Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body)

by Naima Simone

  “The other night I noticed you wear three dog tags.” She touched her chest, and continued in spite of the forbidding hardness entering his eyes. “I thought most soldiers had two.”

  Silence so cold entered the room, she wouldn’t have been surprised if icicles formed in front of her nose. Damn, she should’ve left it alone. Shouldn’t have pushed…

  “One of them is Marcus’s,” he said in that same flat tone. “I have one, and Khalil has the other.”

  “Khalil,” she murmured. “I know he’s a partner in GDG, but I’ve never met him.”

  “He served with Marcus and me in Afghanistan.”

  A deep silence followed his admission, and she could fill in the blanks from what little Addy had managed to pry from Shane about the attack that had injured him and several of his fellow soldiers. The attack that had ended his military career. The attack where Marcus had sacrificed his life to save his friends.

  “Shane, I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine.” Translation: Mind your business. I don’t want to talk about it.

  Tension invaded the room, an intruder she had no idea how to cast out. Especially when she’d opened the door and invited it in.

  Desperate to see a smile on his face for once—or even the exasperation reserved just for her—she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

  “Truth or dare,” she blurted.

  Surprise flared in his eyes, the only reaction to her impulsive announcement. “What?”

  “Truth or dare,” she repeated, warming up to the idea. “Let’s play.” When he studied her as if she’d suggested running down to the beach bare-ass naked and jumping in the ocean, she sighed. “Come on. What else do we have to do?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I can think of something else,” he drawled, rising from the couch.

  “Y’know, a while back I asked Addy if you’d had that two-by-four removed from your ass.” She cocked her head to the side, pretending to peer at the back of his black cargo pants. “I see it’s still firmly embedded.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I swear that mouth. Never. Stops.” But he sank down, reclaiming his seat on the sofa. “Fine,” he agreed. “Let’s play.”

  Overlooking his lack of enthusiasm, she grinned. Stick up his ass or not, he was such a man. Insult their pride or their dick, and they crumbled. “Truth or dare?”

  Crossing his arms, he bit out, “Truth.”

  “Ba-KAH,” she squawked, her chicken imitation earning a hard glare. “Okay, okay.” She laughed, holding her hands up in the age-old sign of surrender. Tapping a finger against her bottom lip, she scrunched her face as if deep in thought. Not. She propped her chin in her palms. “What is your favorite sexual position?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?” he snapped, fire flashing in his gaze. But not anger. She’d glimpsed his anger—the emotion turned his eyes into icy shards. But desire, lust…it smoldered so he stared at her with heat that singed her senses, lit a clenching deep in her sex. Nope, he wasn’t angry.

  “One that requires a truthful answer,” she purred.

  “My favorite sexual position.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. His piercing scrutiny ensnared her, didn’t allow her to move, to breathe. “A woman under me, her thighs spread wide, riding my waist, taking me deep. From this position I can control how hard or gentle, fast or slow I fuck. I can study what makes her tremble, gasp, or cry out. Come.” His hooded stare roamed her face, landed on her parted lips where low pants escaped. “Truth or dare?” he murmured.

  Truth or what…? Oh God, right. “Dare.”

  An evil smile eased across his face, and her belly dipped. “You have to…be quiet for five minutes.”

  Her jaw dropped. Actually. Dropped. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

  “That’s the dare. Unless you refuse…” He lifted a broad shoulder. “I think there are consequences for that.”

  “Fine,” she ground out, scowling as he set the stopwatch on his cell phone.

  For the following five minutes she fought against the urge to talk. Thoughts popped into her head, and more than once she almost blurted them out. So she settled for glaring holes into Shane’s chest. And consigning his balls to the most violent shade of blue possible.

  “Time,” he announced when the alarm on the cell beeped. “I do believe that’s the longest I’ve ever heard you quiet. Well, except when you’re asleep.”

  “Truth. Or. Dare,” she growled.

  “Dare.”

  Oh, payback was a bitch. “Sing ‘Danny Boy.’” She hooted at his stunned, blank expression. “Oh yeah,” she crowed. “Unless you refuse…” she repeated his earlier veiled threat, mimicking his shrug as well. “Then we would have to move onto the double-dog dare area.”

  “How old are we?” he grumbled under his breath, shooting her a fierce scowl.

  “Listen, you can concede. I can’t promise everyone won’t know how you quit ’cause you were scared—”

  The first notes of “Danny Boy” boomed into the air.

  And she discovered that Shane Roarke possessed at least one imperfection: his singing voice.

  She winced, still managing to maintain a straight face as he bade Danny Boy to come back when summer was upon the meadow, the high note a mangled cross between two cats shadowboxing and a dying buffalo. But by the time he sang of sweet dreams and sleeping in peace, she’d lost it. Clutching her aching stomach, she flopped on the couch cushions, hollering in laughter. Tears leaked from her eyes as she gasped for breath.

  Good God, he was awful. Like eternal-punishment-in-the-bowels-of-Tartarus awful. And it was wonderful. Sitting up, she wiped the moisture from her cheeks, pressing her hands to her sore abdomen. Jesus, when was the last time she’d laughed so hard? Months. Even before she witnessed the murder. It was cathartic. Freeing.

  And Shane had gifted it to her.

  He studied her, a slight smile tipping a corner of his full mouth. “Truth or dare,” he murmured.

  “Truth.”

  The other corner quirked. “Now who’s chicken?” he softly taunted.

  “Chicken,” she said raising one hand, palm up. “Self-preservation,” she added, lifting the other hand. Shrugging, she “weighed” her options. Self-preservation won. “I can live with chicken.”

  “Speaking of chicken.” He cocked his head to the side. “What are you most afraid of?”

  She blinked, momentarily surprised. “Afraid of?”

  “Yes,” he said, leaning forward. “As long as I’ve known you, fear has never been in your vocabulary. Indomitable, willful, bold. But everyone’s scared of something. What about you?”

  She chuckled, the sound strained, forced. “Besides birthdays? Because they terrify the bejeezus out of me. Especially since on my last one I witnessed a murder.”

  But the joke fell flat under his unblinking contemplation, and her tongue lay in her mouth like a block of cement. His words reverberated in her head, and suddenly her cowardice at deflecting his question shamed her.

  Was that how he really perceived her? Fearless. When she was terrified of every damn thing? Part of her—the vain part—loathed to change his perception. She wanted to be seen as strong and brave by this man whose profession had been battle and defense, and who still provided security and safety. But the game was Truth or Dare. And the other half of her, the half that yearned to share a piece with him that she hadn’t revealed to anyone else, longed to give him her truth.

  “Failing,” she admitted softly, shifting her eyes to his chest. “I’m afraid of failing at being more than a spoiled socialite who lives off her parents, only to one day marry and sponge off her husband. I’m afraid of failing at succeeding. I’m afraid of failing at living, at becoming.” Her chest rose and fell on rapid breaths. The truth, it seemed, was also terrifying. Especially when the person on the receiving end had the power to crush your heart and spirit with it. Gathering her pride and courage, she met his gaze again. And encountered an und
erstanding and heat that stole her the air from her lungs. “And birthdays,” she added, reaching for flippant and falling flat.

  His eyebrow winged high. “What?”

  “Birthdays,” she repeated. “I’m afraid of them, too.” She inhaled, released it on a humorless chuckle. “I bet I could go into the Guinness Book of World Records for the suckiest birthdays on record. I’ve sat on a window seat and waited hours for my father to pick me up, only to have him be a no show. I threw myself at you and lost my virginity to a pompous, inept ass on the same birthday.” She snickered. “On the last one, my boyfriend broke up with me by Twitter, and I witnessed a murder. You tell me, where do I go from there?”

  “Twitter?” he croaked, zeroing in on that particular humiliating detail. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “Asshole didn’t even have the decency to direct message me. He tweeted it to God and country.”

  “And you did…what?”

  She shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “Tweeted back he shouldn’t worry about his small dick or little performance problem.” She paused. “And included a picture of his junk.”

  “Oh. Shit.” He stared at her, blinked several times, then threw his head back and hooted, shaking with his hilarity. “You emasculated a man with social media.”

  “In one hundred and forty characters. I rock.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He laughed, but eventually quieted, studying her with knowing eyes. “I know a little something about screwed up birthdays, too.”

  She straightened, stunned. A rueful half smile quirked the corner of his mouth

  “I…hated my birthday. Not because no one would remember or give a damn. I dreaded my birthday because my mother would remember. She never forgot one. Not for me or Addy.” His lips straightened into a sober line. “My stomach would hollow out every time Addy’s or mine neared. Mom would rent hotel ballrooms to throw huge, outrageous parties complete with DJs, catering, clowns and magicians when we were younger. She went all out…and afterward our money was all out. Nothing for rent, groceries, or utilities. I’ve lost count of how many parties were followed by days in the dark eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, waiting for the letter on the door about late rent—or worse, an eviction notice because the previous month’s rent had gone unpaid, too.”

  The urge to touch him, cradle his cheek, and kiss away the hurt and anger he probably wasn’t even aware tainted his voice, swirled inside her. She would bet money he’d never confided in anyone about those days. Not to his friends, and definitely not Addisyn, to whom he’d had to be the strong, protective big brother. Strange how they could find something as obscure—and bruising—as birthday tragedies in common.

  “Truth or dare,” he murmured.

  “Wait.” She held up a hand. “Hold on. It’s my turn.”

  “I just admitted a truth. So,” he shook his head, “my turn again.”

  She scowled. “No fair. I didn’t agree to that.”

  He chuckled, and the low, wicked rumble of amusement stroked over her skin, slipped beneath her T-shirt to caress her nipples into hard tips before snaking under her jeans to circle her clit. Leaving her hot, flushed, and aching. His gaze dropped to her breasts, and no way in hell he could miss the rigid points poking against the thin cotton. Her breath snagged in her lungs, and remained there until his scrutiny rose to her face again. The heat there singed her, tossed kindling on the fire already simmering in her veins.

  “Life rarely is fair, baby,” he said, the endearment another caress to her already sensitized senses. “Now. Truth or dare.”

  “Fine,” she bit out. “Truth.”

  “Truth,” he repeated, his hooded scrutiny piercing, glittering. “Last night you asked what if all you wanted from me was to fuck? No strings, just sex. Was that true? Do you just want to be…taken?”

  She should lie. Self-preservation—the same defense mechanism that had been off the clock when she’d kissed him all those years ago—shouted to deflect, pass the outburst off as an impetuous taunt. To save herself from further humiliation. But the same need and dangerous lick of anticipation curled in her chest, her belly, compelling her to leap.

  And damn the fall.

  “I know why you believe getting involved with me would be the height of lunacy. Addy, I’m her best friend. It could get messy. Not to mention that you think I’m reckless, irresponsible. I’m aware of what you want for your life. The family, wife, the American dream. I even understand why. But what you don’t understand is that’s not my dream. You want to know what is my dream?” she whispered. “To be that woman under you. To be spread wide and covered. To be held down, touched, filled until I can’t take anymore. And then have you prove me wrong.” She curled her fingers into the couch beside her thighs, her heart thumping behind her sternum like a rabbit late for tea. “I don’t want forever. I never did… I just want right now.”

  Except for the small tic jumping along his tightly clenched jaw, he didn’t move. Not one muscle. But those eyes… How could she have ever thought of them as cold, aloof? Molten. And with a searing intensity that spoke of the previous night when she’d crawled on the bed and took him into her mouth.

  “Truth or dare,” she whispered.

  If possible, the inner fire in his gaze blazed brighter. “Truth,” he uttered, that silk and gravel voice eliciting a shiver over her skin.

  “If you could kiss me anywhere on my body right now, where would it be?”

  He didn’t reply, and for a devastating moment, her heart seized. She’d pushed too far, too fast. Stupid. He hadn’t pushed her away from him in the shadowed cocoon of sensuality and darkness, but in the harsh light of this room, face-to-face, and clearheaded, his cool logic would prevail. Leaving her standing out there on that ledge by herself…again.

  “Forget—” She held a hand up as if she could stop the eminent rejection.

  One moment he imitated a statue on the couch, and in the next he loomed over her, forcing her to lean back. His palms pressed the cushions on either side of her shoulders, caging her between the sofa and his big body. She regarded him, stunned into silence. His wide frame blocked out the room, so all that existed for her was him. His burning gaze, the carnal curves of his lips, the lust stamped on his hard, gorgeous features. The broad expanse of his shoulders and chest, the corded strength of his thighs as he herded closer.

  “Your mouth,” he purred like a powerful, rumbling predator, slipping free of his holster and setting it on the cushion. “You sucked me to heaven last night. Seeing your lips wrapped around my cock”—his eyes briefly closed before opening and snagging her again—“prettiest sight I’ve ever seen. I had to fight not to come the second you took me in.” He brushed a thumb over her bottom lip. Pressed it so her teeth lightly abraded the tender skin on the inside. “But you’ve had my dick in your mouth, and I haven’t even kissed you. That’s a tragedy. A crime. You deserve more honor than that.”

  Removing his hand, he lowered his head so their noses bumped, and she could taste the flavor of his kiss on his breath.

  “Open wide,” he gently, but firmly, ordered. “Like you did for my cock. I want all of you.”

  I want all of you. Though the demand referred to her body, it still resonated deep within her where the neglected child and discarded—expendable—woman hid. The words incited a tremor that she had to consciously, ruthlessly quell. Lust. It glittered in his eyes. That’s what this kiss entailed, not a claiming. Not that she desired it anyway. She belonged to herself—the only person who wouldn’t hurt her, ignore her, throw her away.

  In spite of the thoughts swirling in her head, she obeyed him. Nebulous longings and confusion rode the backseat to desire. She craved his kiss. Had fantasized about it for years. Not just the kiss, but the hunger that now brightened his gaze. The strain and tension fairly vibrating off him, evidence of his barely restrained control.

  Unfolding her legs, she settled her feet on the floor, her thighs spread wide in invitation for him to mov
e closer. She rested her hands on her lap, palms up in total submission to him, and tilted her head back.

  With a low, almost animalistic growl, he swooped in, captured her lips, branded her with the hard thrust of his tongue. He swept inside, licking, stroking, devouring. Thrusting a hand in her hair, he tugged on the curls, while his other hand cupped and squeezed her jaw, commanding without words that she open wider, surrender more. With a moan, she did.

  And he proceeded to fuck her mouth.

  Raw and painfully erotic, nothing else could describe how he took her. Lips locked over hers, he plunged his tongue in and out, back and forth, consuming her. It wasn’t gentle but carnal, wild. He rode her mouth as hard as she imagined him riding her. Not content to remain a passenger, she curled her tongue around his and sucked, drew on him. Above her, he shuddered.

  His harsh, almost angry-sounding groan was her only warning before her world flipped upside down. She blinked, momentarily disoriented as the ceiling filled her vision instead of Shane. A hard surface pressed against her spine and lower back. The coffee table. She lay on the coffee table like high tea. And as strong, determined fingers worked at her jeans and cool air kissed her stomach and hips, she shivered with the sneaking suspicion she was about to become a meal.

  “Oh God.” Her breath snagged in her throat as Shane wrenched the tight denim down her legs and tossed them to the side, her panties quickly following suit. She stretched out before him naked from the waist down, vulnerable, exposed, and so turned on, he could surely see the evidence of it on the swollen folds of her sex.

  Large, firm hands pushed her thighs apart, his thumbs caressing the seams that connected torso to legs. The air in the room thickened to the consistency of maple syrup, smothering her, filling her lungs. She flung an arm over her eyes, the other hand clutching the edge of the table. Holding on.

  A part of her acknowledged she should possess at least some amount of modesty or reserve. Maybe put up a token resistance at his sudden and unsolicited baring or murmur an objection. She should… But her shouting anything other than “Please, eat me!” would be hypocritical. She wanted this—craved this.