Troubleshooters 02 The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She was touching him, running her hands across his back and shoulders as if she, too, couldn’t get enough of him.

  “Please,” she said. “John . . .”

  She wanted out of her jeans. Which was perfect, since he wanted her out of them, too.

  Together they pulled them off her, peeling down her panties as well.

  She was naked and beautiful—the most beautiful, incredible woman he’d ever known—and she was lying back on that bed, waiting for him.

  Nils let himself look at her as he stood back and unfastened his belt. “I’m not putting on the brakes,” he said. “FYI, I’m just taking my time.”

  “I know.” Meg watched him as he stepped out of his pants. Her gaze shifted down to his briefs, lingering there. She looked up at him and smiled. “I can tell.”

  Yeah, okay. Now he was completely on fire. “You wouldn’t happen to have two dollars in quarters, would you?”

  She laughed. “Wow, you’re a real bargain.”

  He loved that she could make jokes, that she could tease. He hoped it meant that she’d decided to go on living, that no matter what happened over the next few hours or days, that she’d take the time she needed to get past it and keep on breathing.

  He sat down next to her on the bed, unable to keep from touching her legs, running his hands down the softness of her skin. “There’s a machine that sells condoms in the bathroom.”

  “Really?” She laughed. Shook her head. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.”

  He grinned. “This place is four star all the way, baby.”

  “I didn’t pick it,” she objected.

  “I know, I’m just . . .” Shit, the mood had shifted. All fun was erased. She hadn’t picked this place. No kidding.

  Her eyes filled with tears, and he reached for her and gathered her into his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, clinging to him.

  “Shhh.” He stroked her hair, wishing that he could somehow hide the fact that he was completely aroused, hoping she’d understand that what he needed right now had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her. That sex was secondary to everything. That putting his clothes back on and holding her in his arms was more than he’d expected, more than he’d ever dreamed possible. “You don’t need to—”

  She lifted her head and kissed him. Hot, wet, and passionate. A tongue down the throat, every nerve cell jangling, every pleasure center up and completely online kind of kiss.

  It was a take-me-now kiss. A throw me back on the bed and give it to me hard and fast kiss. She reached into his briefs and wrapped her fingers around him—no doubt just in case he hadn’t gotten the message from her kiss.

  He came up for air, gasping. “Meg—”

  “Please,” she breathed between more frantic kisses. She’d straddled him again, pushing him back on the bed, yanking down his briefs and freeing him completely from their confines. “I need you, John. Now.”

  She shifted her hips and would have driven him hard inside of her if he hadn’t caught her and held her in place. Jesus! He started to sweat. “We need one of those condoms.”

  She gazed down at him, breathing hard, a vision of female arousal. She needed him. Now. Hoo, baby. He was either a saint or an idiot.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He could see in her eyes that she honestly didn’t think it would matter. Birth control. Safe sex. What did any of it matter if they were going to die?

  Shit. She still expected to die.

  “What if we live?” he asked her, shifting her back so she was sitting on his thighs, still holding her securely in place. “I want to live. And I’m going to die myself before I let you die.”

  Emotion flared in her eyes. “I don’t want you to die!”

  “Good, that makes two of us,” he countered. “So let’s decide right now. We’re not going to die, okay?”

  She shook her head. “Please,” she said.

  Great, now the gorgeous naked woman who needed him desperately was begging. Both an idiot and a saint would have long since caved in—the idiot discovering some brain cells that worked, and the saint throwing over his sacred vows. But Nils was neither. He was just a man—who loved her.

  “Do you want to get pregnant?” he asked gently. “Will you please just consider for a second what could happen if—shit, not if, when—when we live. When this is over and—”

  “Yes.”

  “—we’re still alive,” he finished. “Excuse me?”

  “I would love that more than anything,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “As long as we’re pretending we’re going to live happily ever after, let’s pretend that, too, can’t we?”

  “If we don’t use a condom, Meg, that’s not pretend anymore. That’s real. That’s—”

  “Please,” she said. “If I live and Amy doesn’t, if we find out tomorrow that she’s already dead, I’m going to want to die. Give me something, John—someone to live for. Please.”

  Oh, shit, that hurt.

  “How about me?” he said, all but slicing himself open and laying his beating heart out on the table. “Couldn’t you maybe live for me?”

  She didn’t answer. Whether she wouldn’t or couldn’t, Nils didn’t know.

  All she could do was whisper, “Please, John.”

  It was all over. He could refuse her nothing she asked for. Not even this. Maybe especially not this.

  And maybe he would get her pregnant. Christ, he hoped he did. Then he’d have her forever. She’d stayed with Daniel for Amy’s sake; surely she’d marry Nils if he got her pregnant.

  And maybe, in time, it wouldn’t matter so goddamn much that she didn’t really love him as much as he loved her.

  He lifted her up and lowered her down on top of him slowly, watching her face as she moved to receive him.

  She held his gaze as he filled her, as she surrounded him. He knew she could see the tears in his eyes, knew he was unable to hide the crazy mix of emotions that crossed his face.

  Anger, hurt, relief, need.

  Love.

  He pushed it all aside, all except the love.

  He was here, right where he’d wanted to be for too many hundreds of nights. Meg loved him on some level—he knew that to be true. He wouldn’t be inside of her right now if she didn’t.

  He let all the other bullshit escape, let nothing remain but the sweet pleasure of her body around him and the liquid heat of his love for her. Let her see that. He wanted her to see that.

  She sat there, atop him, intimately joined with him, for several long seconds, just looking into his eyes.

  But then she fell forward and kissed him hungrily, moving in a rhythm that was much too fast, too soon. Nils caught her hips again, slowing her down, wanting and needing them to take their time, refusing to give in to the part of him that wanted her hard and fast and three years ago. He took control of her kisses, too, turning them languorous—deliciously, wickedly slow.

  She moaned her approval as he filled his hands with her breasts, and he swept his fingers across her bare skin, kissing and touching as much of her as he could.

  Without a condom, the sensation as he moved inside of her, as they moved together, was impossibly intense. Each stroke brought him dangerously closer to his release. Each stroke was heaven, each withdrawal ecstasy. And the knowledge that when he came, he would send his seed deep inside her, was a total turn-on. He loved her. Forever. What better way to show that to both Meg and the entire world?

  She was impossibly sexy, riding him the way she was, with her head thrown back, her breasts tightly peaked with desire. She was killing him, completely killing him.

  He reached between them, desperate to take her with him. She was soft and slick and touching her was nearly enough to take him over the edge.

  He lifted her up, turning her so that he was on top, so he could be in complete control.

  She smiled up at him and spread her legs even wider, and he knew it was hopeless. She
was sexy as hell on her back, too. Sexier, looking up at him like that.

  She moved her hips up to meet him, faster now, still holding his gaze. He was supposed to be in control now, but he wasn’t. It wasn’t even close. He was completely under her spell, completely unable to slow her down, to do anything but give her all she wanted.

  And right now, she wanted him hard and fast.

  Nils kissed her, taking her mouth possessively, claiming it, claiming her as his own.

  Or maybe—and far more likely—claiming himself as hers.

  He belonged to her. Completely. He had since the day they’d first met.

  “I’m going to come inside you now,” he breathed. “Are you ready for me to do that?”

  Meg nodded. “Yes. Yes.”

  She wanted that as much as he did. And she was with him.

  His release was like being hit by a train. It slammed into him, through him, not slowing down but instead building in intensity as he crashed into her. And she was right there, with him, beneath him. Part of him. Crying out his name as she exploded around him.

  It was beyond pleasure—and knowing she was feeling this, too, transcended anything he’d ever experienced in his life.

  He lay on top of her, completely spent as the motel room began to reappear around him. He realized he was crushing her and he would have rolled off, but she stopped him. She clung to him, holding him tightly in place.

  He would have spoken, would have told her that he loved her, but she must have felt him take a breath.

  “Shhh,” she whispered. “Not yet. Please, let’s not talk yet. Let’s just stay right here a little bit longer.”

  He was still inside of her and content to stay right there until the end of time, if she wanted.

  There was no reason for him to withdraw, no need to worry about a condom leaking—there was no condom.

  Disbelief shot through him. But it wasn’t followed by fear. It was followed by warmth. By certainty. By an intense surge of pleasure. Right now, maybe right this very second, a miracle could well be occurring.

  Another miracle.

  Nils breathed in the sweet scent of Meg’s hair as he closed his eyes and let himself drift, giving thanks for the miracle he’d already been given, and putting his list of requests for additional miracles right out on the table, for whoever might be up there to see.

  In the past, he’d used a lot of different tactics when facing potential no-win scenarios. He wasn’t afraid to ask for outside help if the situation called for it.

  And this situation called for all the help he could get—including divine intervention.

  He wasn’t asking much—just that Meg’s little girl be kept alive until he could get there. That’s all he wanted.

  He and his team would take it from there.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Twenty-three

  ALYSSA KEPT THE chain on as she opened the door to her hotel room. She didn’t speak, she just looked at Sam, her face expressionless.

  She was wrapped in a terry cloth robe, her hair still wet. He’d caught her coming out of the shower. Which meant that she was probably naked under that robe.

  And Sam no longer had to fantasize about what she might look like naked. After last night, he knew.

  He had to clear his throat before his vocal cords would function. “Sorry to bother you. I know I’m probably the last person you want knocking on your door.”

  She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him, somehow managing to do it without ever quite meeting his eyes.

  He cleared his throat again. “Yeah, well, I just . . .” Shit, Starrett, just say it. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. I saw you limping, and—”

  “I’m fine. I twisted my ankle. It’s no big deal. Nothing a little ice and rest won’t fix.”

  She started to shut the door, but he leaned against it. “How about your elbow?”

  She met his gaze at that, but only briefly. Just a flash, and then she quickly looked away. “Scraped. I’ve done way worse.”

  “Did you get it cleaned out okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s hard to do that yourself. I mean, a knee, sure, no problem. But an elbow . . . If you want I could—”

  “It’s clean.” Impatiently, she pulled back her sleeve and showed him.

  “Shit.” She’d taken off nearly the entire top layer of skin. It wasn’t deep. It was just raw. And Sam knew from experience that it had to hurt like hell. Someone in the team was usually always scraped up like that and whining about it far more than Alyssa ever would. It was really no big deal, but seeing it on her otherwise perfect arm somehow made it seem worse.

  “I’ll put peroxide on it,” she told him. “It’ll be fine.”

  Yeah, and that was going to make it sting like a bastard. Wisely, Sam didn’t volunteer to come in and hold her hand. He suspected that would get the door shut in his face, fast.

  “How’s your sister and the baby?” he asked, wishing she would take that chain off the door and let him in. Knowing she wasn’t going to.

  That question actually surprised her, and she looked at him again. She even almost smiled. “Fine. They’re both doing fine. Thanks.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m glad.” Quick, think of something else before she made her excuses and closed the door. “Are your ribs okay?” he asked. “You got hit pretty hard and—”

  “Did I miss something here?” That almost smile disappeared fast. “Like the part where you suddenly got your medical degree?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

  “Feeling nervous?” she asked. “Don’t be. I just got my period. I already sent you an email about it. Pressure’s off.”

  She wasn’t pregnant. “Oh,” Sam said. “Wow.” He waited for the relief to hit, but it didn’t come. Instead, he felt . . . wistful?

  “So now if you don’t mind, I’m exhausted and I really—”

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” he told her. “About last night.”

  She finally met his gaze and held it. “Yeah,” she said. “I know. I was . . . I wasn’t expecting that. I thought . . .” She shook her head. “Thank you.”

  Despite his reassurances back in DC, she’d actually thought he was going tell everyone on the team what he’d done last night. She’d probably even expected him to give some kind of locker room account, maybe even a blow-by-blow replay.

  Christ.

  “You know, Locke, I’m a decent man,” he told her, anger making his voice tight and louder. “Some people even consider me to be an exceptional man. I made it through BUD/S—which is more than most men—and any woman—can say. I passed all the moral and psychological requirements, too, and I got my ass assigned to Team Sixteen. I’m not this spawn of Satan that you seem to think I am.”

  “Look, I said thank you.” Her voice got louder, too. “But that’s all I’m going to say—or do—so you might as well—”

  He laughed in outraged disbelief. “Fucking perfect! What, do you really think I expect you to go down on me in gratitude or something? Jesus!”

  Now she was thoroughly pissed, too. “I think you expected me to let you in, that’s what I think. Coming up here, pretending to give a damn about my ankle . . . ? Get real. You’re here because you want a replay of last night.”

  Okay, so maybe she was right about that. Shit, he’d wanted a replay four minutes after she drove out of that parking garage in DC this morning. But that comment about pretending to give a damn was going too goddamn far. “I came up here because I wanted to make sure you were okay. I came up here because I fucking care, all right?”

  Her laughter was decidedly derisive. “Yeah, right. You’re a real prince. Give it up, Roger. I’m not letting you in. I’m not too drunk tonight to know that you are nothing but one big, dumb, rednecked mistake.”

  Dumb? No one called him dumb. He may have gone to college late, but once he got there, he wa
s Phi Beta Fucking Kappa.

  “Fuck you,” he shot back at her. “No, wait a sec, I’ve already done that, haven’t I?”

  She slammed the door in his face.

  Sam kicked it, hard.

  Shit.

  He limped away, cursing her, cursing himself.