by Angel Payne
“If I see anyone sneaking one of those cookies down their maw, your entire snack is forfeit for today and the rest of the week!”
Thank God it was only Tuesday. Thank God, as well, for Sam, who actually caught one of the flying cookies barehanded and then scrambled another up from the floor near his foot. After the four remaining cookies were returned whole, barely fifteen minutes remained of what was supposed to be story hour.
“All right, you little goofballs.” She put her hands on her hips, resigned to chalking today up as a kitten herding day. “Why don’t you all enjoy some extra time looking for books to check out while Captain Mackenna helps me open the rest of the snack bags?”
Shawn was among the first to pop back up, his silly grin breaching even more of his face. “More explosions! More explosions!”
“Annnnd there’s a future IED man for you,” Sam muttered while she shooed the throng toward the stacks.
“Come back in fifteen minutes with books, you heathens,” Jen teased them. “And remember: your pile should have at least two from your grade’s required reading list. No loading up on manga and nature picture books. I’ll be looking for those gold ‘approved reading’ stickers, ladies and gentlemen.”
She turned back to help Sam with the rest of the cookie bags, but he’d already finished—with no more explosions—and was on to pouring cups of fruit juice and milk. “Och,” he murmured as she leaned in, transferring the cups to the end of the table where the kids would be eating. “Miss Jen, you’re pure skyrocket on the ball bustin’.”
A chuff escaped her. “Captain Mackenna, I thoroughly represent that remark.” Even though the last couple of words were the only part that made real sense. She could infer the rest, which might be a good idea at this point—because reaching in and getting that close to him again was definitely not her most fabulous move. Not already knowing what the man’s nearness did to her whole nervous system. Not after how the kids had just frayed it even more, outing her as “swoony” like that. Not with how the man cocked a sideways stare at her, obviously not about to give up on the memory so easily himself.
“Glad we’ve got that out of the way,” he stated, reprising the voice so silken, it belonged in a pinned cravat around his neck and topped with a velvet doublet—all but guaranteeing she’d tilt up a responding stare. Which at once crunched into a curious scowl.
“Which means what?” she demanded quietly, though interrupted herself the next second, calling at the two kids in her periphery, “Sheila, stop trying to kiss Anthony. And Anthony, stop trying to let her.” Without veering the angle of her stare, she cut the volume to demand from Sam again, “Which. Means. What?”
This time, he was the one to extend his arms to either side of her, two juice cups in each hand, and place them on the table behind her. The push made her scoot back a little, sandwiched between the table’s edge and all of his…edges. Which had been molded against a lot of her just an hour and a half ago, so why the hell was her body being such a rebel and forgetting all of that now? Why was she even more on fire, more out of breath, and more out-of-bounds on rational thought than she’d been when he was this close back at the base? And during a few key moments had been even closer? The only thing that had really changed was the setting—and the fact that they were now surrounded a bunch of squirrelly second, third, and fourth graders. So officially, he couldn’t really touch her. But more exigently, she couldn’t touch him in return.
She was tied back…
Held down…
And undeniably, uncontrollably wet from the mere thought of it.
And suddenly, restlessly, licking her lips because of that simple thought.
And perfectly, maddeningly, aware of how she riveted the man in front of her as well. No. Not just in front of her. Still around her, his arms bracketing her, his impossibly long fingers stroking the tabletop next to where her ass cheeks were braced. Still not touching her…but close enough that she could feel every steady, slow stroke along the fake wood surface…every caress he was thinking about delivering to her skin. And yes, she knew that too. After one glance up, letting her stare drown in the dark soot depths of his, she knew. She felt. So many perfect, bold vibrations, carrying all the way into her skin through that cheap laminate…
Until she recognized exactly why she was so sensitive to all those sensations.
The room had become so quiet, she could hear herself breathing. And her heart thudding. And perhaps even her blood rushing, having been turned into the Colorado River after the spring snowpack melt, by one dazzling male clad in a dashing flight suit and an I-rule-everything-including-you stare.
But it was never a good thing when this crowd went silent.
As she and Sam learned while turning their heads together, pushing the edge of their foreheads and then slowly rolling to the side…
Twenty-four sets of eyes. More eager than ever.
Twenty-four matching grins. Wider than ever.
And now, twenty-four raucous laughs, which got halted only because a few of the kids began a chant, which caught on through the crowd like wildfire.
“Kiss. Her! Kiss. Her! Kiss. Her!”
Oh, dear hell.
Out loud, Jen opted for the more acceptable choice—a mortified groan—just before Sam broke out in a laugh that shook his shoulders and ignited silvery glints in his eyes. His mirth was contagious, at least to the point that she didn’t argue as he scooped a hand behind her head and tucked her face close to his shoulder. Though he was far from an asshole about it, his firm grip nonetheless spoke to her with one forceful message.
Stay. Put.
And remarkably, she did. Even more amazingly, knowing that she could. That she had complete trust in Sam’s ability to handle this mini mob, even if they all decided to become real squirrels, chitter their way up his tree trunk legs, and run around both their heads in the chanting demand for their kiss.
But thank God, this was Sam Mackenna: the pilot who made her think jets were his personal livery and hardened military mechanics were his loyal horsemen. The man who could, with one swoop of his free hand, silence every one of these squirrels like a thunderstorm in their forest.
And did.
“Awright now, you wee beasties. You want to stand here and clamor about somethin’ that is not—I repeat, not—going to happen—”
“Ever?” Martha looked like the squirrel who’d just dropped all her nuts.
“—or would you like to think about gnoshin’ on some yummy snacks real quick so we have time for a quick Scottish ghost tale?”
A collective squeal pushed at the confines of the library before the kiss chant was quickly replaced by a new war cry.
“Snacks, snacks, snacks, snacks!”
It was just as good a time as any for Jen to release a relieved sigh. And to follow it with a soft laugh, mixing hers to the sound of Sam’s rich chuckle as he followed her into the stacks to help re-file books from the returns cart. It was easier to relax with him now, after an hour of seeing him acclimate on her “stomping grounds” instead of his, especially in the wake of his patience and charm with the kids she’d come to love so much. And with the cart between them, it was easier to resist the hot, heady temptation of the man’s pull on every shred of her self-composure. Not that she wasn’t still aware of it or wouldn’t be even after he flew all the way back to Scotland. How far could a giant magnet pull on helpless particles doomed to be drawn to it? Or had he bypassed the magnet and gone straight for some Gaelic gypsy spell, entrancing her forever even if oceans separated them instead of a four-foot book cart?
At this moment, she was inclined to believe the latter. The heady force of his presence had only strengthened over the last week, which had brought her to more than a few full stops of astonishment. Until now, she’d written off this kind of allure as something that only happened in fiction, but here he was between Little House Biddle Mouse and Little House in the Woods, though standing like he was about to transform those tomes into Chauce
r and Shakespeare, his long legs and proud shoulders making even his puke-green flight suit look like a nobleman’s vestments. And here she was, trying not to look like she wanted to be wearing a corset and five layers of crinolines instead of slacks and heels, just so he’d shove the cart aside, pin her against the Warrior Cats shelf, and claim her mouth with a conquering lord’s groan. Then he’d slide one of his large, powerful hands up under her skirts…and he’d use the other arm to capture her sighing swoon as she turned the texture of moors mist in his arms…
“Miss Jennnnn!”
When Sam started as violently as she did from Lindy’s shriek, she bit back an instant giggle. His quirking lips warmed her heart even more—while dampening everything between her thighs. Clearly she hadn’t been the only one to fall prey to their pull. And while the anomaly couldn’t last forever, she took a second—just one—to enjoy it while it lasted.
“Lindy.” She issued the calm reprimand while rounding the corner back toward the snack table. “Unless you see fire or blood, you stick to your inside voice, please. And sit down correctly. All four legs of the chair on the floor.”
Lindy pouted. “But—”
“On. The. Floor, missy.”
“But Anthony’s about to upchuck!”
“Oh, dear freaking…” But by the time she got that far, Sam already braced his huge hands around the boy’s ribcage, hoisted him out of his chair, and got him into the bathroom. Two seconds later, the poor kid’s retching noises were overridden by a fresh wave of horrified ewwwws, as well as the boys’ celebratory shouts. “All right!” she broke into the din. “Showtime’s over, gang. Change of plans. You all now have some bonus playground time. Clean up all your trash before you leave. Remember, your cups go into the green recycle bin.”
The group wasn’t exactly ready with the gleeful cheers she expected. A sulking Martha supplied the reason why. “But Captain Mackenna promised us a ghost story.”
More warm feels across her chest. She barely knew Sam but instantly interpreted the heartfelt nod he dipped from the open doorway of the bathroom. “I think Captain Mackenna would be happy to come back again soon in order to get that ghost story in.”
“Yaaaaay!”
Just five minutes later, Anthony himself was piercing the air with the same word, having convinced Jen he only ate something weird and was feeling fine enough to go enjoy the bonus playtime. Imagine that.
Jen had just wrapped up the call she’d placed to the boy’s teacher, warning the woman that a trip to the medical office might be happening before Anthony agreed to go to after-school homework club, when Sam sidled up to her side with a paper towel still in hand. Incredible. The man had just played nurse to a vomiting kid but still smelled like a mixture of balmy sun and spicy rain. More unbelievably, he was still grinning like a laird who’d merely been out romping with his wolfhounds in the heather fields.
As Jen stared at him in unguarded amazement, he murmured, “This was a much better afternoon than I ever thought it would be.”
She couldn’t help spurting a laugh. “Remind me to send you to the medical bay when we get back to Nellis.”
He pivoted a little, regarding her with a thickening gaze and a smoldering mien. “But my aches can’t be helped by doctors, lass.”
So screw the damp panties. As Jen acknowledged the hot lump in her throat, she also accepted that the man had made her completely wet. Yes, right here in the afternoon sun. Yes, between the tetherball courts and the swing set. But the man and his inference, in that lush Highland growl and with that anticipating wolf’s intent, swept her to the middle of a sexual forest, where anything could happen in the shadows…and she prayed that it would.
Only through sheer force of will, along with the nails she jabbed into her palms and the air she ordered into her lungs, was she able to avoid looking back at him and exposing all of those illicit fantasies to him at once. Somehow, she feigned her way through a light laugh instead. Then a flippant toss of her head, freeing her hair from where sweat made her shoulder-length waves cling to the back of her neck. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Captain. You haven’t seen how cute they grow the nurses here in the great Mojave Des—”
She was cut short, in the most breath-halting way, by the invasion of a warrior-sized pilot into her personal space. Sam pushed nearly as close as he’d gotten in the conference room back on base, making damn sure she was very aware of every huge, taut muscle in his tall, tense form—and how they all seemed ready to obey the vexation in his eyes at his slightest command.
His command.
And his vexation.
What would the two be like when meted out, especially combined with the third factor about his new vibe?
His desire.
So apparent, she couldn’t even write it off as chance.
So potent, she didn’t want to.
“Jenny.”
“H-Huh?” she managed to blurt.
“Why the fuck do you keep doin’ that?”
“Keep…doing what?”
He leaned in even closer. Again, not as close as he’d compelled her before, but near enough that the sunlight sparked into his mesmerizing eyes, flaring the lightning-bright specks of silver in them. Over and over and over, he streaked that electric heat across her face until dropping right onto her lips as he drew in deep air through his flared nostrils.
“Maybe I’ll have to take you back to school, Miss Thorne.” The gruff edges of his voice spoke the truth of the words—as much an invitation to pleasure as pain. “You seem to have forgotten a few…key lessons.”
Dear God. As the outcry echoed through her senses, Jen sneaked the tip of her tongue through the seam in her lips. Sam’s fascination with that turned into a flash of boldness she’d never possessed before. “Lessons…have to come with a plan of enforcement. You do know that, don’t you, Captain?”
He gritted something in Gaelic beneath his breath. She had no idea what it was, but the emphasis alone sent a new gush of arousal through her entire core. Yep, she’d definitely be driving the man back to base with soaked panties…
A theory proved to its fullest when they left VVE in the rearview and headed back up I-15 toward the base. At once, Jen hoped to resettle her nerves by cranking on the radio and silently thanked the alt-rock gods for a well-timed block of broody tunes designed to promo the “Emo Halloween-o Weekend” that was coming up—but not even a string of AFI, The Cure, and My Chemical Romance was daunting Sam from twisting in the passenger’s seat to fully face her and then even reaching a hand over to the exquisitely sensitive spot on the back of her neck.
“S-Sam…” She fought to get it out as a request instead of a groan. His touch was pure heaven, making her want to melt and quiver instead of navigating the mix of impatient locals and lookie-loo tourists on the highway.
“Hmmm?” His voice offered an even more decadent escape, lousy with a mix of seduction and command…the perfect mix required for a Highland laird. Only this wasn’t medieval Scotland, and clan lairds were only something traipsed out at costume fairs these days. In short, no matter how heady the fantasy he offered, she had to keep one foot grounded in reality. And hopefully take all her intimate bits along with it.
“You…that…feels wonderful, but…”
“But what, little mouse?”
One foot. Reality. Intimate bits too.
Even if he had gone ahead and turned “mouse” into an entrancing version of “moose” and had found the tightest wad of tension in her entire body to start kneading on…
With gritted teeth, she pulled herself away from him by leaning toward the steering wheel. Though she now looked like a blue-hair on her way to Bingo Night, the distance served her well with delivering fortitude—at least enough to state, “You don’t have to. I’m all sweaty back there.”
But damn it, the man simply slid his wickedly long fingers up and over her headrest, as if waiting for her to resettle before continuing to have his way with her nape. “Who says I don’t wa
nt you sweaty, a leanbh?”
The man was not making this easy.
Not by one damn particle.
He did, however, provide her with a diversion—maybe something they both needed by this point. “So, what does that mean?” she queried, swiping her mind free of every torrid innuendo he’d just evoked. “Lan-uhv?”
Sam echoed her pronunciation, only finessing it with a lot more sex. At least that was what it sounded like to her, especially when he began his incredible rubbing as soon as she focused more on his voice than her Granny Thorne posture and resettled into the seat. “It’s similar to how you’d say ‘little one’ or ‘baby’ here.”
She side-eyed him with considerable snark. “Not ‘OMG, this is the sweatiest neck I’ve ever massaged in my life’?”
He stopped his hand—but only long enough to snarl, “I thought I’d made my views clear about that.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir. You did.”
His grip got tighter. A gruff grunt escaped him. “Say it again.”
“You did.” Jen issued it without thinking. But the man’s beautiful brogue, layered over that leonine growl, would’ve had her agreeing to drive the car all the way to the edge of the Grand Canyon at this point. Probably right over the lip as well. “Made your views clear, I mean. I—I got it. You’re fine with sweat. We’re—We’re clear.” Only were they? Through her babbling, the man just kept clenching his grip tighter and harder.
“No,” he finally uttered. His growl was gone. In its place was a tone more dangerous, like his throat had become a cold steel pipe—matched by a cuff he locked around her throat. And her mind, because she instantly knew the words he wanted.
The words she craved to give him.
“Yes, sir.”
At once, he eased up on his hold to her nape. Dragged it up into her hair until his long, forceful fingers dug in against her scalp, kneading the back of her head. “A leanbh,” he husked. “Good girl.”
