“I need to see your arm,” Thomas said evenly.
“Okay,” she said, using her right hand to unfasten the top buttons of her shirt. “If you insist.”
And it was quickly clear that she was not wearing a bra.
As he turned away, she laughed a little at the obvious Oh shit on his face. “Ah,” she said, “you forgot about the selfless sacrifice of my courageous bra, who gave its life so that we could live in a world free from handcuffs.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I forgot about that. But I still need to see your arm.” He got out the knife. “I’ll cut the sleeve. And I’ll sew it back up for you later.” She’d found a bunch of sewing kits in one of the drawers in the pod’s kitchen.
But she was still unbuttoning. “I kinda used up all the thread.”
“You... what? How?”
“I’m making you warmer pants, Grandpa. Look, this is really not that big a deal. You’ve studied anatomy, I assume. I mean, you are a medic, so...”
“Hospital corpsman,” he corrected her automatically.
“Plus it’s not like you haven’t already seen me naked,” she added. “Okay, just hand me my jacket so I can cover my terrifying lady parts, then turn your chaste, puritanical gaze over to the corner for a moment while I get out of most of this thing. I won’t need your help until I get to the left sleeve. Ow, I mean, fuck.”
He pulled her jacket to within her easy reach from where she was sitting on the floor, but like hell she didn’t need his help. Turning away meant he couldn’t help her, so he didn’t turn away. However, he moved so that he was kneeling behind her, where he kept his eyes securely on her back and shoulders as he helped her pull her uninjured arm free from the first sleeve.
She had a splash of freckles on shoulders that were as strong as they were graceful—a swimmer’s shoulders. Her back was muscular, too. Her skin was smooth and uninjured—thank you, Jesus—as he helped pull the shirt off of her.
She may have been small of stature, and her wild riot of red curls added to her fairy-princess-like appearance, but it was all just an illusion. She was far more warrior-goddess than delicate, fragile sprite—radiating a strength that was feminine and powerful.
She made a point of holding her jacket up to her chest with her right hand and then let Thomas do the work to get her blood-soaked sleeve off her injured arm.
As the wound was revealed, his relief bubbled larger.
“It doesn’t look bad,” he told her as he finally peeled away the sleeve. “The bullet took a small bite out of you as it grazed you, so the injury’s slightly longer than a gunshot wound, but it’s shallow. Bleeding’s mostly stopped.” Yeah, there was still unpleasant work ahead, picking stray fibers from her shirt and jacket out of the wound, cleaning it thoroughly to ward off infection, but that wouldn’t be even half as bad as digging a bullet out of her flesh.
“So, wait, I wasn’t shot, I was just nicked?” She tried to look over her shoulder, but her injury was on the backside of her upper arm. She’d need a mirror to see it.
“Nicked is still shot.”
“But a bullet’s not still in my arm.”
“Correct.” He probably should’ve told her that first, but he was having a little trouble breathing—his relief was so intense and profound.
Relief combined with sheer terror at what might’ve been.
Holy Jesus. An inch or two to the right, and the bullet would’ve broken her humerus. It might’ve even taken her arm clear off. Another few inches, and it would’ve hit her in the back, near her heart, and she’d be dead.
Those motherfuckers had been shooting to kill.
The realization of how lucky she was—how lucky he was—and just how close he’d come to losing her, was dizzying.
And that, combined with all of the miles he’d just run at his full, top speed caught up to him in a rush. Now he was experiencing the dead opposite of cool, calm, and collected Navy-SEAL-firefight mode.
Yeah, he’d for sure slipped into pure caveman-brain meltdown, with tears literally rushing to his eyes. His hands shook and his heart pounded as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. He had to get her downstairs, get her cleaned up, but his legs were so weak, he wasn’t sure he could stand.
“Thomas?” Tash looked at him over her shoulder, then turned slightly to face him, still holding her jacket to her body, her eyes wide with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m just... um... Relief can be... hard to manage.” Embarrassed, he turned away from her, but then realized that was worse—that when he looked into her eyes, she gave him a lifeline to hold onto. “If you were dying, I’d be fine.”
Her eyes widened and she laughed a little, and okay, that was not what he meant.
“Not fine, no, that came out wrong,” he told her, his voice suddenly hoarse because those tears that were threatening to escape from his eyes were now filling up his throat, too. “I mean, I know what to do to save your life. I’ve trained to overcome the fear and the overwhelm—the panic. I push it aside. I control it so I can do what needs to be done.”
As he spoke the words, Thomas realized that he knew exactly what needed to be done in this very moment, if he could just push away the last of his lingering fear...
“Natasha Francisco, you are not my sister,” he whispered to this woman he loved more than life itself.
And he kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thomas kissed her.
Thomas kissed her!
His lips were soft, his mouth tentative, almost questioning. Tasha was surprised by all of it—the taste of him, the unexpected intimacy, his hesitation created by some completely insane doubt that she somehow wouldn’t happily welcome his kiss.
So she laughed.
He pulled back to look at her, a very solid oh shit taking root and growing, along with the sweetest, laid-heartbreakingly-bare vulnerability that she’d ever seen in his dark brown eyes.
And Tasha realized just how impossibly hard this was for him—and that now was not the time for overthinking or analysis for either of them, so she leaned in to kiss him back.
No hesitation. No doubt. Just pure conviction that her mouth against his was absolutely, unquestionably right.
She used her sore arm to hold her jacket up against her bare chest, looping her right arm around his neck to pull him even closer. She may have been scared and uncertain about a lot of things right now, but kissing him wasn’t one of them, and she wanted him to know it.
It was as if she’d opened a floodgate, because now he was kissing her with the hunger of a starving man as he pulled her even closer, too.
This was the fairytale first kiss she’d dreamed of for years, but real life was better than any fantasy she’d ever imagined. His mouth was warm and sweet, his hands hot against her bare, chilled back as he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her onto his lap, and engulfed her with his body heat.
She wasn’t astride him, but she wanted to be. The flannel pants he was wearing were ridiculously thin, and she could feel his arousal against her thigh, and oh, God, she wanted him inside of her so badly.
She started to shift, her scraped knees be damned, except there was still a small part of her that hadn’t transformed into pure, liquid, sexual need, and that tiny, still-clear-thinking part whispered for her to slow down. This was Thomas, and yes he was kissing her like he was trying to sear together their very souls, but this was still fresh and new for him.
He hadn’t spent his entire life desperately wanting her the way she’d spent her life desperately wanting him, so maybe going from first kiss to full penetration in under two minutes wasn’t something she should push for.
Also? There were boxes of condoms downstairs.
And a shower would be nice.
She pulled back. Just a little. And of course, because he was Thomas, he instantly released her—just enough so that he could look searchingly into her eyes. He was breathing hard—she was, too—and the expression on his face was on
e she’d remember to her dying day. Because he wasn’t hiding anything. Everything he was feeling was all right there—his fear for her, and more—laid bare for her to see.
Tasha kissed him again—she couldn’t resist—and whispered, “I thought I’d lost you, too. I saw the rifle and I thought... I thought the worst.”
He rested his forehead against hers, his hands now in her hair. “You forgot that I’m ridiculously hard to kill.”
She laughed, just a little. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know going outside was a mistake, but I wanted to help you, not...” Make it worse. And she had to ask. “Did you kill them?” He shook his head, so she clarified, to make sure they were talking about the same thing. “The two men who shot at me?”
“No, they were gone when I got here,” Thomas told her. “But there was blood on the trail. I think you hit one of them.”
What?
“Oh my God,” she said, aghast. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even aim.” She tried to remember that moment, as she was manhandling the rifle up and into place. “Oh my God,” she said again. “Did I...?” Kill one of them? She couldn’t form the words. And suddenly she needed space, so she reached up to hold onto her jacket as she pushed herself off of Thomas’s lap.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But... There were only two?”
Only...? “Yeah,” she said, “that I know of.”
“Then I’m pretty sure whoever you shot was only injured,” he told her. “His teammate helped him back to camp. If he’d already been dead, the other guy would’ve left the body, gone back to get help. There was no body, so...”
That was good.
Wasn’t it?
Or was it? Maybe she shouldn’t be feeling this much relief over the fact that she hadn’t killed one of the men who were trying to kill her and Thomas. As she drew in a shaky breath, she said, “But they’ll be back. They know where we are now.”
Thomas nodded, his face somber. “They do.”
“Should we leave, right now?” she asked. “Before they return?”
“No, we’re safer in here,” he said. “It’s too cold out there, and it’s getting colder.”
“But we’ll be trapped in here.”
She hadn’t even enunciated the P of trapped before the lock to the hatch started beeping.
Someone outside was inputting a code.
She scrambled to her feet, still clutching her jacket as Thomas grabbed for the rifle.
But the system made a noise she’d never heard before—the code was an incorrect guess and it had been rejected.
That was good.
But someone—most likely a lot of someones were outside. They’d found the keypad and were trying to get in.
That was definitely bad.
“Can you walk?” Thomas asked her.
“I can,” Tash said, grabbing her bloodstained shirt and heading for the stairs.
Thomas was right behind her, carrying the rifle as he followed her down and through the fortified door. He closed and locked it behind him with a very final-sounding thunk.
And there they were. Locked into the relative safety of the former bomb shelter, Thomas staring at Tasha as Tasha stared back.
The worst had happened. Not only were they in siege mode, but he’d just kissed her.
She was standing there, still holding her bloodied winter jacket up against her bare breasts. Her jeans were torn at the knees, and her injured arm was in need of some serious cleaning. Her hair was tangled around her face. Her eyes were wide and her mouth...
Thomas realized he was standing there, staring at that mouth that he’d just thoroughly kissed, and yeah, he was equally thoroughly screwed, because he wanted to kiss her again.
And no, he corrected himself, the worst hadn’t happened. He was alive and Tasha was, too. And even though their location had been discovered by the men who were hunting them, that still wasn’t even close to the worst that he would’ve been experiencing if he’d found Tasha dead or dying. It would be good to remember that.
As far as kissing her...? It had been awful. And wonderful. And terrifying. He felt, in its aftermath, as if he were wearing his entire cardiovascular system outside of his skin—totally raw and exposed.
And desperate for more. He wanted to just hit pause on the danger they were in, just set down the rifle, and...
“What do we do now?” she broke the silence to ask. “I mean, you kissing me again would be nice.”
He laughed at the fact that she’d dare to say that, and yet he wasn’t all that surprised. She was, after all, Tasha.
And of course, she wasn’t done, “But I suspect it’s not a priority.”
“Good guess.” Thomas nodded, spurred into action—first double-checking that the door absolutely was secure. If the hostiles breached the hatch—when they breached the hatch—they’d still have to get through this door.
It was as close to impenetrable as a door could be—designed to withstand a nuclear blast—but there were other ways to get inside of a locked bomb shelter.
Jesus, he had to get out of this raincoat. And he had to get Tash showered and her wounds bandaged—as quickly as possible, while they still had running water.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said as he peeled the raincoat off his arms. God, his sweat plus the debris from the ashes and charred wood was nasty.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, too,” she countered. “How are you covered with... Is that soot?”
“Long story,” he said.
“Please tell me it involves a secret portal to a magical dimension where you found gainful employment as a singing-and-dancing chimney sweep.”
He laughed again. “Sadly, no. Do you need help in the shower?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Do I?” She tried to look over her shoulder at the gash on her arm, but she still couldn’t see it. “Do I need stitches? Can I get this wet?”
She went into the bathroom to look in the mirror, and he followed to stand in the door.
“No stitches,” Thomas said. “It’s a gash. Think of it as a bad scrape. It’ll hurt under the water, and the soap will sting, but that’s the best way to do it. Make sure you wash your knees, too. And do an inventory, see if you’ve got any other injuries we missed.”
She winced as she looked down at her knees. “I think I might need help with that.” She realized what that sounded like and immediately backpedaled. “That wasn’t... I wasn’t trying to be like, Why, yes, I do need help in the shower, handsome pizza delivery man.” She shook her head. “No.”
He laughed. “Tash, we need to talk, but—” not right now. She didn’t let him finish.
“Please, please don’t say that kissing me was a mistake,” she said.
“I won’t,” he promised. “Because... it wasn’t. It was... scary, yeah, but...” He cleared his throat. “It was very intentional.”
Both hope and tears flared in her eyes, and the smile she gave him was tremulous. “Okay, so this is gonna sound contrived, but you really can’t say that to me and then not kiss me again.”
Thomas crossed toward her, and careful only to touch her on the chin to turn her face up to his, he kissed her.
She closed her eyes but she didn’t lean in. She didn’t drop her jacket. She didn’t move. She just brushed her soft lips against his.
And God, she was so sweet.
He made himself step back. “We’ve got things to do before we use the shower to do more than...” He cleared his throat. “Shower. But it’s not just that. It’s... me. Tash, I need time. I need to take this slowly. I hope that’s okay.”
She was holding onto her jacket with both arms as she nodded up at him. “God, yes,” she said. “It’s very okay. It’s absolutely okay. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But I can’t say the same to you. Take a shower, and do it fast. When the power goes out, we’ll lose our water. So go. Now.”
He headed back out the door. And as
he closed it behind him, he heard Tasha say, “Wait, what? The power’s going out...?”
“Shower,” he told her. “Now.” And he went into the kitchen to fill the sink and every container he could find with water from the tap.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The lights were all still on as Tasha finished drying herself and pulled on her bathrobe.
Thomas must’ve heard the water shut off, because he spoke through the bathroom door. “Let me in as soon as you’re decent.”
“I’m always decent,” she’d told him, opening the door.
Thomas was standing right there, waiting, wearing only those pajama pants and the soot from his as-yet-untold long story, the first-aid kit in his hands.
Tasha’s heart flipped as she met his steady gaze. He’d kissed her. Intentionally. It still seemed surreal.
He stepped forward, and she moved back so he could come into the still-steamy bathroom.
“I meant dressed,” he corrected himself as he set down the first-aid kit on the sink. “Or robed. Robed will do.”
“Good thing, because my clothes need some serious soaking.” She’d left her jeans and socks in a pile on the floor with her jacket. Her bloody shirt was still out in the living room.
“Don’t wash them,” he said, reaching into the shower to turn the water back on. “Just hang them up, so they dry.”
“Oh, no, but they’re really nasty,” Tasha told him.
“They’ll be even nastier if—when—we have to put them on wet.” As he spoke, he turned slightly away and shucked off his pants as if getting naked while having a conversation was the most natural thing in the world for him.
She was so surprised—his legs were impossibly long and muscular and powerful, ending in the universe’s most perfect ass. She swiftly turned away, but the force of her sudden movement made her stumble. She tripped over her own feet and slammed into the wall opposite the sink with her shoulder, because of course she did.
Thomas was instantly at her side, catching her by the elbow. “Are you okay?”
Fortunately she’d hit the wall with the non-injured side of her body, otherwise she’d be completely unable to speak. As it was, she’d jarred herself and ouch.
King's Ransom: (Tall, Dark and Dangerous Book 13) Page 20
