by Angel Payne
She pulled on his hair, forcing his head down until their lips slammed, before countering, “I would have said something, had there been anything to say.” Though she gentled her hold, she kept her fingers tangled in his copper waves. “I’m not hurt.”
At least not in that way.
Damn it, not in any way. You read the manual on one-night stands, right? Chapter one, line one? “Though shalt not carry forth the pre-orgasmic feels into post-coital conversation”.
It was time to walk the talk.
Trouble was, she didn’t know if she could take a single damn step at the moment.
“So what is it?” A deeper growl threaded Sam’s voice, backed by the command in the finger he jerked beneath her chin. Jen forced out a self-deprecating smile.
“I’m…just being stupid. Indulging in too much Jane Austen lately.” And Emily Brontë. And Diana Gabaldon. And Nicholas Sparks. Okay, maybe not him. The last thing she needed to end this thing with was a call to room service for three boxes of tissue to mop up her tears.
“I happen to like Jane Austen.”
Because you had to get more perfect than you already were.
“Caleb, Dirk and the others would probably revoke your guy card for that.”
“Which is why I may need to fuck a vow of silence into you.”
Yes. He really was perfect. Evoking Austen one moment, wetting her sex the next with his nasty growl and naughty grin. After kissing him to confirm her approval of that plan, she decided to let honesty take over. He’d get it out of her eventually, anyway. “Sam.” She splayed fingers along his jaw. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”
He pushed his face against her touch, abrading her fingers with his stubble. “Because we’re bloody idiots. At least I am. When I think of all the fantasies I’ve had of you in the last nine months…”
“Wait.” She didn’t hide her gape. “Fantasies? About me?” A new thought struck. “Riiight. And half the other girls on base too, yeah?” But when his stare didn’t waver, then turned that earnest shade of pewter, she gulped. “Shit. Sam.”
For another long moment, he didn’t say anything. Kept his face fitted into her palm, watching her in silent contemplation. “Mouse,” he finally murmured. “There was…a reason…why they sent me over for the cross-training.”
“Besides the fact that you can turn a fighter jet into poetry?”
Her compliment could’ve been in Swahili for all its effect on him. “I wasn’t…in a good place. The deployments finally started taking their toll—or so everyone enjoyed telling me. Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Afghanistan again…”
“God.”
“Stop.” His violent bite betrayed a truth she’d long suspected. Enduring anything he saw as pity was like forcing him to swallow rat poison. “I wanted them, Jen. Every single one of those assignments was an honor. I would’ve gone again, had they called. I wanted to go again.”
“Why?” She didn’t hide the confusion. Sure, she knew the shit from all the pilot boy rah-rah speeches. Through adversity to the stars. True heroes run to the danger. The sky is no longer the limit. But he’d carried his share of those torches and then some.
“It was…easier.” He grimaced. Though he knew it for a truth, he didn’t like it. “The missions, the pace, the noise, the violence. When your world is consumed by all of that, it’s effortless to block out the rest. The rest of life just…freezes, I suppose. At least in your mind, yeah? You just think of it all like leaves caught in ice.”
“Until they’re thawed out.”
“Until they’re thawed out.”
“And you hope they’re still there.”
“And you hope they’re still there.”
“But they’re not.” She trailed the center of his sternum with her fingers. The comfort she’d hoped to give him…not happening. The flesh beneath her touch remained taut as stone. She pushed on anyway, “You find out that the ice turned into a river, and carried them away.”
He rolled to his back, yanking the sheet up to his waist. “And you don’t even recognize the river anymore.” His stare, fixed on the ceiling, darkened. “Even the bridges you remembered are gone. And everyone who meant anything to you before…is standing on the other shore.”
Jen pushed up until her face hovered over his. “I’m right here. On this shore.”
She shook a little as she proclaimed it. The words felt huge. Risky. Yet never so right. If he laughed her off, so be it. There had been few things she meant more in her life.
Sam didn’t laugh. “I know.” He tucked her head against his chest. “I know—which is why I’ll never stop thankin’ them for sendin’ me here.” Beneath her cheek, his big body rose and fell with a deep breath. “Thank God for you, Jenny Thorne. Thank fuckin’ God for you.”
She was damn glad for the bulk of him beneath her now—considering how the universe just listed on its axis. Was this happening? Was he confessing something like that right now? If so, then what the hell was ‘that’, anyway? They’d been blessed with nine months of an awesome friendship then one hour of wall-rattling sex. Neither dictated he owed her anything more than a little pillow chatter.
But now, he said things that didn’t just somersault her stomach or even zing her pussy. This was the kind of shit that clutched a girl’s soul. Made her believe in—
Things that weren’t going to happen.
Not tonight.
Not in this lifetime.
It was best to get it through her head—and her heart—right now.
Easier said than done. Much easier. She’d never been the one playing this part. The whole pulling-away-with-fake-regret thing…it was about as comfortable as a mammogram, especially when there was nothing feigned about the emotion. She wanted nothing more than to be apart from Sam long enough to let him discard the condom, then come back and get tangled with her again. Maybe they’d even get under the covers and see what developed from there. The tension across his face, also defined in his chest as he propped on an elbow, spoke his own approval of that plan.
“I need to pee.” She forced out the words. They lent the strength she needed to push off the bed. Maybe locking herself in the bathroom, far away from his body and his eyes and his scent, would give her more. She grabbed up her clothes, just in case. Please, God. I just need to get out of here. Once Sam was three stories away, she could sort through everything. She had to. There was still the wedding to get through. Real social time near the man, not situations she could avoid by pretending there was work on her desk or files to get to. She had to determine what feelings were safe to keep out on the mental shelves, and which ones to lock deep inside the emotional cabinets.
But the ambient lights in the bathroom, flickering to life as she entered, shattered those shelves to pieces.
No. Not the lights.
What they illuminated.
His dress clothes for the wedding tomorrow, arranged perfectly on the bathroom’s garment rack.
A dress blazer in dark gray. A white silk shirt to go beneath it, along with a brocade vest in hunter green. The same green was woven with red and white to form the plaid design of the pressed wool kilt. Lined up on the floor beneath was a pair of black leather boots, shined to perfection. They’d probably hit Sam at mid-calf. The muscles would push at the leather, emphasizing his physical power…
Ohhhh, God.
She had no idea she’d also groaned it aloud, until Sam’s urgent call came through the door. “Mouse? Everything awrite?”
She yanked the door back open.
To surrender her breath to shock once again.
Viewing him now, standing at full height, just made his nudity more glorious. The only icing that could perfect this cake could’ve been his erect—
Damn.
Looked like the flesh between his thighs wanted to rise to that standard, as well.
“Okay. I finally get it.”
Sam frowned. “Huh?”
“Fate has shown its ultimate purpose.”
“Truly?” One more justification for adoring him. What she’d blurted wasn’t weird to him. He simply rolled with it as a new direction in the conversation. “And what purpose would that be?”
He leaned against the jamb, arms folded, indulgent grin forming. The pose emphasized his incredible pecs, his beautiful quads…and yeah, that beautiful, hard ridge, right at the center of things…continuing to tempt her gaze into his unique Sam sin…
Thank God she had something else to focus on. His outfit was gorgeous, like a costume created for a Highland book boyfriend. If the vest was replaced by a sash and the kilt secured by a sword belt instead of snap closures, she could even turn that setting into something from hundreds of years ago, where he was the laird of his own clan. If they lived four hundred years ago, could she have been his lady? Lairds were a lot less picky in the 1600’s. Curves, curls and a talent for rocking high heels was a lot less important than leadership, business sense, and the ability to reload a spring-action stapler in less than thirty seconds. Surely a flintlock pistol wasn’t so different.
She pushed the fantasy—make that a few new fantasies—aside, in order to answer his query. “Every event of the night,” she said. “Every step we’ve taken and move we’ve made—all the way up to here.”
“Here?”
“This.” She jabbed a finger at his clothes. “Thank God I’m prepared for it now.”
His brow furrowed. “You don’t fancy plaid?”
“Oh, I fancy.” She managed a little laugh. “To the point that if I walked in and saw you in that tomorrow morning, without any notice, Tess would be stepping over my unconscious body on the way to the altar.”
His brows still crunched but his eyes began to tease. “Ooohhh. No unconsciousness. Not for that reason, at least.” His gaze thickened with sultry meaning. “I can think of better ways to make you faint. Or at least try.”
Her breath snatched again, especially as he unfolded his arms and took a step toward her. Sensual intent surrounded him like the glow around a candle flame—only with bulging muscles, burnished hair, and—
Fire that would burn her, if she let it.
Deeply.
She had to think fast. If he touched her again, she’d be toast. Wasn’t that what happened to self-control already as weak as soggy bread?
“All right.” She whipped the clothes off the hook. Shoved them against his chest. “So go ahead and try.”
“Errr…try what?”
“To make me faint.” She dipped a glance at the fabric in his clutch. “Put ’em on, hot stuff. Give me a little advance fashion show.”
And cover up that body, so I don’t keep thinking of every illicit thing I want to do to it.
One side of his mouth twitched, as if that exact line echoed in his brain. Though he pulled the shirt off its hanger then stabbed his arms into the sleeves, his stare didn’t leave her face. He kept watching, lips quirking, as he buttoned it. Didn’t relent as he slipped on the vest, then wrapped the kilt around his lean hips. Once the snaps were locked, he smoothed the whole outfit into place—then swept a gallant bow.
After he rose, he chuckled. Jen didn’t laugh. How could she, when her lungs desperately rationed breath? She attempted to school her features but was certain she looked ridiculous, fighting a suddenly dry throat, blood that had become the River Styx, and a womb clenching so hard she trembled.
She needed to jump at him. On him. To mold every inch of her naked body against his and beg him to slam her to the floor, hike the kilt up, then fuck her like the self-respecting Scot he was.
She swallowed it all back in favor of one sparse rasp. “Damn.”
“Changin’ your mind about the plaid obsession, eh?”
“Ssshhh.” She pushed three fingers against his lips. “With you looking like all my wet dreams, I can’t handle you sounding like them too.”
He twisted his head enough to capture her middle finger between his lips. Then again, so his tongue slid to the crevice at its bottom. As Jen gasped, he whispered, “Did you just mention wet dreams while standing here like that?”
Shit.
She glanced down. She’d been so absorbed in his regal perfection in those clothes, she’d forgotten about her lack of any. Only through sheer force of will did she make her body stiffen as he jerked her close, abrading her thighs with the wool of his kilt, caressing her breasts with the slick luxury of his vest. “Maybe it’s time I got dressed, too.”
“Or maybe it’s just time for me to get in the skuddy again.”
He hadn’t taught her that one yet, but she suspected it involved more nakedness. Couldn’t happen. Wouldn’t. If she got bare and horizontal again with this man, a lot more than sleep and peace of mind would be at stake. Just once in the sack had shown Jen that Sam’s fly-by in her life could take on more meaning than friendship. Where would that leave her life once he was gone? Empty as a used can of Pringles, that was where. And her heart? The pathetic crumbled bits, forgotten at the bottom.
Uh-uh.
Best to leave everything right here. He already looked as perfect as the pages of a book. That was the perfect way to remember everything about tonight. It wasn’t a Happy-ever-after. But it was a hell of a lot better than Pringle’s dregs.
She forced strength into her arms. Reached up to push at both of his massive shoulders, hoping he’d shift back.
He did, thank God.
But not far enough.
She still felt too much of him, so huge and hard and defined. She still smelled him, cedar and spice joined by the starch in his shirt and the musk of his skin.
God, she still wanted him. So damn badly.
“No.” She almost didn’t get it out. “No. You can’t. We can’t.”
He blinked as if she’d slapped him. “Why not?” Then pushed out a hard breath, as well. “Fuck. I did hurt you, and now—”
She smacked the middle of his chest. “Don’t make me hurt you, Mackenna.” She gentled her touch, running fingers down the front of his vest. “I’ll never forget everything we did. Everything. It was…” She let a dreamy sigh slip out. “Wonderful.”
He smiled. Brushed his lips across the tip of her nose. “Yes. It was.”
“So let’s keep it there, okay? At the wonderful. Friends who got to enjoy a damn nice benefit.” She bit her lip, attempting to keep a smile—losing to a wince anyway. “Fate doesn’t like it when you ask for too many benefits. It starts to want payment for the privilege…in other ways.”
Sam jerked out a reluctant nod. He came from a land where fairies, brownies, and spirits for everything from water to horse poop were still considered real. Her talk about fate didn’t freak him by a single syllable. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“Oh, don’t go takin’ on sass about it, now.” His gaze skated hungrily down her body. “We’re still not at work. And I’d still love an opportunity to turn your gorgeous arse a lovely shade of pink.”
Too late to prevent her face from flushing that exact shade. As Jen battled to maintain the rest of her composure, she snatched her bra from the counter. “Why don’t we step off the path of temptation? I could use some food and a cocktail.” She turned to the mirror and gave his reflection a wink. “Not to mention the chance to fulfill another teeny fantasy.”
He straightened a twisted strap on her shoulder. “And what fantasy would that be?”
“Being seen with the hottest Highlander in the hotel, of course.”
“Jenny.” He chastised it into her ear. “I’m probably the only Highlander in the hotel.”
“Pssshhh.” She threw her dress back on. Thank God for the designer who’d created one-piece sheaths. “Semantics.”
She almost face-palmed herself when spying her panties, still in a lump on the counter—but the moment she grabbed them, Sam clutched her wrist and clucked wickedly. “Not so fast, missie.”
“Sam.” Her turn for the soft rebuke. Hadn’t they just talked about pushing fate’s good mood?
>
“What? I don’t get to have a fantasy fulfilled?”
She glared via the mirror. “You’ve had a fantasy about me without panties?”
“In a bright red dress,” he filled in.
“This sheath is burgundy.”
“Psssshh. Semantics.”
His hold didn’t dissipate. She bit her lip again, trying not to reveal that if she actually wore the lingerie now, they’d be soaked.
“Fine, then.” Surprisingly, he let go. Moved back a few steps. “Let’s call it a show of solidarity. I’ll be a proper Scot and wear everything just like this, but you have to do the same.”
Jen peered at the wad of fabric in her fist. Back up at Sam. She tried a little grin. He squared his shoulders and re-secured his feet.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“And you’re astute. But I already knew that.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before.”
He finally grinned. Just a little. “First times are fun to share with friends.”
“But I’m in a skirt!”
He glanced down at his kilt. “That so?”
Shit, shit, shit.
Jen pulled in a breath and frowned.
Sam drew in a breath and smiled. Then extended a hand. His fingers were long and beautiful and mesmerizing. Jen watched them beckon, curling inward but then straightening again. Expectant…dominant. “Panties, darlin’. Don’t worry. I’ll keep them safe. For now.”
If she had a shred of resistance left, he demolished it with that line. And in that moment, she wondered how it was that the man had ended up a pilot. His ability to push a jet at mach five was nothing compared to his ninja mind trick of disguising a command as conversation. And if that was the case, what would he be like without the camouflage, but in a public setting?
As Jen watched him pocket her panties, a polite smile on his lips but silver fire blazing in his eyes, she had a feeling she was about to find out.
