Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(9)
“Hard to get?” She went to cross her arms, but he was standing so close her knuckles brushed against the hard, washboard muscles of his stomach. That one touch, that one accidental contact was enough to send electricity shooting up her arm and across her chest, causing her nipples to furl into sharp, painful buds. She did her best to ignore them. “Michael, you already got me. Got me good, if memory serves.”
At that admission, his teeth blazed blindingly white within the dark scruff of his beard. “That’s how I remember it, too,” he rumbled, mistaking her confession for an invitation to snake an arm around her waist. He was quick to dispense with the scant few inches separating them, and she was left with no recourse but to put her palms on the hard bulge of his biceps as the front of her just went ahead and reacquainted itself with the front of him. Her whole body instantly lit up like a roman candle, and it was a wonder she didn’t go shooting off into the air.
Sweet, sweet heavenly Jesus…
Her blood fizzed like the champagne at the embassy party. Her head spun like it had when he’d whirled her around the dance floor. And all this happened because he was already… Whoa. Wait a minute.
“Is that…? Are we talking adrenaline here?” she asked since there was no mistaking the hard, insistent bulge throbbing against her belly. She’d heard the SEALs joking about slinging wood in the midst of battle, and now it seemed she was witness to that very thing.
Or maybe not.
In answer, he spread his wide hand over the small of her back, pressing her closer, rubbing himself against her just the teeniest bit. And now it wasn’t her head that was whirling, it was the room. “No, angel. That’s all for you.”
Oh, goodness.
She gulped, vaguely realizing a little voice was screaming something in the back of her brain. Something that sounded a lot like for the love of all that’s holy, Harper! Save yourself the heartache! But she couldn’t be sure. Not with her ears filled by the sound of whooshing blood and most of her mind occupied with cataloging every minute detail of Michael’s face. The fine lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes, the ones that spoke of the long years he’d spent squinting through the scope of a rifle or laughing with the SEALs. The ever-so-slight list to his nose that attested to a break that was never properly set. The thick fringe of his dark lashes that almost made him look like he was wearing eyeliner.
And the ludicrousness of that thought, of hardcore, rough-and-ready Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright sporting makeup was enough to jangle some sense into her. “Come on now. We can’t.” She attempted to push away from him. Feebly attempted, if she was being honest. Because nothing was better than being held in his strong embrace.
“Why not?”
“Well, because…because…” Truth was, she was having a hard time remembering. With him so close, touching her, her brain had turned to mush. So she fell back on that ol’ tried-and-truism. “This isn’t the time. And this isn’t the place.” Now drive it home, sister. “And there’s a battle ragin’—”
“The raging part of the fight is long over,” he interrupted. “Now it’s just cleanup, which my boys are pretty good at.” She could see the certainty in his eyes, hear the confidence in his tone. He truly believed they were safe here, and that it was simply a matter of sit and wait. “I’d say we have a good hour left before we’re sprung from this lockup,” he continued. “So that takes care of your time issue. And as for this not being the place?” He glanced over his shoulder, surveying the table…the cots…the chairs. “Looks pretty suitable to me.”
Save yourse—
That little voice was cut clean off when he turned back to her and lifted a hand, gently cupping her jaw and rubbing a callused thumb against her bottom lip. Her mouth opened over a catching breath. Inside the vacuum-silence of the safe room, the sound seemed to echo.
His beard stretched over a smile that was undeniably male and blatantly triumphant, as if she had unwittingly answered a question she hadn’t even known he?d asked. He bent close then, his hot breath whispering against her lips. “Harper?”
Okay, and this time she recognized his inquiry for exactly what it was. And despite all reason, despite all rationale, despite the fact that she knew this was a bad idea, she couldn’t bring herself to deny him. Because he stood there towering above her, a warrior, a real-life hero, and she wanted nothing more than to be his spoils, her body the reward for the battle he’d fought and won today. Which was why the words that tumbled from her lips were, “Yes, Michael. Please.”
CHAPTER 3
If it wouldn’t have ruined the mood, Michael would have busted out his happy dance. Because not only did Harper’s quick acquiescence tell him he’d been right all along—they had made a connection—but it also gave him free rein to continue to hold her in his arms.
Which, if you asked him, was exactly where she belonged.
In the time he’d known her, he’d come to like her like no other. I mean, seriously? What red-blooded male wouldn’t? Her appeal was so damned endearingly obvious that a man would have to be blind and deaf not to appreciate her sass, her loyalty and integrity, and her particular brand of homespun Southern wit. And then, as if all that weren’t enough, there’d been the night of the party, when she’d dealt him the mother of all winning hands and blown his freakin’ mind in the sack.