Forged in Smoke (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel Book 3) (34 page)

“What’s wrong?” she asked, an odd, almost cautious tone in her voice.

He glanced up to find the same wariness in her eyes. “You need to eat. Don’t go to sleep yet. I’ll run to the cafeteria and grab us somethin’.”

She caught his hand as he started to rise. “Don’t bother. I wouldn’t be able to eat anything anyway.”

His frown deepened. “You need to try. You’re too damn thin. You can’t afford to miss a meal.”

A flash of hurt crossed her face, and he gently shook her.

“Don’t even go there. If I didn’t find you insanely sexy, you might have gotten some sleep last night. I want you healthy, that’s all. Healthy enough so last night can repeat into infinity.”

She chuffed out something close to a laugh, but not quite. Running her hand up his arm, she slowed at his bicep and squeezed. “I believe the fact that I couldn’t keep my hands to myself had a lot to do with our lack of sleep.”

Rawls locked down his response. Instead of pouncing on her, like every instinct insisted, he leaned up and over, snagging the sheets and blankets and dragging them down. Lifting her, he set her on the mattress and climbed into bed beside her. Once they were settled, he dragged the bedding over them.

Tucking her against his chest, he kissed the top of her head. “If you start questionin’ how sexy I find you, just remember that I’m naked, so that’s not my Heckler and Koch MP7 pokin’ you in the ass.”

Another of those soft chuffing sounds broke from her. With a sigh deep enough to lift her chest against his arm, she relaxed.

“If we were at my place, I’d cook you somethin’ special. Like French toast,” he said, pressing his lips against her hair. It was the strangest thing, but she still smelled like berries, even though the shampoo and soap in his shower was scentless.

“French toast, huh.” She sounded drowsy. “Is that what you make all the ladies?”

“Only you, sweetheart.”

Which was true. He’d never cooked for a woman; it had always been the other way around. His girlfriends, and he’d had a fair—albeit fleeting—share, had cooked for him. But French toast was high in nutrition and calories. A perfect combination. He’d be making a lot of it in Faith’s future.

Which brought up the question of what the future held for them. Or where they’d be living. He glanced toward the counter where the coffeepot sat. If he picked up a hot plate and a minifridge, he could make do for the time being.

“Gilbert just turned sixty, he was talking about retiring. And Monica had gotten engaged. Hannah had barely returned from maternity leave. My God, her poor husband. Her poor daughter. She’ll never see Ally grow up
. . .
” She paused, and a long raw silence built and then—“They were more than my coworkers, they were my friends.”

“I know, baby.” He cuddled her closer.

“I didn’t really have any other friends,” she added in a small voice, as though she were confessing a shameful secret.

Did she realize she’d spoken in the past tense?

He cradled her closer but didn’t say anything since there wasn’t much he could say.

“Dr. Benton, he was my professor and then my adviser, but I think
. . .
I think he was the closest thing to a friend I’d had up to that point.” Her voice was distant, as though she were talking to herself.

His chest tightened and ached. Did she hear the loneliness in her voice? “Didn’t you have friends as a kid?”

She sighed, and the loneliness he sensed in her increased substantially. “My parents discouraged friendships. They felt my immune system was too compromised and that any old cold or flu would be my demise.”

The ache in his chest increased in proportion to the ache in her voice. “They homeschooled you?”

It was a guess, but a good one. If they hadn’t wanted her around kids, they wouldn’t have enrolled her in school.

“At first, but once I outgrew their knowledge, they brought in tutors. I wouldn’t have gotten nearly as good an education at regular school.”

Maybe not, but at least she’d have had a fucking childhood.

He forced back the anger. That wasn’t what she needed right now. She needed someone to hold her and listen.

“Dr. Benton was the first person in my life who didn’t treat me like a walking casualty. Who didn’t assess me by my transplants or tachycardia or lowered immune system. He was the first person who saw the whole me. Faith. The good, the bad, the ordinary.”

“That’s why you joined his research team after college?” Rawls prompted, hoping to keep her talking.

He’d bet this kind of openness, this kind of vulnerability, was new to Faith. Her guard was down, but who knew how long that would last, and he wanted to know more about her. Everything about her.

“Maybe
. . .
but I still loved it. There was always something new to learn or study or do. It didn’t feel like work, so I stayed late most nights and got there early. Everyone did.”

“What you’re describin’ is life on the teams.” He paused, laughed softly. “My team, that is. We train together, work together, and play together. They’re my teammates, but my friends too.”

He could feel her thinking that through—thinking that he still had his friends, while hers were gone.

“You still have friends, Faith,” he reminded her softly. “New friends. You have Kait, Beth, Zane, and Cosky. You have me.”

Did she hear the promise in his voice?

She stirred restlessly against him. “It’s not the same thing. I barely know them. I thought Kait was a charlatan, for God’s sake.”

Rawls smiled in satisfaction.
Thought . . .
past tense again.

“There’s plenty of time to get to know them. We’ll be hangin’ out with them a lot.”

She obviously noticed the way he’d linked them because her hand slipped around his hip and wrapped around his dick.

“So we’re friends?” she asked, without a hint of coyness.

He tried to concentrate on the curiosity in her voice—but sweet Jesus—he could barely string two thoughts together with the way her soft, hot hand was burning around his cock.

“That we are.” His voice sounded strangled.

“Then what is this?” She pumped her hand up and down his cock before giving it a light squeeze. “Friends with benefits?”

“Hell no!” He caught her hand, easing it from his dick. “
This
is a committed relationship. The kind where if another man tries to touch you, I break every bone in his body.”

She must have liked that announcement because her body melted into his. “What if another woman touches you?”

He shrugged and stroked a long, slow hand up her abdomen to cup her breast. “Then you can break every bone in my body.”

She snorted out a laugh. Leaning down, she kissed the arm locked around her waist. “I don’t mind
. . .
you know
. . .
” She wiggled her ass against his crotch. “Doing it, if you want to.”

He chuckled.
Doing it?
Look at her getting all bashful.

“Lovemakin’ can wait,” he said, knowing she could feel the missile pressing against her hip.

“But doesn’t it hurt?” Her hand closed over the rigid length of his shaft.

She sounded more inquisitive than worried, as though her scientific curiosity was getting the better of her.

“It’s not exactly pleasant,” he said dryly. “But there are plenty of things that hurt a hell of a lot more.”

Like losing her in the tunnels. Absently, his arm tightened around her waist, sealing her against him until he could feel every breath she took and every beat of her heart.

The fact that she didn’t protest told him his instincts were right. She needed cuddling tonight. The heat could come later.

Chapter Twenty-Three

F
AITH AWOKE TO
a furnace roasting her backside from shoulders to toes. Dazed with sleep, she tried to wiggle away, but the band of steel wrapped around her waist tightened, dragging her flush against the heater again. Vaguely the sound of breathing registered and her memory stirred.

The vise around her waist was a male arm. A heavy male arm. The furnace against her back, a long, lean male body. The bulge nudging her bottom, either a hip or a knee or
. . .
something else entirely
. . .

Rawls
.

She squirmed back a few inches and snuggled down, contentment spreading through her in a warm, fluffy wave. It felt so good to have him wrapped around her like this. So
. . .
right.

But then the memory of the night before crashed into her mind. The forest, the explosion. Her friends and colleagues dead. All dead. Grief rose, drowned the contentment beneath a whirlpool of loss. So much death. So much evil.

She concentrated on the furnace toasting her from behind until the hollow raw grief eased. She wasn’t going to give the bastards who’d stolen her friends the satisfaction of destroying her life as well. There was proof of life behind her. Proof of good, rather than evil. She’d focus on what was important. What really mattered—like life and friendship and love.

Love
?

The realization snapped her fully awake. Fully aware.

She loved him?

Well, sure she was attracted to him, but when had that physical attraction morphed into an emotional connection?

The answer came immediately. She’d fallen in love with him the night before, when he’d vetoed his teammates’ invitation in order to spend the night with her.

Looking back, the emotion had been building for days—driven by his loyalty to his teammates, his kindness toward her, his determination to do the right thing no matter the personal cost, his unfailing, unflinching courage, which he seemed completely unaware of.

But she’d fallen completely for him the day before when he’d put her first—put her life and her needs before his own.

She took a shallow breath, suddenly wide-awake. He’d used his body as a shield to protect her. Not just the night before, but ten days ago as well. Back at her lab, when he’d pulled her from beneath Big Ben. After they’d been attacked, he’d pinned her against the wall, using his flesh and bone for her protection. It had been an instant, instinctive reaction, this willingness to give up his life so that she might live, even though they’d been strangers at the time. He’d done the same thing—repeatedly—the night before.

And then he’d brought her home and he’d bathed her and held her and listened to her grieving, ignoring his own needs to focus on hers. He’d put her first the night before, above everything, above everyone, even above himself.

And she’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love with him.

Stunned by the realization, she lay there, concentrating on the warm arm pinning her to the mattress, and the big body heating the entire length of her from behind. While he’d told her that they were in a committed relationship, he’d never said he loved her. But if you extrapolated his feeling based on his actions
. . .

A man wouldn’t cuddle a woman all night long, ignoring his raging erection—his own needs—unless he cared about the woman he was holding
. . .
would he? He’d talked about feeding her, for God’s sake—that alone indicated he felt something for her, right? Something beyond the physical?

Suddenly desperate to see his face, she tried to turn over. His arm tightened around her again, pinning her in place. Grabbing his hand with both of hers, she dragged it up, which loosened some of the pressure from his arm. She turned over, dropping his arm as she started the roll. Instantly his arm cinched back around her waist, locking her in place. But this time she was facing the opposite direction.

The bulge that had been pressing against her bottom was poking her in the belly now, and she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t a hip or a knee—indeed, it was something else entirely.

Not that he seemed aware of it
.
She studied the relaxed lines of his face and frowned slightly. His face looked much thinner than it had at the airport terminal all those months ago. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who needed feeding.

With his eyes closed, he’d lost the intensity she associated with him. He appeared almost vulnerable, or maybe just tired. Impulsively, using the tips of her fingers, she smoothed the lines between his eyes and smiled as the corners of his lips tipped at her touch. A sunny, warm glow filled her chest. When she shifted her fingers to his mouth, she felt his lips curve beneath her fingers. Her gaze shot to his eyes, but they were still shut, his face still relaxed.

Her heart melted. He wasn’t even awake, yet he smiled when she touched him. Tickled by this discovery, she pressed in closer, her right hand stroking his belly while she kissed the side of his neck. Her hand took a detour to the side of his abdomen to verify that One Bird had healed him to the extent that Rawls had claimed the night before.

His flesh flowed smooth and hard and completely unmarred beneath her hand. She grinned when his heart rate quickened beneath her touch. His erection, which she’d been trying to ignore, grew more demanding, prodding rather than nudging her belly. She strung kisses down the side of his neck and then around to the front, where she nuzzled the hollow of his throat.

A raspy sound, almost a purr, rumbled in her ear. A surge of giddy excitement shot through her, and her smile grew wider. Wicked.

Slowly her hand stroked its way down his abdomen to curl around his penis. His hips arched with each pump of her hand, and the rumbling turned guttural. She lifted her head long enough to scan his face. His eyes were still closed, but the lines in his forehead and bracketing his mouth had tightened even further and there was an air of expectation about him, of breathless anticipation. She was almost certain he was awake.

Bracing her palm against his right shoulder, she pushed. He gave easily beneath the pressure, rolling over to sprawl out on his back.

Perfect
. . .

Still grasping his penis, she squirmed up and over him, and went back to work with her mouth and her hand. Only this time she started her downward trek at his nipples—circling one with her tongue and then the other, before suckling.

A groan broke from him, and the arm around her waist shifted, sliding down to her bare bottom. As his hand slid between her legs, it was her turn to catch her breath and freeze. The warmth in her belly tightened and heated. When his hand went still, simply lying there, a thick, burning presence tucked between her thighs, she started moving again. Squirming against him, she trailed a line of nips and wet suckling kisses down his abdomen. With each nibbling caress along his torso, her fingers tightened around his penis, sliding down and then up in a lingering caress.

The rise and fall of his chest increased, so did the thud of his heart. This time when she lifted her head long enough to glance at his face, his eyes were open and locked on her, fiery with hunger. The heat in his eyes burned into and through her, liquefying her muscles and spiking her temperature. She jumped from hot to scorching in an instant.

Avoiding those blazing, intense eyes, she returned her attention to his abdomen, lingering over the flat washboard length of his belly. Her teeth scraped, followed by the soothing swipe of her tongue and suckle of her lips. With each caress, his flesh twitched beneath her mouth. Imperceptibly, the hand between her thighs gravitated upward until it pressed with flaming insistence against her wet, throbbing core. With each swipe of her tongue or nip from her teeth, a corresponding series of tingles spread from her core, into her belly, and down her legs.

Instinctively, she opened her legs wider and rocked against his fingers, silently encouraging his exploration. But his hand just lay there absolutely still, a sizzling, erotic distraction.

Scraping her teeth down his belly to suckle at his hip, she tightened her grip around his erection and increased the up-and-down slide of her hand. A groan broke from him, much thicker and raspier than before. The sound shot off an avalanche of satisfaction throughout her. He didn’t try to hide his reactions from her. Didn’t pretend her touch didn’t affect him, deeply. He was so completely open about the way she made him feel.

A sense of power flooded her—of confidence. It was a heady combination and one she intended to explore in length and depth
. . .
after she finished idolizing his body.

By the time she reached the rigid jut of flesh claimed by her fingers, he’d stopped breathing entirely. The hand melting the flesh between her thighs sat there absolutely still, as though he didn’t want to distract her.

Nibbling her way across his hip and up his penis, she replaced the long, firm slide of her hand with the long, wet glide of her mouth and tongue. He tasted salty and earthy and absolutely delicious. She managed two lingering trips from the bulbous head down to the thickened trunk and the soft, warm globes before he broke. Dragging her up and over him, he nudged her legs apart until she straddled him.

The hand between her thighs stroked up, delicately parting the folds of her sex to rub repeatedly against the wet, swollen folds. Her breath clotted in her chest. Quiver after quiver shook her as his finger rubbed its way to the little knot of nerves. Her pussy tightened and swelled, moistening with urgency.

Straightening, she arched her back and clenched her legs as fever exploded through her, rippling through muscles and veins, cinching every nerve tight, feeding the urge to bear down and take him inside.

She needed him inside her, filling her, completing her.

A finger slipped into her, stroked her once, and pulled back out. She felt the bulbous head of his penis replace his finger. And then he was pushing inside her. The hot, thick length of him filling her, stretching her, binding her to him in the most primitive way possible.

She froze above him, straddling his hips, savoring the hot thickness of him stretching her. The sense of fullness. Of throbbing heat. Of coming home.

The brilliant blue eyes holding her gaze flashed as he stirred restively beneath her. His face tightened with urgency. “Come on. Darlin’, you’re killin’ me.”

She stared down at him, at the primitive hunger stamped so clearly across his face. And a dense molten pressure settled just below her belly. Tingles prickled up her spine and down her legs. Slowly she pushed herself up with her knees, rising steadily until the thick length of him almost slipped out of her, before bearing down again, taking him back inside.

He groaned, arching his hips to meet hers, his head pressed back against the pillow. Rough hands latched on to her hips, lifting her and then dragging her back down. The liquid pressure in her belly coalesced, contracting into a tight ball of raw throbbing. She moved faster, her breath trapped in her chest, her eyes blurring, the heat rising so fast and stifling she felt ready to burst into flames.

Vaguely, she was aware of an infinite litany of guttural groans echoing in her ringing ears, but she wasn’t sure whether they came from her or the man arching into her.

One of his hands dropped from her hips and slid between her thighs. It found the tight bud of her sex and rolled it between his fingers. White-hot lightning speared from his fingers into the throbbing ball in the pit of her belly. She arched and bore down, screaming as the pressure exploded. Tingles swept up and out, morphed into shudders that ripped through her body from toes to scalp.

As the tingles and shudders engulfed her, liquefying muscle and bone, she was vaguely aware of movement, of rolling. And then Rawls was above her, the heavy muscles of his shoulders bunched, his face taut, neck corded as he thrust into her.

She focused on the flushed rigidity of his face, the blind urgency in his eyes, and the tingles exploded again, sweeping through her with even more force than before. As the tingles reached her head, white static took over her mind and then she was flying and crashing, his raw, breathless shout echoing in her ringing ears.

What might have been a millennium later, she returned to awareness under the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

“What?” she asked.

Since opening her eyes was too much effort and her limbs had fallen into that post-gratification lethargy and refused to move, she sighed with contentment and cuddled into the sweaty masculine body splayed out beneath her. He must have rolled them again while she was out of it. As beds went, he was hard and narrow and hot and altogether perfect.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice raspy and strangely solemn. Fingers slid through her hair, untangling the strands before trailing down her face to cup her cheek. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

A smile threatened. Since it was a stretch of the imagination to call her the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, he must be in what was generally referred to as the postcoital glow. Why that tickled her, she had no idea.

“You find that funny?” he asked, curiosity in his voice.

“No.” She opened her eyes, letting the smile spread across her lips. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” He shook his head and leaned down, brushing a soft kiss across her lips. “There’s nothin’ sweet about it. It’s pure fact, darlin’.”

Sure it was
. . .

But she let the statement pass unchallenged. If he wanted to see her that way, who was she to contradict him?

He brushed another, slightly firmer, kiss across her mouth before pulling back to scan her face. “You.” He leaned in and brushed another kiss across her mouth. “Are.” Another kiss. “Beautiful.” This time he pressed the kiss into her forehead, his lips lingering. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” Pulling back to study her face, he absently stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

She laughed, turning her head to kiss his fingers. “Aren’t you the one who told me, and I quote, ‘You’re too damn thin’?”