Running Blind (12 page)

20

Gasping for breath, Coop landed spread-eagle on his back, which was exactly where she wanted him—and wanted him
now—
if the force with which she'd bucked him off and shoved him to the bed was an indication.

Only moments ago, she'd melted into a sweet, boneless puddle after she'd come in his mouth. Then she'd lain there, wet and satisfied, while he'd kissed his way slowly up her body, finally joining her on the bed. He'd coaxed her mouth open, stroking and exploring inside. He'd have to remember that thing he'd done with his tongue, because when he'd touched the roof of her mouth just so, she'd shifted from sleepy kitten to hungry tiger.

Her hands tangled in his hair now, pressing her mouth harder onto his, as her fingers raced across his chest and she scraped her nails across his skin, arching her hips against him. She was smokin' hot, all fierce passion, with zero inhibitions.

A woman like her didn't hide behind smoke screens and mirrors. She delivered what she promised in the way she dressed, the way she smelled, the way she oozed sexuality like a candle did fragrance.

Then she knelt over him, her lips and nipples rosy pink and swollen from his kisses, her hair falling in a golden mess across his bare chest. Watching his face, she opened a condom packet with her long nails, then slowly rolled it over his engorged flesh. He had to clench every muscle in his body to keep from coming right then. Perspiration dampened his skin as she took him in her hands and eased him inside of her. Then, her eyes still on his, she lifted her hair away from her neck with both hands and took her sweet, torturous time impaling herself to the hilt.

Only when she was good and fully seated did he breathe. Only then
could
he breathe, as she tightened around him, gloving him in exquisite heat.

“Be still,” she whispered when he closed his eyes and arched up into her. “Just be.”

He opened his eyes then, and man, oh, man. Her eyes were closed; her lower lip was caught between her teeth. Her head tilted to the side, and her expression—­intent on feeling their union in the purest, most sensual way—stopped his breath again.

He ran his hands from her knees to her hips and held her there against him, savoring the way she indulged herself, then groaned low in his throat when she met his gaze and started moving.

Slowly at first. A little rocking motion of her hips. Back and forth. Then side to side, then up and down. Higher. Harder. Wilder, until the sensations inside him blasted past finesse and control and rocked them to the hot, explosive edge.

He came on a strangled groan, arching into her one last time as she tensed and clenched and then, on a gasp that was part sigh, part cry, and all release, collapsed across his chest.

For long, long moments, his climax stretched and intensified, then slowly mellowed to a stunning simmer before finally dying. An amazingly sensual death.

Yeah. She'd definitely killed him.

•    •    •

When Cooper rolled onto his stomach, exhausted and spent, Rhonda had plenty of time to stare at the bandages on his back and calf.

She'd been aware of his wounds, old and new, when they'd made love. How could she not? There wasn't an inch of her body he hadn't stroked, kissed, or finessed. So yeah, she'd reciprocated. And yes, she'd been very aware . . . but unable to process anything but what he was doing to her. He'd been thorough. And oh, my, he'd been good.

Now, though, in the aftermath of the storm of sensation and pleasure he'd brewed up and demanded she give in to, she had to know.

“You're lucky you weren't killed Monday.”

He yawned sleepily and then, with effort, turned onto his back to look at her. “As I recall, you were also in the line of fire. And speaking of fire . . .”

She looked away when a warm flush spread through her body at the memory of how bold she'd been with him. How uninhibited. He'd made it easy. He'd made it incredible.

“Hey.” He reached across the pillow and smoothed the hair away from her face. “Don't be embarrassed. You were amazing.”

“I could have hurt you.”

He chuckled, pushing up on an elbow. “You can hurt me anytime you want.”

She didn't want to go all serious and concerned on him, but seeing those wounds made her realize things about him—and about herself. “I was scared to death.”

The amusement in his eyes faded to understanding as he realized she was referring to the sniper attack. “You think I wasn't?”

She searched his eyes and, because she couldn't help herself, searched his beautiful, sculpted face. Thought of the perfect union of his muscle and sinew and bone. Of the silky dark hair that fell over his forehead as he regarded her in a way that made her feel like they'd just shared a whole lot more than casual sex.

“You do, don't you? You think that getting shot at doesn't scare me spitless.”

He was trying to make her feel better. “I didn't see any fear. Not from you. Not from any of the team members.”

“Hell, no. You saw us react like we've been trained to. But if you'd felt my heartbeat, you'd have known just how scared I was. Just like the rest of the team.” He reached out and, with a gentleness that unnerved her, brushed his thumb across her cheek. “It's our job not to show fear. It's our job to handle threats.”

She looked away, just now realizing that she might be way out of her element. “I was pretty much useless. I couldn't help Eva. I couldn't help anyone.”

He nestled down into the covers and drew her into his arms. His body was big and hard and as warm as a furnace as he curled himself around her. “You're not a trained soldier. And you did exactly what we needed you to do. You kept calm. You kept Mike calm. You didn't make yourself a target that would have endangered all of us. And you've done the job that
you've
been trained to do ever since. You have nothing to regret.”

Oh, she had plenty of regrets. She already knew that tonight would be one of them, but she didn't want to give in to that reality yet.

She shifted to her side so she could see his face. Before Monday's shooting, she'd thought she knew who he was. Turned out she hadn't had a clue. She still didn't.

“How do you do it?”

His eyes slowly came open.

“How do you face gunfire and secret operations and flying black into terrorist strongholds? How do you deal with the threats? Over and over and—”

He sighed, pressing his fingertips to her lips. “Somebody's been reading too many after-action reports about old missions.” He smiled, then kissed her temple. “That's old news.”

Maybe it was. But still, she wondered. Every man on the team was an adrenaline junkie. But adrenaline wasn't all that drove them. They were patriots. Some of them had lost someone—in Iraq, in Afghanistan, when the Twin Towers went down. All of them wanted to right wrongs. She got that. But what was it about these men, about this man in particular, that compelled him to willingly face his own death just by doing his job? “
Why
do you do it?”

He made an annoyed sound and snuggled deeper into the covers and into her. “Do what?”

She should let him sleep. Actually, she should kick him out of her room and go to sleep herself. It had been a difficult three days, and they'd just done their best to wear each other out. A sizzle fired through her when she thought of one particularly athletic move she'd never even heard of.

She'd just decided that he was asleep and their conversation was over when he wearily pushed himself up on an elbow. Sleepy dark eyes regarded her from beneath dark hair and ridiculously thick lashes. His lips were as soft as pillows and as skilled as an artist's brush. The beginning of a five-o'clock shadow darkened his cheeks and jaw.

“Why do I do what?” he repeated.

“The job,” she said, before she lost her nerve or got distracted by the possibility of messing his hair up even more.

He flopped onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head. “The same reason anyone does their job.”

Not even close. “Does it have something to do with those one-eyed jacks you guys always carry? Something to do with your tour in Afghanistan? The trumped-up court-martial charges?” She couldn't stop wondering what had happened. Wondering how those events had shaped him into the man he was today.

He turned his head and looked at her. “Why do you want to know?”

Okay, it
was
a very personal question. One that a woman who cared about a man might ask.

“Because the ITAP team was built around you, Mike, and Taggart. I'm part of the team now. I feel like . . . I should know what drives you.”

God, she hoped that sounded plausible. Because this was
not
personal. She couldn't let it be. This was about work.

But she shouldn't even have asked. Should have left it at sex. That's all this was supposed to be about, and that's probably why he'd suddenly become so tense. He didn't like this up-close-and-personal stuff, either.

“Tell you what.” His mood was much more somber than it had been moments ago. “You answer a question for me, and I'll answer one for you.”

The dark edge in his tone made it very clear that she wasn't going to like his question, and she had no one to blame but herself.

Before she could tell him to forget it, he asked, “What's the deal with you and hospitals? And flowers?”

Her heart jumped.

She was
so
not going there with him.

“Look. Let's just drop it. You'd better go back to your room. We both need to get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” She rolled over on her side, her back to him.

“Oh, no. I'm not letting you off that easy. But just to show you what a sport I am, I'll retract that question and start with an easier one.”

He sounded very much awake now and very determined.

“Where do you get those sweaters?”

Sweaters? Wary, she looked over her bare shoulder at him. “What?”

“Your sweaters. Where do you get them? And how many do you have, for God's sake?”

She rolled onto her back and frowned at him. “You don't like my sweaters?”

“I
love
your sweaters. They make me think of old movies with Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe or Brigitte Bardot.”

So, he was an old movie buff, and he noticed things. Since this was relatively safe, she answered, “That's because they're vintage. I love the old angora wool and the dyes they used back then. So I haunt vintage shops and buy them when I find them.”

“Me and the guys thank you for that.”

He was smiling again, which made her smile. “You and the guys, huh?”

“Yeah. Every day, there's a pool on what color you're going to wear.”

She laughed, because it really was silly. And silly was a good thing now, after her stupid idea of trying to find out what made him tick.

“Okay, Miss Burns. Your turn. A simple question this time.”

Relieved, she asked, “Why do they call you Hondo?”

He groaned and covered his eyes with a forearm.

“These are your rules, not mine,” she reminded him.

He heaved a resigned breath. “Okay. I'm an old movie buff, right?”

“Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield.”

“And westerns. John Wayne, especially. He was in a movie based on an old Louis L'Amour book that I'd read over and over again. Anyway, there was this scene in the book and the movie where John Wayne—Hondo—wanders onto a ranch with nothing but a saddle and a rifle.”

“No horse?”

“No horse. So he jumps onto this wild bronc no one's been able to break and rides it, bucking and rearing all over the place until he finally tames it, all while managing to look like a manly man and never even losing his hat.”

“And?” she prompted after he stopped talking.

“And,” he said, clearly reluctant to go on, “I was stupid enough to retell the story to the guys when we were deployed.”

“And . . . they call you Hondo because you were a fan of this book and movie? There's got to be more.”

He groaned, then gave up the rest. “We had this mission in Afghanistan. In the mountains. The only way to get to our target was on horseback.”

She tried not to smile. “I think I see where this is going.”

“Let's just say I lost more than my hat and my pride. It wasn't pretty, and I sure as hell wasn't John Wayne. They've called me Hondo ever since.”

She didn't laugh, but she couldn't help the smile.

Until he turned to her. “Okay—my turn.”

She braced, afraid he'd circle back to his original question.

“What did you want to be when you grew up?”

Relief filled her. This she could handle. This she
wanted
to handle. Lying here with him, so aware of everything male and stunning and sexual about him, she was ready for a diversion. Especially when he traced one finger slowly down her arm, then moved to her breast and circled her nipple, reawakening all of her erogenous zones.