Promise to Protect: Military Second Chance Romance Page 6

  He leans down over me again, his mouth brushing against my right ear.

  "I'm going to fuck you," he whispers. A chill runs down my spine, though I'm still burning up. He rocks his hips against me, his cock rubbing against my ass.

  "Please…yes.”

  "Open your legs. Show me what you want."

  I open my legs. I try to reach behind me, to show him what I want, but my hand can only leave fingerprints along his waist. I move my hand underneath my body— not an easy feat with his weight on me— pushing my ass up against his cock. He makes a noise in his throat that reminds me that he's not the only one with power in this moment of triumph.

  "I wish I could see your face," he says. "But I can't risk losing control. You have such a beautiful face."

  His cock brushes against my entrance. My hips jerk up again. His cock presses against my folds. As he pushes into me, I expect pain. Even without seeing him, I know he's big because I can feel my body expand to accommodate him, but I'm so wet, there's only some discomfort and an occasional pinching sensation. Despite my request for him to not be careful, he moves into me slowly.

  When he's buried to the hilt, he stops. He presses a kiss on the back of my neck, his hand returning to cradle my breast. His thumb rubs against my nipple. A bolt of pleasure creates a circuit under my skin. I push back against him.

  "Be still," he murmurs, pressing his hips hard enough against me that my clit receives the perfect amount of pressure from the mattress. It reminds me of a Bible verse I heard once as a child. Be still and know that I am God. Of course. Yes. Yes.

  He starts moving in me slowly, only a few inches sliding out before he pushes back inside me, but I find myself arching my back. It's like he's almost hitting the perfect spot inside me while my clit is hit perfectly, but the pressure is relieved right before my body is about to detonate.

  When he presses his forehead against my back, I notice my ribs fluttering with every breath against his head, followed by another sharp inhale. I realize I've been making small high-pitched moans this whole time. I try to stop, but as he thrusts back into me, it comes out like a purr.

  He raises his head, planting a kiss where his sweat left a circle.

  "I'm going to lose control anyway," he says, more to himself than me. He pulls out, leaving me with a sudden emptiness. He grabs me by the hips, flipping me so abruptly that the contrast between the white mattress and the wood ceiling is jarring. But it's nothing compared to when he moves back on top of me, thrusting into me with more force than he's ever shown, and when he looks down at me, I equally believe he is possessed by a devil and sanctified by an angel. He is filled with diabolical fire and ethereal blessings.

  He cups my head in his hands. He keeps his gaze on me as he thrusts so deeply into me that the only thing keeping me from sliding on the mattress is his weight. The muscles in my ass and thighs begin to twitch as his fire combusts inside me, filling me. It ignites inside me, triggering a hurricane of pleasure that whips me around, starting in my pussy, while tidal waves of bliss douse every inch of me.

  As the storm in my body calms, my spine eases, settling back onto the mattress. I feel the mattress shift as Shane lies down beside me. I turn to look over at him, feeling like I'm floating in the sea. He's still wearing the condom and, despite him being inside me, I had seriously underestimated his size. If there were any ethereal blessings, they were clearly given to him.

  "Wow," I mouth. He smiles back at me, his eyelids starting to close.

  "That's definitely one word for it."

  "So, I wasn't bad for my first time?"

  "You were overwhelmingly good. I spent a lot of time trying to think of Iraq to not go off too soon."

  I scoot closer to him. I listen to the sound of his breathing— first, ragged, then steadier. I think of how we're placed on this earth and we had to discover sex early, but war couldn't have been that far behind. I think of how short life is and, given the chance, I'd lay down all my weapons and walk into Shane's arms. I'd let myself become wrapped up in him and never ever be angry again.

  But maybe that's just the afterglow talking.

  Chapter Ten

  Shane

  Trauma is a slow-acting poison. There's a sporadic jab of pain as the poison eats away at your kidneys and liver. Your veins turn black, and you find it poisoning your hands until they turn into fists. Something unspeakable takes over your identity. The sickness starts as a crater in who you are and, slowly, the sick thing becomes who you are.

  The cure is death— just not in the way David thought. You lay the trauma to rest. You give it a small headstone. You give it an epitaph. You stand out in the rain with your friends and family, and you speak about what happened. You mourn. Then, you wake up and you find that the fever has broken. There's still some occasional symptoms of the sickness, but it's not who you are. It will never be your identity.

  As I lie beside Emma— my hand splayed out on her arm— I feel those symptoms intermingled with her sweet fragrance.

  "I went to David's grave a few weeks after the funeral," I say. I rub my thumb against her skin, amazed at how soft it is.

  Emma turns toward me. "Why didn't you go to the funeral?"

  I run my hand over her hip and down her thighs. There are a few blemishes and scars on her legs— standard for living out in rural Colorado— but it adds to her beauty. If her legs were unmarked, she would look like a two-dimensional, digitally altered photo. She would be a cheap imitation.

  As she turns to look at me, my hand trails along her skin, ending right above her knee.

  "I convinced myself that it was a stupid tradition," I say, choosing my words carefully. "I convinced myself that I could mourn him in my own time and I didn't have to stand around in a cemetery to respect him. But I was just pissed at David for doing what he did and pissed at myself for not doing anything more to help him. I felt like if I went to the funeral and heard a pastor say all those platitudes, I'd start screaming at everyone and I'd never stop. So, I just let the time slip by. I remember looking at the clock every few minutes— seeing when I could leave and still arrive on time, seeing when I could leave and arrive a few minutes late, and… when I could no longer leave because I'd end up interrupting the funeral."

  She reaches up, touching my lips with the tips of her fingers.

  "I get it," she says. "I felt like screaming during the funeral too. But I still wish you'd come."

  I kiss her, breathing in her white musk scent. As my fingers slip under the bed sheet, my other hand sliding around her hip, there's the sound of my phone vibrating against the floor.

  "Are you going to get that?" she asks.

  "It's downstairs," I mumble, kissing her throat. "Whoever it is can call back."

  She pulls away from me. "I have class this morning. You should get it. Does the water work in your bathroom? Can I take a shower?"

  She stands up. There is something about a woman's body that is stunning and effortless— the soft curves, the smooth skin, the casual movements. Emma's body is everything I could ever want to see.

  And now she's going away.

  "Yeah," I say, standing up too. She looks back at me, her face having all the perfect delicate features of a woman, and those blue eyes that color my thoughts with their vibrancy.

  "You know I didn't mean to act dismissive," she says.

  "I know that you don't mean it," I say. I grab my boxer briefs. She opens her mouth before closing it again. She walks out of the room as I pull on my boxer briefs and my pants.

  I hustle down the stairs. My phone is in the kitchen, on the counter by the refrigerator I had been pushing into place when Emma walked in.

  One missed call.

  I press on the notification button. Brian. I click his number and put it on speakerphone as I knock over the cardboard box that the refrigerator came in. I hear the clatter of the shelves inside it. I pull them out.

  "Hey," Brian answers, his voice sounding diminished, but still authoritative th
rough the speakers.

  "What's going on?" I ask, opening the refrigerator door. There are three places for shelves and two areas for the drawers. The bottom shelf is part of the refrigerator, so two of the shorter shelves must go in the middle.

  "Are you serious? You called me first. Last night. I didn't get in until one, so that's why I'm calling you now." He pauses. "There's a woman there, isn't there? There's a woman there, or someone died. That's the only reason Shane Baier would forget his objectives."

  "How can you still joke about death?"

  "Easily, Shane. The only people who can be offended by it are dead."

  "I just called you to ask for you to help with this psychology experiment I have to do for class. We have to..."

  "Wait. Wait a minute. You don't get to skip ahead. Where did you meet a woman? Could she be part of our fighting scam?"

  "No."

  "You already said no about Emma. You can't say no to me again. Wait... wait. No way. No. You wouldn't. Upstanding citizen Shane Baier wouldn't have fucked his deceased best friend's little sister."

  "Shut the fuck up," I snap, but the anger ripples through me before ebbing away. Emma's body had all the exhilaration and adrenaline that came with near-death experiences, but all the sanctuary and safety of home. The thought of it is like a massage that keeps my rage in check.

  "Un-fucking-believable. I'm working my ass off trying to find someone to distract Colby Thornton while you're only thinking about your Glock."

  I shove a shelf in. I'd truly prefer not to know if that was a slip of the tongue or a metaphor.

  "Are you going to tell me what you wanted?" Brian asks. "Or are you busy chopping up a dead body?"

  "What?"

  "That's what it sounds like you're doing. Chopping up a dead body."

  I shove the second shelf in. "It's not what I'm doing."

  "It's not like we haven't killed anyone…" His voice drifts off. A sharp pain drives through my chest like a bullet— it's the way that David used to talk. Brian might have disguised his pain better than David, but I know he was hit just as hard.

  "I called you because of the experiment," I say. "It's just a stupid school project. We're seeing if..."

  "Who is we?”

  I shove the third drawer in. It catches on the tracks, and I shove it twice more before angling it upward and letting it slide in. "Emma and me."

  "Ah. Of course."

  "Shut up. We're seeing if two people who hate each other can survive better than two people who love each other. We have a couple, but we need..."

  "Is the couple you and Emma?"

  "No. We can't be part of the experiment when we're conducting it. It's my sister and her boyfriend."

  "Oh."

  "But we need two people who hate each other and two strangers for a control group. I got one of my former trainees to agree to do it, so I figured you and him could be part of the stranger group."

  "When you say a control group does that mean we're the dominant group?"

  "No, it means you're the boring group with nothing in your relationship with each other to affect your decisions."

  "Ah," he says. "And what about the two people who hate each other?"

  "I know plenty of people who hate each other, but they're not going to agree to go camping together in a survival scenario behind Valence Camp from Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon. Apparently, they think I'm trying to torture them."

  "I know two people who would agree to do that."

  "I'm not setting you free in the woods with somebody you hate," I tell him. "The last thing I want for a class project is to write about how one of my participants stole another participant's clothes and ran away just to be spiteful."

  "I'm not talking about me, though that does give me plenty of good ideas. I've been scamming these two people— the daughter of Stephen Pryce..."

  "The tech pioneer," I interrupt.

  "Yeah, and this chef, Diana Rolland."

  "Why do they hate each other?" I ask, regretting the question as soon as it's out of my mouth. If there's one thing I've learned about scam artists like Brian, it's that they love to talk.

  "Well…according to Rolland, Tina Pryce came into the restaurant, Plate of Grace, one night and expected everyone to cater to her like she was a princess. When she wasn't, she stormed out and went on social media to complain about the restaurant. A few months later, Pryce bought a restaurant across from Plate of Grace, which included similar gourmet food but for half the price. Rolland's restaurant went under. So, Rolland is ready to murder someone..."

  "How do you know about all of this?" I interrupt.

  "I read the newspaper," Brian says, irritation creating an edge in his voice. "Anyway, according to Pryce, she did go to Plate of Grace. She said that the staff wasn't well-trained and that when she met Rolland, Rolland was rude and acted like Tina was stupid and wasting her time. Pryce alleges that she only bought the new restaurant because she realized the area needed a restaurant that provided good food, good service, and good manners. In fact, that's their motto. And ever since this happened— nearly two years ago— the two of them have been trading barbs in newspapers and magazines. There's also been a few incidents at Pryce's restaurant that includes a suspicious amount of mice and snakes, which Pryce has accused Rolland of sneaking inside the restaurant."

  "So, why would they agree to be part of a survival experiment?"

  "I kind of, sort of, maybe convinced them that I was a journalist that worked for a prestigious news magazine called Aspen Arch Magazine. They're both eating out of my hand, and I've had three free gourmet dinners between the two of them. I'll just tell them that this survival experiment is a good way to show everyone that they're not just petty assholes who are acting like children."

  "Your confidence is astounding," I say.

  "I know. All those self-help books must be helping. But I'm not going to let you risk this scam for nothing in return."

  "Of course not. That would make you a good friend."

  "I want Emma."

  "Excuse me?" I spit out.

  "I need her to distract Colby Thornton. Drug him, if she's willing."

  I let out a slow breath. "No. Emma isn't going to distract anybody for you."

  "It's that or no deal for your survival project. You don't get me or my hateful little psychos."

  "No deal," I say. "I can find other people."

  "Aren't you going to ask me what I want?" Emma's voice asks.

  I turn to see her, her hair still wet and a towel tucked around her body. She raises an eyebrow. I grab my phone and turn off the speakerphone.

  "I'm going to have to call you back, Brian."

  "No, no, don't you hang up. I want to hear..."

  I hang up. I turn to Emma. She smiles at me and with the tiny droplets on her shoulders, it's easy to forget what was just happening.

  "Hey," she says. "So, who am I supposed to be distracting?"

  "Nobody," I say.

  "Come on. Don't be shy now."

  "I'm not being shy. I'm being practical."

  She steps closer to me. When she presses against me, the towel comes undone, but it's still pinned between us. The towel is slightly wet against my skin. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and kisses me. I get a contact high off her body heat, everything forgotten except her warmth and the memory of how much better she feels from the inside.

  "I want to do it," she murmurs.

  "Mmmm..."

  "I meant whatever scam you're doing."

  I stop, stepping away from her. The towel falls into a lump between us.

  "I already said you aren't going to do it."

  "And that would work if I were a child," she says. "But I'm a full-grown woman who can make her own decisions. If you're going to be an ass about it, I'll just ask Brian. He seems a lot more interested in bringing me onboard."

  "I'm not being an ass. At least, I'm not being an ass right now. I know you're just interested in doing this for the adren
aline rush. This is what our whole argument was about last night— the fact that you won't prioritize your safety."

  "I don't remember much arguing, but when we were arguing, I do recall you saying that I could do whatever I wanted in my life as long as it didn't interrupt your own goals."

  "I said that before we became involved."

  "Then, maybe we shouldn't be involved," she says.

  "Maybe we shouldn't," I say. "If you can't take the time to care about yourself, then I'm not going to waste my time worrying about you. I already spent so much time worrying about your brother, and it was still never enough. I'm not going to make the same mistake here. I can't deal with it."

  I walk out of the kitchen. As I swing open my front door, the cold breeze hits my bare chest. I turn and see Emma picking up the towel, her bare ass even better than I remember. And in the end, that's all life is— good memories punctuated by bad memories, and they stalk us every day until we admit that hope can resurrect the pain we had thought we'd buried.

  Emma should know better, and so should I.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma

  The humidity caused by all the people packed into the Marttrik factory is leaving a thin layer of sweat on my skin. I'm dying to go outside and let the winter breeze chill me to the bone, but Brian has assigned me to keep Colby's attention and turn him into a lovesick puppy before his fight next week.

  I hook my arm around Colby's. Colby is a few inches shorter than Shane, which still makes him quite tall. He has brown hair like Shane, but it's a paler shade and frizzy. He also has a large bulbous nose that looks like it's been broken a few times. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt with ripped off sleeves, but he's now shirtless, only wearing a pair of basketball shorts that hang loosely on his hips.

  I can feel Shane watching me. I lean up against Colby's back and slide my hand into the pocket of his shorts. He smells like a mix of garlic and onions. I close my eyes, trying to resist the urge to track down Brandon for some drugs. Unlike what Shane believes, I can chase thrills without being self-destructive. The drugs I was taking weren't even that bad.