The Mercenary (17 page)

She felt safe knowing that Ray couldn’t hurt her again, but a part of her knew she’d never go back to being the woman she was before.

“What are you doing here?” Kirk asked as he walked out of the station house.

“Waiting for you,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because…I love you, Kirk, and I don’t want to let you go.”

“That wasn’t love—it was lust.”

“Maybe at first, but it’s been three days since I’ve seen you and I…I’ve missed you.”

He shrugged.

“Don’t do that. I think I mean more to you than just some hot lay you had during a job.”

He wasn’t going to say anything, she thought. She saw it in his eyes.

“Dammit, Kirk. I thought Ray took everything from me and you are the man who made me realize that safety wasn’t something that could come from a place or from money. Safety for me comes from being with you.”

“Ah, baby. You’ll get over that.”

“No. I won’t. I know what I need and that is you, Kirk Mann.”

He shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

He walked away, and Olivia knew she had no choice but to let him go.

D
ECEMBER
5, L
ONDON
, U.K., D
ANNY
O’S
HEA’S
P
UB

K
irk watched Olivia as she moved through the crowded room. He’d gotten her message through Anna that she needed him. That someone was threatening her safety. But there wasn’t anyone here who would harm her. It was a party in her honor.

A launch party for her latest book.

She glanced up and saw him and smiled.

She came over to his side and wrapped her arms around him. God, she felt good. The last two missions they’d been on had been hard and long. And he’d done his job. He was too good at it not to, but he’d missed her.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I thought you were in danger.”

“I am. Danger of losing my heart. I know you thought my feelings would go away, but they haven’t and they won’t.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then let’s get out of here,” he said.

He took her back to his flat. “I missed you.”

“Of course you did. We’re meant to be together.”

“I can’t stop doing my job,” he said.

“I won’t ask you to. I just need you in my life. I love you, Kirk, and without you I’m not ever going to feel alive.”

“I love you, too, Olivia. I don’t know how it happened, but I think it might have started when you sang in the car.”

“No, it wasn’t then. You were annoyed with me then.”

“I’m not annoyed now,” he said, kissing her. He carried her down the hall.

He couldn’t fight her and his own instincts, which had told him leaving her in South Africa had been a mistake. He bent down and took her mouth with his, letting his hands wander over her body.

He pulled her closer to him. Felt her fingers tracing over his chest, her fingers lingering on the puckered flesh over his breastbone. They undressed each other slowly.

“This is new. What’s this from?” she asked.

“Gunshot.” He’d taken that bullet back in a raid on a rebel camp on their last mission.

She leaned down and laved at the new scar tissue with her tongue. Then kissed him lightly. “I’m sorry you were hurt.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and he slowly turned so she could touch his back. She found each of his scars and caressed them. Held the pain that had lingered in his soul with her innocent touch.

He caressed the long length of her back and the edge of her panties. He slipped his finger under the elastic band and felt the cool skin at the small of her back.

She shivered with awareness and nestled closer to him, tilting her head back and looking up at him. There were questions in her eyes and he knew this was going to complicate things endlessly, but he needed her. And for the first time in a long time he was going to take what he wanted. Not because he was being paid to do it but because he needed it.

He kissed her again and let the passion he’d felt for her flow through him. He brought one hand around her waist, ran it up her body, and cupped her breasts.

They were full without being too large and her nipples were a pretty pink color that matched her lips. He leaned down and dropped a kiss on each one. They both puckered up and she let her breath out on a sigh.

He rubbed his finger over her left nipple while he took her mouth with his again. She tasted right, he thought. Like no other woman had before. Normally he wasn’t a big kisser, but with Olivia, he needed to feel her mouth under his. Needed to taste her. And let her taste him.

He took his time with her nipples, arousing her slowly with his hands before moving down and suckling on each of them. He moved down her body, caressing the small curve of her stomach and using his teeth to scrape gently around her belly button. She shifted on the bed, her hips lifting. He smoothed his hand down toward the apex of her thighs, taking his time to caress her thighs and then the lower curve of her belly. Running his hand all over her body but avoiding her center.

“Touch me, Kirk,” she said.

He shook his head, dropping a quick nibbling kiss on her mouth before shifting so that he was crouched between her legs. He took the edge of her panties in his hands and drew them down her legs. He tossed them on the floor, leaving her bare in front of him. He shifted her on the bed so she was more in the center of it. He was fully aroused, and she hesitated as she glanced down at his erection. Then he felt her fingers on him, her touch as she caressed him, undid him.

Her legs moved restlessly on the bed, drawing his attention back to her feminine mound. He needed to touch her.

He lay next to her again and stroked his hands down her curvy body. He reached her mound and slowly parted her lower lips, revealing her very pink flesh. He touched her lightly and she moaned.

“Did that hurt?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

He leaned down and kissed her, stroking her mouth lightly with his tongue. She tasted good as he continued to stroke her body.

She lifted her hips toward his touch. He slipped his fingers lower, finding the moisture at her center, rubbing her soft skin as he pushed her legs farther apart until he could reach her dewy core. He pushed his finger into her body and drew out some of her slickness; he lifted his head and looked up her body.

Her eyes were closed. Her head tipped back, her shoulders arched, throwing her breasts forward with their berry-hard tips, begging for more attention. Her entire body was a creamy delight.

He lowered his head again, hungry for more of her. He feasted on her mouth the way a starving man would. He used his fingers to bring her to the brink of climax but held her there, wanting to draw out the moment of completion until she was begging him for it.

Her hands left her body and grasped his head as she thrust her hips up toward his face. But he pulled back so that she didn’t get the contact she craved.

“Kirk, please.”

He scraped his nail over her clitoris and she screamed as her orgasm rocked through her body. He kept his mouth on hers until her body stopped shuddering, holding the kiss while her body still pulsed.

“I love you, Olivia.”

“I know.”

He smacked her on the butt. “Do you know I’m going to marry you?”

“Yes, I do.”

L
iam sounded exhausted. Fed up. She didn’t blame him a bit. She was a piece of work. Her mind raced, to come up with a plausible lie. Letting him see how small she felt would just embarrass them both.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered.

He let out a sigh, and leaned back, leaning his head against the back of the couch. Covering his eyes with his hands.

That was when she noticed the condition of his hand. His knuckles were torn and raw, encrusted with blood. God, she hadn’t even given a thought for his injuries, his trauma, his shock. She’d just zoned out, floated in her bubble, leaned on him. As if he were an oak.

But he wasn’t an oak. He was a man. He’d fought like a demon for her, and risked his life, and gotten hurt, and she was so freaked out and self-absorbed, she hadn’t even noticed. She was mortified.

“Liam. Your hand,” she fussed, getting up. “Let me get some disinfectant, and some—”

“It’s OK,” he muttered. “Forget about it.”

“Like hell! You’re bleeding!” She bustled around, muttering and scolding to hide her own discomfiture, gathering gauze and cotton balls and antibiotic ointment. He let her fuss, a martyred look on his face. After she’d finished taping his hand, she looked at his battered face and grabbed a handful of his polo. “What about the rest of you?”

“Just some bruises,” he hedged.

“Where?” she persisted, tugging at his shirt. “Show me.”

He wrenched the fabric out of her hand. “If I take off my clothes now, it’s not going to be to show you my bruises,” he said.

She blinked, swallowed, tried to breathe. Reorganized her mind. There it was. Finally verbalized. No more glossing over it, running away.

“After all this?” Her tone was timid. “You still want to…now?”

“Fuck, yes.” His tone was savage. “I’ve wanted it since I laid eyes on you. It’s gotten worse ever since. And combat adrenaline gives a guy a hard-on like a railroad spike, even if there weren’t a beautiful woman in my face, driving me fucking nuts. Which puts me in a bad place, Nancy. I know the timing sucks for you. The timing’s been piss poor since we met, but it never gets any better. It just keeps getting worse.”

“Hey. It’s OK.” She patted his back with a shy, nervous hand. He was usually so calm, so controlled. It unnerved her to see him agitated.

He didn’t seem to hear her. “And the worse it gets, the worse I want it,” he went on, his voice harsh. “Which makes me feel like a jerk, and a user, and an asshole. Promising to protect you—”

“You did protect me,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, and I told you it wasn’t an exchange. You don’t owe me sex. You don’t owe me anything. And that really fucks me up. Because I can’t even remove myself from the situation. I’m scared to death to leave you alone. And that puts me between a rock and a hard place.”

She put her finger over his mouth. “Wow,” she murmured. “I had no idea you could get worked into such a state. Mr. Super-mellow Liam let’s-contemplate-the-beauty-of-the-flower Knightly.”

His explosive snort of derision cut her off. She shushed him again, enjoying the feel of his lips beneath her finger. “You’re not a jerk or a user,” she said gently. “You were magnificent. Thank you. Again.”

He looked away. There was a brief, embarrassed pause. “That’s very generous of you,” he said, trying to flex the wounded hand. “But I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“I never thought that you were.” She placed her own hand below his, and rested them both gently on his thigh. Her fingers dug into the thick muscle of his quadriceps, through the dirty, bloodstained denim of his jeans. Beneath the fabric, he was so hot. So strong and solid.

She moved her hand up, slowly but surely, stroking higher towards his groin. His breath caught, and then stopped entirely as her fingers brushed the turgid bulge of his penis beneath the fabric.

Here went nothing. “I think I know what you mean, about the hard place,” she whispered, swirling her fingertips over it. Wow. A lot of him. That thick, broad, hard stalk just went on and on. “Or was this what you meant when you were referring to the rock?”

His face was a mask of tension, neck muscles clenched, tendons standing out. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice strangled.

Aw. So sweet. Her fingers closed around him, squeezing. He groaned, and a shudder jarred his body. “I can’t seem to stop,” she said.

“Watch out, Nancy,” he said hoarsely. “If you start something now, there’s no stopping it.”

She stroked him again, deeper, tighter, a slow caress that wrung a keening gasp from his throat. “I know,” she said. “I know.”

He reached out, a little awkwardly, clasping his arms around her shoulders, staring into her eyes as if expecting her to bolt.

He pulled her close, enfolding her in his warmth, his power.

Suddenly, they were kissing. She had no idea who had kissed who. The kiss was desperate, achingly sweet. Not a power struggle, not a matter of talent or skill, just a hunger to get as close as two humans could be. He held her like he was afraid she’d be torn away from him.

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PRIDE AND PASSION by Sylvia Day.
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“W
hat type of individual would you consider ideal to play this role of suitor/protector/investigator?” Jasper asked finally.

Eliza’s head tilted slightly as she pondered her answer. “He should be quiet, even-tempted, and a proficient dancer.”

“How do dullness and the ability to dance signify in catching a possible murderer?” he queried, scowling.

“I did not say ‘dull,’ Mr. Bond. Kindly do not put words into my mouth. In order to be seen as a true threat for my attentions, he should be someone that everyone would believe I would be attracted to.”

“You are not attracted to handsome men?”

“Mr. Bond, I dislike being rude. However, you leave me no choice. The point of fact is that you clearly are not marriage material.”

“I am quite relieved to hear a female recognize that,” he drawled.

“How could anyone doubt it?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I can more easily picture you in a swordfight or fisticuffs than I can see you enjoying an afternoon of croquet or after dinner chess. I am an intellectual, sir. And while I do not mean to say that you are lacking in mental acuity, you are obviously built for more physically strenuous pursuits.”

“I see.”

“Why, anyone would take one look at you and ascertain that you are not like the others at all! It would be evident straightaway that I would never consider a man such as you with even remote seriousness. Quite frankly, sir, you are not my type of male.”

A slow smile began in his dark eyes, then moved downward to curve his lips. It was arresting. Slightly wicked. Troublesome.

Eliza did not like trouble overmuch.

He glanced at her uncle, the earl. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I must speak bluntly in regards to this subject. Most especially because this is a matter of life and death.”

“Quite right,” Melville agreed. “Straight to the point, I always say. Time is too precious to waste on inanities.”

“Agreed.” Jasper glanced back at Eliza, his mischievous smile widening. “Miss Martin, forgive me, but I must point out that your inexperience is limiting your understanding of the situation.”

“Inexperience with what?”

“Men. More precisely, gold digging men.”

“I would have you know,” she retorted, bristling, “that in my six years on the marriage market I have had more than enough experience with gentlemen in want of funds.”

“Then why,” he drawled, “do you not know that they are successful for reasons far removed from social suitability?”

Eliza blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Women do not marry gold diggers because they can dance and sit quietly. They marry them for their appearance and physical prowess—two attributes you have already established that I have.”

“I do not see—”

“Clearly, you do not, so I shall explain.” His smile continued to grow. “Gold diggers who flourish do not strive to satisfy a woman’s intellectual needs. Those can be met through friends and acquaintances. They do not seek to provide the type of companionship one enjoys in social settings or with a game table between them. Again, there are others who can do so.”

“Mr. Bond—”

“No, they strive to satisfying the only position that is theirs alone, a position that some men make no effort to excel in. So rare is the skill, that many a woman will disregard other considerations in favor of it.”

She growled softly. “Will you get to the point, please?”

“Fornication,” his lordship said, before returning to mumbling to himself.

Eliza shot to her feet. “I beg your pardon?”

As courtesy dictated, both her uncle and Jasper rose along with her.

“I prefer to call it ‘seduction,’” Jasper said, his eyes laughing.

“I call it ridiculous,” she rejoined, hands on her hips. “In the grand scheme of life, do you collect how little time a person spends abed when compared to other activities?”

His gaze dropped to her hips. The smile became a full-blown grin. “That truly depends on who else is occupying said bed.”

“Dear heavens.” Eliza shivered at the look Jasper was giving her now. It was certainly
not
a bug-under-the-glass look. No, it was more triumphant. Challenged. Anticipatory. For some unknown, godforsaken reason she had managed to prod the man’s damnable masculine pride into action. “While I acknowledge that a man’s brain might reverse such channels of thought, I cannot see a woman’s doing so.”

“But is it not men whom you wish to affect with this scheme?”

She bit her lower lip. Clever, clever man. He knew quite well that she had no idea how men’s minds worked. She had no notion of whether he was correct, or simply tenacious about securing work.

“Give me a sennight,” he offered. “One week to prove both my point and competency. If at the end you do not agree with one or the other, I will accept no payment for services rendered.”