Stealth Ops Series Box Set

by Brittney Sahin

  The pad of his thumb brushed across her lips, and then he pulled her back in his arms, his mouth capturing her lower lip, tugging it between his teeth.

  When he kissed her again, she was pretty sure her lids squeezed so tight she saw stars.

  He peeled off his shirt before her back hit the wall again. He sucked at her neck, and she bit into his hard shoulder, unable to stop herself from rubbing up against him.

  “Owen,” she cried as he dragged his lips down the side of her neck, pushing her short hair away in the process, then gathered both her wrists in one hand and held them above her head.

  Goose bumps scattered her flesh as he worked at her shorts with his free hand.

  The man had skills. He’d managed to get his hand . . .

  Oh, God. The moment his finger swept beneath her panties and touched her—she nearly buckled.

  And when he looked deep into her now open eyes, a moment of indecision flared there, but only for a moment.

  He released his hold of her wrists and dropped to his knees, yanking her shorts and panties down in the process.

  She found his shoulders, her head tipping skyward, as his tongue licked and baited her into sweet ecstasy.

  He grabbed hold of her ass cheeks, pulling her closer to his face, and she bucked against him, so close to release—but then he stopped.

  “Not yet,” he said while standing, killing her with his words.

  She kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her shorts, then tore off her tee and bra. When he lowered his jeans, she quirked a brow. “Boxers, huh?” An unexpected smile found her lips, a smile not supposed to be present during angry sex.

  And when he freed himself of his boxers and grabbed hold of his shaft, which was roped in thick veins, she couldn’t help but reach between her legs.

  He heaved out a deep breath and groaned before grabbing hold of her.

  He lifted her like she was a feather and then turned and tossed her on the bed. His hands balled into fists at his sides as she propped her head up with her elbow and stared at him.

  Naked on Owen York’s bed.

  How was this happening? How was she letting this happen?

  But she couldn’t stop herself, either.

  Her body had taken control, and her fingertips trailed a circle around her belly button before wandering to her smooth center, and Owen’s impressive length seemed to grow even more as his gaze tracked her every movement.

  He joined her on the bed with a condom he’d grabbed from his wallet. He braced himself above her, teasing her with the circular movements of his hips, his cock brushing against her.

  She arched up off the bed, dying to have him inside of her—to have him do whatever the hell he pleased.

  Somehow, their angry sex didn’t feel so angry, though.

  The way he looked at her—the way she looked at him. It felt anything but.

  She felt as if she were a marionette and someone was pulling the strings of her heart, making it dance, making everything inside of her move and come to life. Owen was somehow capable of this, and she couldn’t think about the how or the why; she only wanted to think about how damn good he felt.

  His nose touched her chest. “You smell so good.” And then his mouth came down over her breast, and he flicked his tongue at her nipple as his other hand caressed her inner thighs, torturing her with the promise of what was to come.

  And when his fingers slipped inside of her, it was as if he were readying her for him—warming her up to the moment he filled her.

  He continued to toy with her breast, eliciting moans from her as her body kept lifting off the bed, desperate for more.

  A few minutes later, he moved to his knees and sheathed himself. Gone was any look of indecision in his eyes.

  Lust. A hell of a lot of lust, mirroring how she felt.

  And then in one swift move, he plunged inside of her, and her head fell back as she cried out a hard gasp.

  He slammed into her again. Hard.

  Then harder.

  A minute? He managed to keep pounding into her for . . . well, she lost count of the many minutes as she became hot and sweaty.

  His stamina was out of this world.

  She was growing dizzy with the need to come while trying to hold back. Then, he flipped her to her knees and held onto her hips—delivering what he’d promised: angry and hard sex.

  Her hands fisted the comforter as she moved with him, fighting to hang on without coming so soon.

  She grunted like an animal in the wild.

  Her body tightened, and his fingertips bit even harder into the flesh at her sides.

  Then he leaned in closer and brought one of his hands around and to her nipple, pinching and twisting.

  She couldn’t last any longer.

  She came, her voice deepening into what sounded like a lioness roar as everything from her core to her toes tightened and pulsed.

  And then she could feel his release. Despite the condom, the heat of his orgasm warmed her, and she collapsed onto her stomach.

  He grabbed hold of the flesh of her ass, squeezing it beneath his palms as he slowly slid out of her wet center.

  She twisted her neck to the side to catch him walking toward the bathroom.

  At the sound of a flush, she rolled to her back.

  He came into the room, his cock still hard between his thighs as he moved toward the bed. He stood at the edge and dragged both hands through his hair and gripped at the ends as he eyed her.

  She didn’t know what to do or say.

  She’d never had sex like that, and for that long. She’d never wanted it to stop, though.

  Her palms landed at her sides as she forced herself upright. Sweat dotted her chest and spine, and she could really use some water.

  He turned and grabbed two bottles from the fridge. A mind reader?

  He tossed one her way, and she caught it and nodded her thanks. His eyes were on her chest, and she followed his gaze to find her nipples hardening beneath his stare.

  He sucked down the entire bottle before lowering it from his mouth. Watching a naked and very jacked former SEAL drink water had been one of the hottest things she’d ever witnessed.

  “I only had the one condom.” He tossed the bottle in the recycling bin—because, of course, Owen York would be perfect and care about the environment. Another strike against him. A strike because she didn’t want to want him.

  “Just the one, huh?” She arched a brow and fought the smile at her lips. She was supposed to be angry, right? She couldn’t allow any other emotion to reach inside and get to her. Not right now, at least.

  “I don’t want to be done with you yet.”

  I never want you to be done. She hated the thought that popped into her head, knowing being with Owen was impossible, but . . .

  His hands went to prayer pose in front of his lips, and she tried to force her eyes to his and not on his incredibly distracting body.

  “Don’t be done, then.” She hadn’t meant to say it, but she had been unable to stop herself from voicing her thoughts.

  She forced her legs to fall to the side of the bed and rose, even though she felt wobbly and her thighs already ached. She was pretty sure Owen beat every other guy’s record in bed.

  Every guy.

  Brad.

  She hung her head, and pain ripped through her hard and fast, but she didn’t want to give in to it.

  No. She needed more time to breathe.

  “What are you saying?” He cocked a brow when his hands fell heavy at his sides.

  She forced the guilt from her mind the best she could and swallowed the gap between them. “Angry shower sex?”

  His hand found her hip, his fingertips biting into her, and she liked it—his touch made her feel alive; it made her feel everything. “No protection, remember?”

  She pressed up on her toes, trying to get closer to him. “Well, there are things we could do that would still feel good.” Her mind raced with thoughts of having this man b
eneath the water with her—to have his hands back on her body.

  His hand slipped from her hip to the curve of her ass, which had her feet going flat to the floor. His fingertips followed the slope of her cheeks, and she gasped when he found her center, holding her tight against him. “You’re still soaked,” he said into her ear, his breath sparking a new wave of desire within her.

  “Think of all the things you could do to me.”

  He let go of her and stepped back, tipping her chin up with a closed fist, and she could smell herself on him. “You are wild, aren’t you?” He glanced away and toward the alarm clock by the bed. “One more hour,” he said in a deep voice as if trying to convince himself he could have one more hour with her—and then they’d have to face reality.

  They needed to look at the security footage.

  She should’ve been focused on the threatening phone call and the meeting with the president.

  But instead, all she could focus on was Owen and the different ways he could make her come, make her live in the moment.

  “Okay,” she whispered, and then he took her hand and guided her to the bathroom as if she’d get lost on the way.

  Once the dual showerheads were on and the room gathered with steam, she pointed to the tiled seat within the shower and motioned for him to sit.

  Water dripping down her body, she lowered herself before him, dying to take his shaft into her mouth and taste him.

  Once seated, he found her eyes, his eyelashes wet, and he rolled his tongue over his lips to catch the water there. “I really do hate you.”

  “I hate you, too,” she said then took all of him into her mouth.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Why the rose?” Owen pulled his tee over his head.

  She zipped up her shorts and pressed a hand to her messy locks. “It’s my middle name.”

  “There’s more to it than that, right?” His hazel eyes narrowed.

  She didn’t want to talk about Brad right now. They both knew what happened any time they discussed their past. The mother of all Iron Curtains fell between them. But she didn’t want to lie, either. She’d already made the mistake of lying before.

  “Sam?” He stepped closer and started to reach for her arm, but then he pulled his hand back as if he’d made a mistake.

  Their hour ended. Actually, it’d ended thirty minutes ago, but they’d extended it. They couldn’t keep extending their hour, though. Reality had caught up with them when his coworker Jessica had called, requesting they join Asher in another suite where the security footage had been set up.

  “Brad liked to call me his rose.” There. She’d said it.

  “And the rosary beads on your back?”

  “I wasn’t exactly a choir girl growing up, no matter how much my parents wanted me to be. But Brad, well, he was a devout Catholic.”

  “His grandmother raised him, right?”

  “Yeah.” She grabbed her strapless bra and hooked it on. “When she passed away, he decided to carry her rosary beads with him when deployed. Kind of his way of having her watch over him.”

  He surprised her by brushing his fingers over the tattoo.

  “They weren’t recovered on his body or at the base.”

  “Kind of your way of having him always watch your back, huh?”

  He was perceptive, she’d give him that. But how long until he turned cold?

  “When he died, I broke down. I barely survived it. It was my best friend, Emily’s, idea to get the ink. The tattoo could be a reminder of the strength Brad had, and I guess I’d hoped I could absorb some of his faith, too.” Emotion tightened in her throat, and tears threatened. She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold them back as her lids dropped closed.

  “None of us can be saints, but we can do our best to be good people.” He paused for a brief moment. “I only met Brad a few times, but he was definitely one of the good guys.”

  Her shoulders shuddered at the loss of his proximity. He must have stepped back—far enough back to reestablish boundaries or build a new wall between them.

  Guilt at what they had done cut through her, and she assumed it was slicing through him just the same.

  “I know what happened to them on their op.”

  She tensed at his words, unable to move or think.

  “But I’m not allowed to tell you.”

  Her stomach fell, and she spun to face him. “What?”

  He cupped his mouth and looked down at the floor. “I’m going to tell you, though.”

  She staggered back until she found the bed and sat, her legs unable to hold her.

  His hand converted to a fist, and he tapped it at his lips a few times. “I’m going to break every rule in the damn book and tell you because Brad would want you to know the truth, and because I’m so goddamn pissed at the truth, that I don’t care what’s right or wrong anymore.” He visibly tensed and blew out a sharp breath. “He and Jason died in Kiev trying to prevent a war with Russia.”

  “So, it’s true? The picture?”

  He nodded. “The U.S. placed their bodies in Iraq so the Russians wouldn’t find out the truth.”

  “And what’s the truth?”

  “The scientist was kidnapped by a Ukrainian militia group. She was probably used to bait the U.S. there, though—to force our hands to supply them with weapons and cash, knowing we’d try and cover it up to stop Russian retaliation for the kidnapping—as well as keep the other three men from the op alive.”

  “Oh, God.” She finally stood and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

  “Brad, Jason, and even that woman got caught in the crossfires of it all, and now whoever is threatening you is trying to use that mission against us.” He grabbed hold of her arms, pulled them down, and looked into her eyes. “But the motherfucker who orchestrated the entire thing may still be alive, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him stay that way.”

  “Owen.” She knew what he was trying to say, what he was suggesting—and as much as she wanted him to get justice for Brad and Jason, she couldn’t let him commit murder. She couldn’t let him get locked away for the rest of his life.

  Before she could find the right words, a hard knock at the door had her hands landing on her hips, her head bowing.

  “Yo, you guys okay?”

  She recognized the voice: Asher.

  “We need to talk about this,” she whispered.

  “No. I told you because I need you to know that I’ll keep the promise I made ten years ago.”

  The promise?

  Owen’s words from the funeral blasted to the forefront of her mind like a BB from a slingshot.

  I’ll never stop until I find the SOB who did this to them. I won’t rest until their killer is dead, Owen had said, his voice grave, his eyes bloodshot.

  She scrambled to grab her shirt off the floor as he walked to the door to let Asher in. “Wait. Please, we need to finish this conversation.”

  He peered at her from over his shoulder. “There’s nothing left to say.”

  “You told me this so I’d stop you.” She pulled her shirt on as she approached him. “You can’t do this. You don’t owe anyone anything. Jason wouldn’t want you in jail because of him,” she whispered so Asher wouldn’t hear her through the door.

  He looked away from her and opened the door, effectively ending the conversation.

  For now, at least . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You good?” Asher asked out in the hall.

  Owen wasn’t in the mood for another hall chat. “How can I be good?” He cocked his head and glared at him.

  “I know what you’re thinking because I’d be thinking the same damn thing.” Asher wrapped a hand over his shoulder. “But we have to handle this situation first. We need to get our people back alive before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “I know.” He flexed his forearms at his sides, trying to control the burst of anger popping through him. Teteruk could already be dead if he’d
been captured, and for some reason, the idea was maddening. Owen wanted to take vengeance into his own damn hands. But . . . “I can’t put Sam in danger.” He shook his head.

  “Then let’s end this before she goes to Russia.” Asher pointed to the door. “Jess and Luke are handling the operational files and coming up with a list of potential assholes who might have our men. In the meantime—”

  “Look at the footage,” Owen finished. “The blackmailer is our only lead right now.” He turned and reached for the door handle.

  “Just a sec.”

  He dropped his hand and slowly eased back around.

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?” He looked Owen square in the eyes.

  “No. That’s Luke’s way, remember? I don’t divulge classified details like he did with Eva.” The lie slipped a little too easily from his lips.

  He hadn’t told Sam everything, though, especially not about her father.

  He wasn’t sure how the hell to bring up the fact her dad had not only sat on the truth about Brad’s death for ten years, but had helped orchestrate a deal to provide money and weapons to the man who’d killed her fiancé.

  Asher took a step back and looked at him with new eyes. “You up and did it, didn’t you?”

  He couldn’t face Asher and lie again. His gaze cut to the floor.

  “You pulled a Luke, and you fell for someone off-limits.”

  The words had him slowly dragging his eyes to his friend’s face—although the friendship was suddenly a little touch and go.

  “Maybe you haven’t fallen yet, but damned if I think you jumped from a plane without a chute.” He shook his head. “You’re going to hit the ground and hard.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Owen snapped because he honestly had no clue how to respond without the lies getting stuck in his throat this time.

  He stormed into the hotel room to find Sam already seated at the desk, positioned behind one of the two laptops Jess had supplied Asher.

  “You think you can recognize the guy, too?” Asher’s eyes narrowed on Owen a beat later, and a dark brow rose.

  “I’ll do my best.” Owen tried to draw up an image of the guy from the street in his head, but all he remembered were sideburns and dark hair.