Mastered By The Mavericks (14 page)

“Holy shit.” Her grip slipped from his elbow. She curled in her fingers again, trying
to reestablish the hold, but the uniform’s slick fabric was made for escaping much
more determined attackers than her.

For a second, Rebel stared like she’d blurted that his dog died. But only a second.
He erased the expression as fast as he’d brandished it, making her wonder if she’d
imagined everything, until his vicious rasp cut down at her.

“I’m taking off.”

He spun and headed for the car, his steps eating up the front walk. Only then did
she notice the duffel bag in his hand—and the mouse cam’s hard-sided case in the other.

“I’ll get dinner in the city. Tell Double-Oh I’ll patch in for a comm check as soon
as I’m on the road.”

“From the—” She scurried to keep pace though it took three of her steps to one of
his. “But that’s not how you’re supposed to—”

He halted her by whipping back around. “Do you think I give a fuck about the supposed-tos
right now?”

A glower took over his face. His shoulders rose, hulking him up. Brynn glared right
back, hating him for every breath that shook her rib cage. What was this? Where had
the bold wonder woman of last night gone? Why wasn’t she stepping forward to knock
him on his ass
now
—at the moment it really mattered? What the hell had he done to her today, that all
she could focus on was the tightness around his eyes, the sharp twists of his mouth,
and the breaths that made his chest lurch in rhythm with hers?

“Yeah,” she finally murmured, “I think you do.” She edged a step toward him while
digging her gaze deeper into his. “You care deeply about the supposed-tos, Rebel—the
right kind of them. If you didn’t, you’d be back in Tacoma right now, enjoying a beer,
having wished Shay the best with finding his wife. No, not even that. You’d be in
Louisiana, wouldn’t you? Running a bar or a jazz joint, or maybe even a fishing boat—”
She halted, caught off guard by the sudden spike of his tension. “Okay, not a boat.
But something
other
than this, getting ready to risk your own hide because of your loyalty to the brother
of a brother.”

She lifted a hand to his face. Tenderly combed back a bunch of his inky waves, teased
against his forehead by the approaching night wind. “Yet you’re ready to walk out
on the guy who’s closer to you than anybody else.”

He flinched from her. Everything but his eyes. Those he kept fixed and steady, not
even blinking, as if she’d become some harpy and laid a hex on him. It freaked
her
, too. Her arm froze, hand still upright, fingers trembling.

Something passed over his face.

Heat. And determination.

Frantically, she dropped her arm.

Too late.

He caught it, snapping fingers around her wrist. Hauled her against him so hard, she
winced from the brutal surprise—

For a second.

Until he submerged the sound with the crush of his lips. The invasion of his tongue.
The heat between his thighs…spreading through the space between hers.

Brynn struggled. Then didn’t. First, there was the whole issue about futility. He
wasn’t accepting
supposed-to
s from her in this, either. But more extremely, why? What use would it be to fight
him, when her senses had craved this all day? What good would it be to struggle, when
she’d wondered if he’d feel this good without seatbelts in the way…when she questioned
her memories of his sinful mouth, his dominant grip, his commanding body? And now,
even his bold growls as she molded tighter against him, twining her hands around his
neck…all the things that made him a collection of Cajun hotness she wanted igniting
her blood again and again and again…

But as swiftly as he’d started the clinch, he cut it short.

Set her away from him, letting her stumble back with balance swaying, hormones careening.

Before he slashed a hand across his lips.

Never in her life had words completely evaded her—until now. In hindsight, the asshole
probably should have been grateful for that. Instead, he repeated with even deeper
clarity, “I’ll radio in from the road.” Then over his shoulder, while turning from
her for the final time, “Tell Double-Oh to be ready. We have to run this thing true
as scripture.”

*     *     *

True as scripture
.

A little under an hour later, she still wasn’t sure she’d heard that little tidbit
correctly—from the mouth of the asshole who’d given her mixed signals of—it really
did apply—biblical proportion. The kisses of an archangel, followed by the stare of
a demon. A heaven of arousal, ruined by one motion that dipped her into hell.

Excuse the hell out of me for tainting your mouth with my taste,
Monsieur
Jerkwad.

She barely tamed a grimace as the moment filled her mind again. If he’d been testing
out his version of the ice bucket challenge, she’d vouch for him. It worked. His disdain
had turned her from fire to ice in no more than three seconds. She’d have said that
to the bastard’s beautiful face, too—had he not sprinted for the car like a rocket
was jammed up his ass. There was
another
item for her pile of pissed-off.

Which, as Karma would oh-so-poetically dictate, fired back at her with vengeance now.

She could barely believe what she witnessed, looking on from the doorway of the office,
as the guys ran through their comm check. It wasn’t
what
they said—the alpha-soldier protocol and crazy acronyms were actually as hot as foreplay
to her—but
how
they said it, that ratcheted her tension. Their exchanges were smooth and easy, sometimes
bordering on banter, reminding her of the buddies who’d been synched with each other
last night instead of the adversaries who’d slunk and snarled around here all afternoon.

By the time they ran the final diagnostic on the mouse cam and agreed Rebel would
click back in two hours for intel support on getting the device inside the Verge building,
her composure approached prickly status—discernibly so, if Rhett’s narrowed gaze was
a clear alert system. The Viking didn’t waste any words addressing the issue, either.
Damn it.

“Well, peaches, I’d cut to the compliments about your mission gear choice,”—he waved
at the shorts and
Dance Your Ass Off
sweatshirt she’d changed into—“if you didn’t already look like we’d failed the damn
thing.”

Her face flamed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m just wondering how the hell—”
She averted her gaze and pursed her lips, acknowledging what she was about to say
and feeling three inches high for it. “Forget it.”

Rhett spun the chair around and rose from it. He didn’t stop there, flowing right
into the three steps it took to get closer to her. When only a foot separated them,
he folded his arms and charged, “You’re kidding, right? You really want to ‘forget
it’, knowing how a guy like me will respond to shit like that?”

She shifted a little.
Shifted
? Who was she kidding? He made her completely squirm, edging closer with those hard
ropes of forearm, slicing her deeper with his steel-toned stare. She vacillated between
backing up or simply bowing her head.

Idiot
.

You don’t do submissive, Brynn Monet—not even for a chest that broad, a focus that
sexy, a stance that daunting. Your heart isn’t a play toy for
any
man, anymore. Not even “a guy like him”.

The thought did the trick. Flipped the switch on her fortitude, yanking her chin up.
“I’m not asking you to ‘respond’ at all. That’s the point.”

Tiny creases cinched the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t expected her lip, that much
was clear. But the follow-up
she
expected—the disappointment, the disgruntlement, perhaps both—never arrived. Instead,
a slow, knowing smile took over his lips.

Damn it.

“Got it.” He murmured it softly but reinforced his posture sharply. Like he
needed
the extra inch of height? “And now that it’s clear, you’ll have no trouble spilling.”

He dipped the end of it in enough of a growl for her to squirm again—in much different
ways. Now it was really time to move back. She did so by a step. Another. Neither
diluted the force of what he did to her now…of the deep place inside that his snarl
reached.

The place that was afraid of him.

The exact same spot that had been afraid of Rebel.

The corner of her psyche that liked it.

God
. Good thing she wanted to be a shrink, because she was going to need the peer discount.

Mask the mess, Brynna. Now
.

Regrettably, the fastest way to do that was divulging the truth he’d demanded. “I
was just wondering about your whole buddy-buddy on the radio with Sergeant Sasquatch.”

He spurted a chuckle. “Sasquatch? That’s new. And damn good. Mind if I borrow it sometime?”

Now close enough to do so, Brynn leaned against the wall. “Sure—though I don’t imagine
it’ll be soon, now that you two have kissed and made up.”

His laugh vanished. Taut lines took over in its place, a blatant expression that hid
a thousand messages. “I wouldn’t kiss that ape if you paid me, sweetheart—and don’t
mistake
any
of that radio chatter for ‘making up’.” He unfolded his arms, not erasing an inch
of his imprint on the air with the move. But maybe she just thought so because he
paced closer again, filling more of her vision with every inch covered. “Finding Zoe
is still the first priority on this playing field. Pissing contests and bitch-slap
fests belong deep on the sidelines. Reb and I both know that. I promise you that we’ll
continue to, as well.” He stepped fully into her personal space, lifting a hand to
the side of her neck…sending instant waves of warmth down her arm and through the
nearest breast. “We’re going to find her, Brynn. I promise.”

She swallowed hard. Battled to ignore the eager puckering of her nipple. Much easier
said than done, especially when her other breast decided it didn’t want to be neglected.
Shit, shit, shit
. There was nowhere to move, either. He was so close, so hard, so overpowering—exactly
how his “buddy” had made her feel on the plane.

Oh, God. What did this say about
her
? One day, two men, a thousand tingling nerve endings…all reacting with the exact
same sentiment.

Don’t stop touching me. Please don’t stop.

Safe subject. She needed a
much
safer subject.

“I—it’s—well, I appreciate it.” She rasped it as he trailed his knuckles along her
collarbone.
Wonderful
. It felt so damn wonderful. “I—I mean, the fact that you two can behave like grown-ups.
I have to admit, I wasn’t optimistic by the time Sasquatch stormed out of here.” She
fought to lift her gaze, despite wanting to cease at the base of his corded neck.
Yearning to trace that special bunch of muscles where it blended into the top of his
shoulder. Wondering if it was as solid and powerful as she imagined…

“Sasquatch.” He laughed again after repeating it. “Well, if he’s that hairy bastard,
I’m a damn Manticore. Takes an ogre to provoke one properly, yeah?”

For a moment, his words didn’t register. She was preoccupied with how the night wind
kicked through the room, lifting the red-gold strands from his broad forehead. Even
more fascinating were the sweat-dampened spots beneath, reminding her he was truly
a man, not some Greek demigod come to life just to taunt her in every tantalizing
sense of the word.

And God, was she tantalized. The word was blessing
and
curse through the next moment…then the next. She needed him to back the hell off.
She longed for him to stay. To slide in even closer…to let her inhale him, absorb
him, touch him…

She needed a new tactic.
Now
.

Humor? Oh, hell. She sucked at the stuff, especially when her nerves were jangled
like stones in a soda can. But options were dwindling. Fast.

“So…this is a common occurrence? You two skulking around, threatening the forest creatures,
promising to tear each other’s heads off?”

He didn’t laugh. Imagine
that
. But she hadn’t expected more tension to flood over him again—until realizing that
this shit was different than before. It was restless and sensual, brought to life
by the churning seas in his eyes, the defined friction of his lips, the confident
loom of his body.

Go away.

Oh, God…closer.

“No,” he murmured. “Not common at all.” His eyes gained heavy hoods as those stormy
blues slid to her lips. “But we’ve never disagreed over something like this before,
either.”

Air finally got to her throat. Three shaky breaths in, three exiting the same way.
“Like…what?”

“You mean like who.”

Asking him to fill in
that
blank would’ve been punching an insult. The intensity of his focus was so potent,
like a blowtorch melting iron, that her logic was forced to give way to its truth.
But what did she do about its effect on the rest of her body? The sparks in every
nerve ending, the lava taking over every bone, the molten need dripping through every
inch of her sex? How did she answer those demands? More crucially, how did she reconcile
this hot, hurting need with the desire she’d felt for the man’s best friend, not even
twelve hours ago?