begging for script help. “I don’t know what—”
“But if, hypothetically, I was still acting as your Dom, you’d probably be flat on this mattress now, taking my hand on your ass. A lot of times.”
The sheet noticeably rustled. Her lips visibly twisted. Oh, he’d gotten her attention, all right—and likely a little more. And the woman still wanted to deny her attraction to sexual surrender? It made no sense. He checked in with a glance toward Rhett, whose face reflected the same incredulity.
Brynn scowled deeply, though her voice was an unsure rasp. “Wh-why?”
It wasn’t hard to preface the answer with a soft smile. “Number one, because you’d like it. Number two, to establish a connection between us of energy and trust, so you’d feel better about opening up to me. And number three, because you’d really, really like it.”
Her face tightened again. But more importantly, her legs squirmed beneath the sheet. Little minx. She was clearly hot, bothered, and on her way to being wet again—but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except watch. Because, for whatever insane reason, Brynna Monet still “didn’t do submission”.
“So I like a little bite to my passion every now and then. It doesn’t mean I’m a damn submissive.”
Rhett reentered the fray with a wry smirk. “With all due respect to every gorgeous inch of you, peach, I’ve been naked and horizontal with you twice in the last week. Between those two occasions, I’ve had the fun of pulling your hair, biting your nipples, sucking your clit, zip-tying your wrists, and fucking you senseless, among other pretty good highlights. You know when I’ve seen that lovely pussy the wettest?” As he asked it, he leaned in, making sure their gazes were level for his whispered answer. “When you begged me for more, sweetheart. When I made you beg me for more.”
“When you had to let it all go,” Rebel confirmed.
“When you submitted to us.”
Her eyes slammed shut. Her body balled up. Rebel had expected the withdrawal, but this was extreme. Her face contorted as if they’d both punched her in the gut.
“I don’t care.” She huddled tighter. “I can’t care.”
Rebel bit back a number of Creole words that perfectly fit his fury. Goddamn. If they could only lay her out and redden her ass…
Good thing Rhett was up in her grill right now, and not him. The guy’s composure was nothing short of astounding as he gently prodded, “Why?” He ran a soothing hand over her head, not caring about her little flinch. “Why can’t you care, Brynna?”
She lifted her head. Leaned a little toward his touch, giving in to a moment of its strength and safety. Rebel was envious. That man and his hands…
Without opening her eyes, she rasped, “Because Enya cared.”
Rhett didn’t falter his caresses by a beat. “Who’s Enya?”
She ducked her head from him. “Enya cared. Now she doesn’t.”
“But why?” He reached again, but she jerked away. “Sweet peach…you can tell us. You can trust us. It’s just Rebel and me.”
She snapped her head up. Glared at both of them, the scared kitten instantly grown into a terrified cat. They both watched, bemused, as she whipped the sheet fully around herself. Through every second, Rebel never remotely anticipated her next move.
“I won’t do this. I can’t do this.”
With an acrobatic
move only possible for an accomplished dancer, she flipped backward then twisted, escaping over the back of the futon—leaving Rhett and him to gawk at each other in shock more naked than their dicks.
Chapter Thirteen
‡
TWO HOURS LATER, Rhett paced into the office with refilled water bottles in his hands and a tight scowl on his face. He was showered and changed, his faded BDU bottoms topped by a black T-shirt emblazoned with yellow lettering: Actually, it is rocket science. Rebel looked up from one of the two chairs now parked in front of the computer desk, arching a wary brow—which he decided to ignore.
“She’s still sleeping.”
Reb chucked a pencil at the desk. Rocked back in the chair. “Because, of course, you decided to check again.”
He banged one of the water bottles down. Dropped into the empty chair just as bearishly. “Beats sitting here looking at you.”
The shithead leaned back a little more. “Hmm. You sure about that?” He laced fingers in classic criminal mastermind style, a shout-out to every super hero movie they’d seen together—which meant nearly all of them. Trouble was, no Joker or Loki or Luthor looked good enough to jump just sitting in a work-out tank and shorts.
Damn it.
Rebel. Him. Them. He couldn’t treat it like a bothersome summer cold anymore, could he? It wasn’t going to “just go away” on its own. Every moment of this morning’s adventure had sure as hell changed that.
Adventure. Okay, that was a good way of looking at it. Like all great adventures, it had been exhilarating and new, an adrenalin rush not soon to be forgotten. At least not by him. But was that where everything stopped?
The waters in which he still swam—at a desperate pace—said no.
Treacherous waters.
Where his fucking feelings had turned into boulders.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he finally grunted, peering through the water at the monitors. A little plastic, a little H2O, and the world was suddenly a different place. Only…it wasn’t. Only his view had changed. “Damn sure.”
