Hot as Hell (Deep Six 0.5)(7)

It was that last thing that unglued his boots from the floor. Because he’d noticed months ago that she only fidgeted with her hair when she was nervous or, in the case of today, scared to death.

“I’ll be waiting on the call,” he told LT, shouldering his way into the sterile-looking space, forcing Harper to take a step back. He heard his lieutenant murmur “Roger that” right before he pulled the door closed behind him, twisting the large spinning lock into place. And just like that, he’d sealed himself inside the safe room with her. With lovely Harper. Smart Harper. Brave Harper.

He wanted so badly to pull her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. That he was here with her now. That she was safe. To kiss her and hold her so tight she wouldn’t know one additional millisecond of fear. But considering she’d been giving him what he’d come to suspect was the world’s most blatant brush off? Well, he figured she might not welcome his overtures. Which is why he decided to go with, “So, what’s with you avoiding me the last couple of weeks?”

? ? ?

Harper had never been as happy to see anyone in her entire sorry life as she was to see Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright. And all geared up in desert-tan camo, his wide chest made even bulkier with the addition of body armor, his deadly M4 machine gun gripped loosely in one big callused hand, he struck her as beautiful in the way warriors were beautiful. Harsh and fierce and furious. Not one hint of delicacy about him, except for maybe the soft curling length of his thick, dark lashes and the full, almost pouty curve of his lower lip visible through the dark-chocolate beard covering the bottom half of his face.

That man is tougher than woodpecker lips. It was an old phrase her momma liked to use in reference to her dad. But Harper figured it summed up Michael in one go, too.

Of course, regardless of how happy she was to see him, or how savage and gorgeous he looked standing there in the middle of the room, she felt her brow furrow, her mouth pucker, and her hands jump to her hips, because, “Really? That’s what you lead with?”

He turned to set his weapon on the table, one of his beefy shoulders lifting in that supremely unconcerned way that only males of the species could pull off. Talk about annoying. But when he yanked his helmet from his head, revealing his thick mink-colored hair and the damp tendrils curling around his temples, her irritation disappeared. Mostly because she became wholly distracted by the fact that her fingers were itching with the memory of what it was to bury themselves into that lush, living mass.

Oh, for love of ladies’ underpants, Harper. Now is not the time.

“I figured that was as good a question as any,” he said, and she tried not to notice how his hard muscles coiled like knotted rope under his fatigues when he shrugged out of his rucksack and undid the Velcro on his body armor. The holster securing the handgun to his thigh came off next, and he set the whole kit and caboodle atop the table.

“Oh, yeah? How about, How are you, Harper? Everything okay in here?” she huffed. “Or maybe, Want to hear how your boss is doin’, Harper? That’s a pretty good one considerin’ it’s my job to look after the cowardly ol’ coot.” Yup, she had not forgotten the way O’Leary had slammed that door in her face. “Of course, if neither of those do it for you, you could always go with the obvious, Would you like to know what we’re doing lockin’ ourselves in here instead of gettin’ the hell out of Dodge? That’s a good one, too. I like that one a lot, and…and…and…”

She stuttered to a stop when he took two heavy, yet remarkably fluid steps in her direction. She’d noticed months ago that Michael pretty much embodied the phrase economy of movement, because even though he was a hulking mountain of a man, there was also an undeniable grace to him. A nimbleness that spoke of innate coordination and tightly controlled strength.

Coordination and strength…

A memory of the smooth, forceful way he’d moved against her, inside her, flashed through her mind in crystal-clear Technicolor glory. Sure, she’d been pretty tipsy at the time. But even had she been three king-sized sheets to the wind, she was confident she would still be able to recall the miles upon miles of his tough, tanned, burning-hot skin. The way his mouth and tongue had teased her like nobody’s business. How his big, rough hands had been so gentle and so very, very knowledgeable. And all that was before you got to the thick, pulsing length of his…well…you know. Because a woman would have to be six feet under not to remember something that magnificent.

When he stopped no more than a hairsbreadth from her, the toes of his giant, scuffed combat boots almost touching the tips of her black kitten heels, chills cascaded across her flesh. Not because the air inside the safe room was cold. But because with him so close, his heat radiated out to her in an unseen, highly sensual caress.

Good gracious.

Doing her best to hide her reaction, she tilted her chin far back to glance into his face. He had the kind of deep-set eyes that made it look like he was always gazing out from under his eyebrows, watching, calculating, studying. But right now, the ocean-blue of his irises revealed a sardonic glint. And if she wasn’t mistaken, his lips were pulled into the tiniest of smirks.

“First of all,” he said, his voice pitched so low it rumbled through her chest, more felt than heard, “I can see you’re okay. Not a scratch on you. And the wet shirt is a really nice touch, by the way.”