Explosive Alliance (Wingmen Warriors #9) - Page 25


And there was no mistaking that she had his complete and undivided attention—the most enticing aphrodisiac of all. Just the two of them. No fancy mood music. No dim lighting or BS extras, and that swiped away any lingering doubts or ridiculous insecurities about the size of her butt.


Rising from the edge of the bed, she kicked her sandals free and shimmied out of her shorts before he could make it across the room. A low whistle of appreciation sounded from Bo, echoed in his eyes, crystal blue deepening to royal hues.


"Now, that's a view to carry a man through the night—you in just my shirt." He sauntered closer, grasping her h*ps in broad hands and urging her forward until they stood flush against each other again. "Let's slow down so I can enjoy it."


His mouth brushed one corner of her lips, then the other, tormenting until she opened in an unspoken demand that he do the same. And how wonderfully accommodating he was while still taking his slow, sweet time as promised, standing in the middle of the room to neck like two teenagers.


Starting at the strong column of his neck, she unbuttoned, delighting in each inch of toned, tanned chest coming into view. Military dog tags nestled in the dusting of hair across his pecs. Even while his hands moved over her arms, back, teasing along and up the outside of her thighs, his eyes never left hers as if he savored watching her reactions as much as her touch.


Air swirled over her chest in a surprise burst since she couldn't recall him unbuttoning her shirt. She suspected this man could well steal reason and thought. Which happened to be exactly what she wanted right now.


She skimmed his shirt over his shoulders, muscles rippling under her hands. In reaction?


Or from restraint? Both equally heady notions.


Her shirt—or rather his on her—slithered down and off to pool at her feet, quickly followed by her bra, leaving her in nothing but her panties while he stood in only his khaki shorts. Thank heavens she'd thought to indulge in pink satin after her shower.


She glided her palms along his chest over sun-heated skin taut across muscles, around to his back to pull him against her bare br**sts and sighed. She'd forgotten how good skin-to-skin felt.


Or had it ever felt this good?


He danced her backward until the mattress bumped her thighs then— whoosh—she fell onto the bed, tugging him with her. He swept aside her glasses, resting them on the bedside table before stretching along the length of her.


And she'd thought skin-to-skin felt good. The solid press of his weight against her, even propped on his elbows, stirred primal longings that defied description.


She tore at his shorts with frantic hands. "Enough foreplay."


"There's never too much foreplay." He nipped his way down her neck to her breast. He lifted his face to blow cool air over the taut peak of her nipple.


"Says you." She pitched aside his boxers and cradled the weight of him in her hand until she could see him fight to keep his eyes open.


"Two can play that game." His stroked down her hip, lower until he cupped her damp heat in his palm, the gentle pressure of slow circles threatening to send her leaping out of her skin. "Maybe you're right about enough foreplay for now."


Returning his attention to her breast, he reached into the bedside table, yanked the drawer open, his hand returning between them with a condom—and thank heavens someone was thinking here.


Thick, blunt pressure increased as he filled her, deeper, fuller and definitely more incredible than anything she'd remembered.


"You okay?" He stared down at her with such intensity in those deep blue eyes, she didn't doubt for a second where his attention rested.


"Perfect."


"Yes, ma'am, you are."


His weight braced on his forearms, he loomed over her with sexy restraint, his dog tags dangling to tease between her breasts. Levering on one arm, he swept off the chain and pitched it onto the floor.


Without closing his beautiful eyes, he moved inside her, a long and slow withdrawal that pulled an even longer sigh from her until his

thrust shifted her sigh to a moan. Her hands slid over his back, down to grip and learn the feel of him along with discovering a matching rhythm that soon slicked them with sweat.


Whispered urgings grew louder in a rambling litany of need they both responded to even if she couldn't remember what either of them said. Maybe she was too busy relishing the unmistakable heat and want in his expression.


Then she couldn't tell if he closed his eyes or not because her own wouldn't stay open.


Her legs glided up of their own will and instinct to hook around his hips, heels hooking together to clamp their bodies closer as she writhed for release. Already? Yes.


"Not going to last much longer if we don't slow down." His words shooshed against her ear in a hot hiss of air.


A year of abstinence. For both of them. Somehow she knew right then it really was true for him, but couldn't wrap her brain around rational thought long enough to figure out why that might be important. "Neither am I."


"Thank heavens."


Each rhythmic glide stroked her higher, pulled nerves into a taut twist until her fingers clenched against the hard planes of his shoulder blades for anchor. Her arms strained from trying to hold him closer, arch and rock her body in time to his in a frantic dance to find completion while somehow extending the pleasure as... long... as...


Her year of abstinence ended with a final crack of thunder and lightning, bathing her in a downpour of sensation that momentarily washed away worries.


He was in a crapload of trouble.


Parked in front of his piano with warm Paige beside him and the scent of sex all around them both, he played through every mellow love song classic he could remember, to offer Paige the romance he should have earlier.


Before he'd pounced on her like an untried horny teenager.


Even now he stifled the urge to tip them both to the floor for round three, and consoled himself with the heat of her thigh pressed to his. Thank goodness his boxers offered a modicum of coverage, because the sight of her in his shirt and nothing more... How about some extra air in this room?


A year without wasn't any excuse for this raging need for more of her. He should have shown some restraint. In the past he'd gone through dry stretches, and afterward had still been in control. Chalk it up to male ego, but he always planned how to ensure the woman walked away fully satisfied.


Any planning with Paige had gone out the window seconds after his telephones.


He also considered himself more of a pragmatist than a romantic on this subject. He figured he would get his big finish regardless, and his chances of being invited back for more "big finishes" were higher if she finished, too. Sure Paige had cl**axed...an incredibly beautiful sight he would carry in his mind until the day he died.


But he couldn't remember how the whole process evolved, because he sure as hell hadn't been in control and neither, it seemed, had she. He'd just been...there...with her, in her, touching, caught up in the mind-numbing pleasure and excitement from hearing her gasps, sighs, moans build until they were both so freaking out of control...


He'd told himself he would regain balance for the second go round. Not. And now here he sat at the keyboard looking for order as he'd always done through his music...with no luck.


His fingers stopped along the keys as the last notes faded in the humming piano strings.


Paige's hand fluttered to rest on top of his left. "That was beautiful. Thank you. I can't remember ever having a better concert." She stroked along his hand, the fingers on his left puffy and red, aggravated from hours of guitar playing, followed by his twenty minutes of corny love tunes that somehow didn't feel so sappy with Paige around.


She traced each scar with her lightest of healer touches as if she could somehow erase them. "Should you ice your hand?"


"Probably." Later, when he wouldn't feel like a wuss for admitting he'd pushed too far.


Paige started to swing her legs to the side on the piano bench. "I'll get it for you."


He looped his arm back around her waist and

anchored her to his side. "In a minute. I currently have another appendage that's paining me more."


She leaned into his kiss, her fingers still linked with his. Their eyes met and held, her thumb stroking along the ridge of a scar and silently questioning.


As much as he wanted to dodge anyone rooting around in his head, he owed her something in return for all she'd told him. Might as well go for broke since he suspected there was no getting out of this relationship unscathed. "I hurt my hands when things went to crap during a mission overseas in Rubistan."


Horror widened her eyes. "You were injured during a crash?"


"Not exactly. Yes, we were shot down." His brain echoed with the shattering thump, the shriek of warning alarms, the bark of the aircraft commander's voice, Scorch, instructing them all to strap down tight. "You may have heard some of the news reports about terrorists using shoulder-held missile launchers. They popped some planes in Iraq that way, too."


"Why didn't we hear anything about what happened to your crew?" She unfurled her fingers and cradled his hand in both of hers, starting a gentle massage. Did she even realize or was her healer instinct in overdrive?


God, it felt good, though, somehow making words he'd only spoken in the mandatory psych evals easier to spill. "When things are hot in another country, you don't hear much about other things going on in the military. We were a blip in the news, downplayed—a good thing as far as I'm concerned."


"Can you tell me why you were there?" she asked with a rarely found understanding and acceptance that he couldn't share all. So many relationships broke up over just that.


"We were there transporting intelligence equipment that picked up on terrorist chatter and the like." The reason OSI agent Max had been along, although Tag had been forced to destroy all the data before they crash landed, so what the hell had they accomplished? He could almost feel the sun burning the back of his neck as he'd run full-out across the desert, searching low dunes for somewhere to evade and set up a rescue beacon. "Can't say much more than that, but you get the idea."


"I think I do." She blinked hard and brought his hands one at a time to her lips. "If you landed in a country we're not at war with, how did this happen?"


"That doesn't mean everybody likes us there. We were picked up by tribal warlords first


—" A ragtag and rabid group in beat-up trucks with plenty of weapons who'd found the crew trying to evade them by lying flat in a dug-out sand pit. "I got a little cocky. Dared look a warlord in the eyes. Had my right hand stomped, the other bashed with the butt of an AK-47 before Tag rolled between me and the next blow."


He shrugged, forcing himself to relax while she continued her subtle massage along one finger at a time as two tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn't sniffle or sob, just kept rubbing even after the tears dripped from her chin onto his wrist.


More determined than ever to shield her, he left out the rest of why they'd been flying over Rubistan. The OSI had been trying to track the link from drug-trafficking terrorists through a military traitor handing shipments over to a U.S. civilian pickup point back in the States. Kurt Haugen. That much information she did not need and he would damn well carry it to his grave.


A fierce protectiveness pounded through him, primitive, irrational and likely unwelcome.


But he'd be damned if he would cause Paige one more ounce of heartache.


His sense of honor pinched at his gut. Hard. As much as he told himself he was doing the right thing in keeping this relationship light, he still saw the shadows in her teary eyes he knew would still haunt his dreams. Which gave him all the more incentive to delay sleep as long as possible.


Bo dropped a kiss on her nose, red-tipped from crying tears for him. "Let's go get that ice.


Although I have better ideas for using it than on my hands."