by Angel Payne
She had to get through this.
She was stronger than this.
But even as the spray hit her, warming every second, her legs didn’t reinvigorate to stand. Her body wouldn’t cooperate with her will. The heat just seemed to open more vortices now, into which her heart melted…and her grief poured.
Beneath the pelting heat, she curled into a new ball. As the water soaked her clothes then her body, she let the pain drench her defenses—
And topple them.
Chapter Eight
‡
Still frothing with irritation at Z, Franzen kicked off his flip-flops—Zeke’s flip-flops—then barreled across the master bedroom in full target lock mode.
Cold water. His body. Right now.
It’d be a shitty excuse for how he normally handled stress—in Special Forces leadership, the skill was as essential as reading a mission or stomaching ration packs—but right now, there wasn’t an ocean to swim in, a gym to pump in, or a dungeon full of subbies ready to give him an hour or two of Dominant escape. There was only the shower, and the restart of sanity it would give in the form of ten freezing minutes.
He hoped.
If not, this day was going to get a hell of a lot longer. And more painful.
As if he needed a reminder of exactly that, he took a recharging breath, and instead got a lungful of one distinct scent. Tracy. The woman with the sassy, sexy name and the huge kitten eyes smelled like ginger and jasmine and vanilla, filling his senses with a spring he wanted less than the sunshine—but couldn’t desire more.
So the spring turned into summer. Suffusing him. Centering, as always, on the part of him craving her the most.
“Fuck.” He gritted it as his dick punched his sweats. Again. He needed that cold shower five minutes ago.
The purpose drove him across the last few feet of the bedroom, throttling him through the bathroom door—
Where he entered a bank of solid steam.
“What the—”
He pieced his mind together long enough for two possible conclusions. One, he’d somehow fallen asleep and now dreamt of some jungle-based mission. Two, Z and Rayna had installed a bathroom sauna and it had somehow been turned on. Admittedly, he’d started leaning more toward option two—
When the reality of option three set in.
The shower was on. And there was someone inside it.
But why was the door open?
More importantly—why was that person sobbing?
More urgent than that—where was she? And was it a she?
The answer to the last was as certain to him as his own heartbeat. Yes. It was a woman. More definitely, even without having a visual on her, he knew exactly which woman. As soon as the shock of the steam wall wore off, he’d known. Had felt her down to the marrow of his bones, an awareness begun in the sizzle of his blood, the burst of his senses…the fullness of his cock. It was the same jolt she’d given him yesterday, before they’d even met. Then again after the sound check, when they’d been briefly separated so he could discuss the driving route changes back to The Bellagio with Sol. And now—God, especially now. The air was different with her in it. His entire body was different.
Even now, with the force of her presence carrying her distress. Sorrow that clenched his gut, vise-gripped his muscles, and redirected all the pain in his groin to the plain of his chest. It choked up to his throat, turning talking into a torment.
“Tracy?” he forced out, while clearing the space to the shower in two critical strides. By the time he got to the lip of the stall, his feet were soaking wet. No way had she just turned on the spigot—
A fact verified, as soon as he saw her.
Still fully clothed. Huddled against the stall’s wall, her head leaned against the wall. Her eyes were vacant but her face was crumpled in a sob.
“Tracy,” he croaked again. “Kitten. Shit.”
Without second thought, he scooted in next to her. Leaned over but stopped short of touching her. Aside from laying a limp hand on his knee, she didn’t acknowledge his arrival in any way. Didn’t look at him. Still didn’t speak a word.
“Tracy.” He intoned it more firmly, in service to the field commander he allowed to take over his psyche. Franzen the man was still in there, only running around like an idiot gaping at a spreading fire with a dead phone and an empty bucket. Thank fuck for Dragon the captain, ordering the lunatic to take a seat so he could speak to the shock clearly claiming her from head to toe. “Ku’uipo…can you hear me?”
She blinked. Just once. He accepted it as progress.
“Okay. So try to hear me some more.”
“No.”
Okay. More progress. He wasn’t sure he liked it better than the blinking, but he’d take it.
“No?”
“No.” She pushed it out louder. Used the hand she’d placed on his knee to shove at him. “Not going to listen. Not to you.” Her face twisted again. Harder than before. “Not to you.”
He pushed back to his haunches. Commanded a breath in then out. Yeah, fuck it, this was progress too. Progress like gaining ground by stomping on a wasp’s nest, but yeah, progress. She was talking to him. Now if he could get her talking with him…
“Okay. Then maybe I can go get someone you will listen to.” He visualized where he’d last seen Gemini Vann and Veronica Gallo. In the den, relaxing with the kids and their stereophonic video games—though something had clearly, finally triggered her to cave like this from yesterday’s shock. The delayed emotions didn’t surprise him, though what she’d done about them did.
“No.”
She gritted the retort this time, intensifying his concern to the point that he reached out again. But the second his hand formed over her shoulder, she flinched and seethed.
“No! There’s no one you can ‘go get’, dammit.”
He pulled back, watching his hand curl on itself in midair. He thought of all the damage that fist had done, to so many shitheads and losers over the years, but was now a symbol of utter helplessness—inches from a person he was aching to help. Fate was getting in all its best taunts today. His spirit hadn’t agonized this much even when the news about Nichols had come out.
And the pain in this stall is about you…how?
Easy answer. It wasn’t.
But no way in hell was he leaving her in here, all but drowning herself in several senses of the word. If she ordered him all the way out of the shower, then he’d abide—and simply sit on the tile outside. One puddle for another; no difference to him physically—but he would stay here for her, whether she asked for it or not. Even if it fucking killed him.
For now, he chose to simply settle back on his haunches. Nearly as an afterthought, reached and cranked the spray off. In the eerie silence after, Tracy joined her quiet sniffs to the heavy drops of the draining water. John re-balled both his hands, hating even the inches between them. To not even touch her, let alone resist the baser need to clutch her close…
Fuck.
Waterboarding had nothing on this shit.
And the worst part hadn’t even sunk in.
She’s just following your lead, asshole.
That was the worst part.
In protecting her from his secret side, he’d been locked out of her secrets too. In shielding her from his darkness, she’d made sure he stayed right there—in the dark. Away from the ability to even give her some light…
Moron. You. Same sentence, Keoni John Franzen.
Finally, she snuffled with more determination. Jerked up her head a little, long enough to slide him a furtive side-eye, but nothing more. She pulled her hand all the way back in, tucking it beneath her chin as she settled her head against the wall again.
“I want to talk to Craig.”
A brutal exhalation left him. His throat tightened. His chest compressed. Hell, nothing was comfortable. Nor was it meant to be.
“I know you do,” he murmured.
“I’m…scared.”
Sc
rew uncomfortable. Everything was agony—especially when she wouldn’t even let him do anything about it. No. When he’d pushed her away out in the bedroom, letting her walk away with the impression that he wouldn’t do anything.
“I know you are.”
At least he had words. Paltry proxies, but they’d have to suffice somehow.
“I have no idea what to do.”
“But you don’t have to figure it out alone, ku’uipo.”
Her face contorted again, though not with impending tears. Her eyes flared with irritation. “Don’t call me that.”
He barely repressed a grin. “You’re gorgeous when you’re hissy, kitten.”
“Yeah? Well, I have Tigress claws, remember?”
“Fine, fine.” He held up both hands. “Maybe you just want ‘ma’am’ again?”
“And maybe you just want me to hunt down a flattening iron.”
His chuckle was impossible to tame. Her glower went from simmering to smoky. He had no idea there were so many nuances of gray. In her eyes, they were all fascinating.
“Maybe you can just close your eyes and pretend I’m Craig.” The offer was sincere—he was up for any creative solution here—but her laughter, high and biting, was nowhere near a vote of approval.
“That’s so not going to happen.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because I’d know the difference.”
“How?”
“John.” Her laugh mellowed to a watery eye roll. He suddenly knew how Luke must feel when a test wasn’t studied for. “I’d know the difference between you and any other man.”
And just like that, no more feeling like her teen kid.
Feeling everything like the jerk who’d probably made the biggest mistake of his life with her earlier, and would spend the rest of his mortal days cussing himself out for it. “Fuck.” Might as well start now. “Ku’uipo.”
Her Tigress side flared in a swift snarl. “What didn’t you understand about not calling me that?”
“And what don’t you understand that I’m only here to help?” The backlash, his higher ground pick of a reply, was still better than choice two: smashing one hell of a kiss on her feisty lips. “It slipped. So skewer me.”
Her regard softened. “It’s okay. Just…be careful.”
Now he was the one clinging to his scowl. “You don’t even know what it means.”
“I can guess by your tone.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“When your voice alone makes me want to come over there and maul you? Yeah.” She lingered her stare longer—to his intense pleasure. More intense than he wanted to admit, but couldn’t deny. Not when the heat from his skin met the wetness of his clothes and created a new experience for him. Steam Bath—in SenSurround.
“Tracy.” He heeded her request—the tone was new; perhaps the first time he’d ever used it outside a bondage dungeon before—though its replacement was just as merciless. Perhaps more so. He issued her name as a declaration…a command. Nothing he’d ever use on his battalion members, because this asked for a different kind of obedience. No. Demanded it.
“What?” She dropped her head but lifted it again. Her eyes were as huge as a pair of London moons.
“Do you…want…to maul me?”
For the first time since he’d crawled in here, her body loosened. She opened up a little, still staring with the moon in her eyes—only now, joined by the comets in her energy. Untamed rogue comets—all aimed his direction. “‘Want’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
Flames licked the edges of her voice—and now the length of his cock. Fuck, how this woman got to him. How her spirit and sass challenged him. How her desire affected him…
“Tracy.” He didn’t hesitate about wielding the dungeon command now. Doubly deep, three times as severe.
“Wh-what?”
Oh, yeah. He also liked it when her defiance wobbled a little. What would it be like to make it shake a lot?”
“Get over here and maul me.”
Chapter Nine
‡
Every inch of her body screamed yes.
Craving the strength of him. The authority of him. The hard, burnished heaven of him.
Every neuron in her mind blared no.
Remembering his rejection. His confidence about it. His surety of exactly what she needed from a man—relationship, stability, commitment—and his inability to supply any of that.
But right now, she didn’t need a freaking commitment.
She needed an escape.
A way out of the insanity tumbling down on her. The world that felt too big. The fear, closing in like a forest under a dark spell…
She needed the sun. The fire. If only just this once, the perfect incineration…
Of him.
She leapt at him with desperate, driving force. Grabbed his wet shirt with one hand and the meat of his neck with the other, using both to slam her body tighter against his. Yes. So blissful, straddling him. So hot, feeling him. So stretched, and she was only riding his pulsing bulge through their clothes…
A situation needing to be changed.
As soon as damn possible.
If his taut groan was any clear communicator, Franzen was on the same perfect page. He finished it by croaking, “Fuck. Kitten.” More words tumbled out in his island tongue, and she didn’t ask for a translation. His raw granite voice turned it all into filthy temptation, and she didn’t want to think any differently. She succumbed to his erotic call with sighing abandon, exactly how she’d wanted to since meeting him.
“Meow,” she uttered into his ear, before sinking her teeth into the lobe. His hands, gripping her thighs, dug in to the point of pain. Together, they released aroused hisses.
It was awakening. Arousal. Explosions so electric and erotic and new, but a connection she also recognized already, in places even deeper than her womb…as if it were always meant to be.
As if he were always meant to be.
Nothing confirmed it more than the moment he coiled a hand in her hair, twisted her head back then plunged his mouth over hers.
She had half a second to mewl in surprise before the man stole even that from her. His tongue lunged and conquered, swept and ravaged, taking every part of her wide, willing mouth. Gone was the carefully reined warrior, even the diligent dragon guard, bringing on the understanding of why he’d backed off before. He’d known, even then. He’d known it would be like this if they gave in to their attraction…if they gave even one spark to their fire.
Too late now.
And Tracy wasn’t one bit sorry.
She melted for him. Sighed and groaned, succumbing to the brutal mastery of him. Let her fear tumble free as her passion thickened, becoming the putty of his desire.
Mold me, her mind begged.
Take me, her pussy pleaded.
Free me, her spirit screamed.
John released her from the kiss only to impale her with his stare, the mocha of his eyes stirred with liquid gold—and the intensity of new insight. He’d heard her. Not in the clumsy rudiment of words, but in the fabric of his own mind, soul, and body. He’d heard her.
But more than that, he’d listened.
So why did his grip loosen against her scalp? Why were his brows knit so tight, they nearly vee’d at the center of his forehead?
He released a tight breath from locked teeth, as if hearing those queries just as clearly. “I can’t promise sweet and sultry, woman. I’ll try, but—”
“But what?” she managed to murmur, despite how he interrupted himself with a growl radiating beneath her skin, through every cell of her blood.
His hands, now clutching her by the nape and waist, curled tighter. “But I want you too much.” His head dipped until his mouth shoved aside her T-shirt, nuzzling at her neck. “I want these goddamn barriers gone. I want…”
“Don’t stop.” She implored it like a desert wanderer led to a waterfall. Wound her arms around his neck. Spread
fingers through the brutal needles of his hair. Yes. Yes. He was so much…so much. Water flowing over a burnished dagger. Dark, smooth skin over ruthless power. A man wielding the force of ancient gods. She needed more. So much more. “Please…don’t stop…”
Franz yanked her body harder against his. “I want to strip every thread of this shit off you. Make you lie back, legs spread, while you watch me strip too—knowing what my body is going to do to you next.”
Holy. Shit.
Had the man taken some course in verbal foreplay? How to Make a Woman Gush in 50 Words or Less?
And did she care?
Not one damn bit.
She only had one reaction—sheer, ecstatic gratitude—as she scraped both hands forward, bracing the formidable angles of his jaw. With that grip, she pulled him close for another kiss. She only touched the surface of his broad, full lips, but within a second the man took over, pushing at hers. No. He forced his way in, ramming her wide once more, drawing her tongue out to give exactly what his demanded.
Everything.
It was rapidly becoming a theme around here—proved by its resonance in her consciousness, fed by the surety of it in her soul.
Everything.
It was what he’d demand, in the form of her consent to his desire.
It was what she’d give anyway, because there wasn’t a “half power” switch in her psyche when it came to this man. Not from the moment he’d first taken her hand. Definitely not now.
It was the mode she wanted to experience this in. To experience him. To be taken and consumed and claimed by him…
It was the way she gave up as he gathered her close and tight, jerking her legs high around his waist before he stood. His muscles bunched like physical poetry, as if they were on thick grass instead of slick tiles, handling her weight with powerful ease.
“Hang on tight, kitten.”
God. The new gymnastics he taught her stomach with each new use of that naughty endearment…
