Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) (27 page)

Rawls’s fists clenched, of course it would be Mac to feed her to the lions.

“I was,” Faith admitted with a frown. She glanced at Rawls, and whatever she saw on his face had her eyes widening in alarm.

“Forget it,” Rawls snapped. Shoving his chair back, he surged to his feet. “We don’t even know if they’ve built the damn machine.”

“But if they have,” Wolf said, his dark gaze fixed on Faith’s profile. “And Dr. Ansell can sync with it
. . .
”

“No,” Rawls snapped again, his voice rising. “We aren’t talkin’ about a fuckin’ walk in the park, here. You’d be puttin’ her life in danger, and for what? For the possibility that she might be able to sync with a machine that probably isn’t even erected yet? Her team was grabbed less than two weeks ago. That isn’t enough time to build this contraption.”

“You don’t know that.”

He’d expected the cool counterargument, just not from Faith.

“Faith.” He paused to calm his breathing. “You don’t know what they’re askin’. You don’t—”

“I think I do.” Her voice was very quiet and far too determined. “I think I know exactly what they’re suggesting. They’re suggesting I come along and sync with the prototype if it’s operational.”

Okay, so she had picked up on what they were asking of her. But damn it, she didn’t know what she was getting herself into. Rawls raked a hand through his hair, shocked to find his heart hammering like he was fighting for his life. Hell, he was sweating like a stuck pig too. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back.

“You don’t have CQB trainin’, you don’t—”

“She will be protected,” Wolf broke in, his normally inscrutable face softened by sympathy, except he was looking at Rawls, not Faith.

“You can’t protect her from everythin’.” He could hear his voice rise, but he was powerless to stop it. “All it takes is one stray bullet. One moment of inattention. She’s not trained for this. You have no damn right to drag her into the field.”

And for the first time since—well since that other life, when he’d still had a sister and family—panic struck. Strangled him with fear. His breathing hitched, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his head.

He’d just found her, Goddamn it. Barely had her back from the dead. He wasn’t going to lose her so soon. Fuck, he wasn’t going to lose her ever.

What the hell?

Where did that come from?

“What about what I want?” she asked, her gaze locked on his face as though they were the only two people in the room. “Those were my friends they murdered in the lab. My friends are being held by a group of monsters who treat people like disposable objects. Who jeopardize children for the sake of their own agenda. If there’s even the slightest chance that my presence could help bring these monsters to justice, then I’m doing it.”

Before Rawls had a chance to launch another argument, the elder from the ghost binding stood up. He nodded to Faith, and turned to face Rawls.

“The decision is Dr. Ansell’s. She alone has the final say,” he said with finality. “She goes.”

Chapter Eighteen

T
HE LAST THIRD
of the meeting with Wolf’s people was a blur in Faith’s mind as she entered the sleeping quarters Wolf showed her to. She’d been too busy having a mental meltdown after agreeing to accompany them on the rescue mission. A very dangerous operation too, judging by Rawls’s violent reaction.

Vaguely, she remembered a discussion about some organization called the New Ruling Order, which sounded like a bunch of rich people with too much time and money on their hands. And then Eric Manheim’s name had popped up as the force behind the attempted hijacking of flight 2077, as well as the attack on Amy Chastain’s family and the murder and kidnapping of Faith’s coworkers.

Not that anyone but Rawls, Wolf, and Wolf’s people knew the information had come courtesy of interrogating a ghost! When pressed by Mackenzie, Wolf had blandly attributed the intel to classified intelligence. It had been all Faith could do to hold her tongue; Mackenzie and his men deserved to know where the information they were about to risk their lives on had come from.

Except
. . .
Rawls had been so terribly stiff beside her, furious that she’d agreed to join them on the upcoming rescue mission. She hadn’t wanted to chance souring the fragile new relationship budding between them.

Wolf had been utterly confident that they’d have confirmation of the “captives,” blueprints of the building, as well as head counts of the people inside, within twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four hours
. . .

Which meant what, exactly? That she’d be down in San Jose sometime tomorrow preparing to attack a lab?

A chill washed down her spine and prickled across her scalp. She shivered, but then squared her shoulders and headed for the bathroom. A nice hot shower was just the thing to relax her. It sure as heck beat standing around and stewing about things she had no control over.

The bathroom carried the same bland, unoccupied-motel motif as the bedroom and its tiny attached living room. But at least the shower had a huge round showerhead and wonderful water pressure. She soaked for a long time beneath the spray, letting the beat of the water massage her tight, sore muscles. By the time she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a cotton robe, her muscles were limp.

Her mind on the other hand had revved up rather than dialed down.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she listened to the strong, even beat of her new miracle heart and fought the sense of isolation.

With the exception of a fling early in her freshman year of college with a grad student, which had ended with summer break, she’d spent much of her life alone, buried in her studies or experiments. But loneliness had never haunted her, until now.

Except, she wasn’t lonely for just anyone, there was a specific face attached to this emotion. A specific name.

Rawls.

Somehow over the past two days, his smile, his drawl, his humor, and his patience had filled her mind and heart so full she felt diminished without him beside her.

Empty.

More than anything in the world, she wanted to get up and go to him, step into his arms and lean into his kiss, and explore this hunger simmering between them. The mission she’d agreed to was dangerous. Nobody was downplaying the risk. She knew full well she might not come back, and the thought of dying down there, in San Jose, without knowing the heat and tenderness of Rawls’s embrace, the beauty of his body on top of and inside of her
. . .
the thought of not knowing him in every possible way a woman could know a man was
. . .
distressing.

Depressing, even.

But the memory of the last time she’d seen his face held her prisoner on the bed.

He’d been icy, detached, and furious. When Wolf had dropped them off in front of the sleeping quarters they’d been assigned, he’d vanished inside his without a word.

She wanted to believe the strength of his reaction to her inclusion on this mission indicated he had equally strong feelings for her. She’d never seen him so angry—or so grim. But what if the emotions driving him weren’t as passionate as she hoped? What if he was being driven by a sense of responsibility instead? What if all the recent touching and light kissing meant nothing—or at least nothing serious?

Or even worse, what if she had killed whatever they’d been building toward when she’d ignored his advice and dismissed his wishes?

Her escalating list of what-ifs was cut short by a knock at the door.

With her heart in her throat and her mind full of hope, she got up to answer the summons, only to jump back with a gasp.

“Sorry,” Rawls said, his hand still raised and fist clenched for knocking. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” Faith’s pulse picked up speed again, only the rapid rhythm had nothing to do with fear. At least not fear of his hand, more like fear of his heart.

He took her response as an invitation to come inside. As he closed the door behind him, he cast a quick look over her robe-clad body and heat kindled in his gaze. A moment later he broke eye contact and glanced around the room. “I see we got the same decorator.”

She forced a smile along with the small talk. “At least they’re letting us stay. I got the distinct impression Wolf wasn’t supposed to bring us here.”

“Yeah,” Rawls agreed.

And that closed that particular topic. An awkward silence fell.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

Faith cleared her throat and took the bull by the horns. “So are you still mad at me?”

“Hell.” He raked a tight hand through his hair. “I was never mad at you, Faith. I was concerned, not angry.”

She tilted her head and considered that. She didn’t doubt for a second he’d been—was still—concerned for her. But there had been definite rage there as well.

“You were angry too,” Faith contradicted him quietly.

He studied her, and his face softened. Lifting his hand, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Yeah, but not at you.”

She quivered beneath the caress. “Then who?”

“At Wolf. At Mac. At all of them. They’re usin’ you.” He stroked her cheek again and then his fingers trailed down to her chin and tilted her head up. “I won’t have you in danger.”

She quivered harder, her skin so sensitive it burned beneath his touch, her insides all warm and tingly. There was a hot look in his eyes. A hungry look. She hadn’t been with many men, and the last had been a lifetime ago, but she recognized the look he was giving her—and responded to it on the most primitive level. Without giving herself a chance to analyze or quantify, she gave in to instinct and went up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck.

Instantly his arms locked around her, dragging her against his body, sealing them together from shoulder to thigh. His mouth came down, found hers, and hot, hard lips forced hers apart. The kiss started off rough, marauding, but then he seemed to catch himself, and his mouth gentled. He backed off, brushed her lips with his, and started to pull back.

Except she didn’t want him to stop. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, at a subconscious level, she’d been waiting for this moment since that kiss in the kitchen
. . .
anticipating it
. . .
wanting more
. . .

Instinctively she stretched up, pressing her mouth to his. Driven by some deep, primitive urge, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gently bore down.

He jolted against her and then grabbed her butt, lifting her and grinding her against his crotch in the most graphic display of sexuality she’d ever been subject to. Her legs went weak. Her brain foggy. Her skin tightened.

Good lord, that felt so
. . .
good.

And then he turned the tables on her and caught her bottom lip in his teeth. Only he sucked on it, hard. With each pull of his mouth, she felt a corresponding tug deep in her belly and a flood of moisture between her legs.

In an effort to alleviate the sudden violent ache throbbing between her legs, she rubbed herself against the bulge pressing into her belly. He groaned, and the bulge gained length and width.

Breathing hard, he dragged his mouth away and pressed it against the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Baby,” he said in a breathless voice before pausing to suckle at the base of her neck until she squirmed against him. “We need to either stop this, like right now—or get naked and in your bed.”

She voted for the naked and in bed.

Eager to show her enthusiasm for his suggestion, she grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and fought to shove it over his head. But the feel of his warm, smooth skin stretched so tight over hard muscles distracted her. Her hands slowed to a long, gliding caress.

He groaned again, arching into her touch, his skin rippling beneath her fingers. And then he grabbed his T-shirt and yanked it over his head. She stared in fascination at his muscled chest, with its thin arrow of golden hair trailing down the tight muscles of his abdomen, only to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Without thinking, she leaned in to press her mouth against his heart. His skin tasted slightly salty, with the oddest tinge of smoke, and so damn good she was quickly becoming addicted to it.

He’d twitched with each stroke of her hands, but the brush of her lips earned a jolt. She smiled at that delightful discovery and slowly slid down his body, teasing the length of his abdomen with her lips, teeth, and tongue.

When she knelt before him, her arms wrapped around his thick thighs, with only the buttoned and zippered waistband of his jeans preventing further exploration—he suddenly came alive.

As she unlocked her arms from around his legs and her hands went to work on the button securing his jeans, a curse exploded from him. Urgent hands slid under her arms, lifting her.

His face was hard as he stared down at her, his eyes dilated, his bottom lip swollen, a flush riding his cheekbones.

“Last chance to call it quits, sweetheart,” he said between hard and fast breaths.

Call it quits? Why in the world would she want to do that? She wanted him, wanted him more than she’d ever wanted any man before. Wanted him to be the man she spent her last night on earth with, if tomorrow meant the death of her.

“I say we reconvene in the bed.” Her voice was so thick and sultry, she barely recognized it.

He didn’t wait for a second invitation. Bending, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the queen-size bed taking up most of the room. He set her down on the foot of the mattress and slowly loosened the tie to her robe.

Deliberately, almost reverently, he spread the garment wide and pushed it off her shoulders, leaving her completely bare. She sat there beneath his glittering blue gaze, her nipples puckering, her breasts tightening, her skin aching for his touch.

Instead of joining her on the bed, he dropped to his knees and smoothed his palms up her legs, from ankle to calf to thigh. His hands were rough, slightly scratchy, leaving the oddest mixture of fire and chills in their wake. He pressed her thighs apart far enough to accommodate his body and leaned in, continuing his gentle assault at her belly, only this time with his mouth.

Boneless, splayed before him, she lost herself in the heated sensation of his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth as he explored her body. He feathered kisses up the old silvered scars on her chest, his mouth so gentle she could barely feel the feathery caress, and then slid over to take a tight nipple in his mouth. As his warm, wet mouth closed over her breast and suckled, she arched into him, her arms stealing around his ribs and up his bare back—savoring the hard, smooth flow of muscles beneath her palms. He felt so good pressed against her, strong and firm, completely male.

But she needed to know how he’d feel inside her.

She skimmed her hands back down his back and slid them beneath the waistband of his jeans and underwear to cup the firm muscles of his ass. The fact that he arched into her touch brought her a smile and the confidence to move her hands around to the front of his jeans for some deeper exploration.

He groaned into her breast and lifted his hips. Unbuttoning and then unzipping his jeans, she pushed them, along with his underwear, out of the way. His penis was thick and smooth, and it actually seemed to arch into her hand. With each long, slow stroke from the base of his penis to its bulbous head, he’d groan—a low animalistic sound. He was so caught up in her stroking, he abandoned her breasts and simply pressed his forehead against her chest, his hips rocking in concert with the stroke of her hand.

But soon the heavy globes at the base of his penis caught her attention and she moved her hand down to explore.

To her amusement, the simple act of cupping the warm, soft weights broke him. With an urgent grunt, he caught her legs, dragged them up and over his hips, and took hold of his penis, guiding it between her thighs.

He looked up as he pushed into her, his eyes so intensely blue they burned like the laser in her lab. “Jesus, you’re makin’ me lose my mind.”

She smiled at that, her chest melting. She couldn’t imagine a better compliment than that.

With a deep breath Faith closed her eyes, concentrating on the feel of him pushing inside her, the hot, heavy force of him
. . .
the almost painful friction of him stretching her
. . .
She shifted uncomfortably, trying to hang on to that earlier delicious tension. But the sting soon turned to burning pain.

He must have sensed something was wrong, because he stopped pushing and lifted his head.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered in a thick voice. Pulling back, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “How long has it been since—”

Oh God, he’d realized he was hurting her and was stopping. There was no doubt in her mind that once she got past the initial adjustment of his body merging with hers, the pain would ease. It had in the past. Best to do the merging fast, and get on with the adjusting. With that in mind, she clenched her legs around his hips and arched up, impaling herself on his penis.

Only it hurt much worse than she’d expected, or remembered.