Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body) (3 page)

Shock coldcocked her. “Wh-what?” she stuttered. “Y-you can’t stay here. With me.”

Again, the arch of a dark brow. “You’re welcome to try and put me out.”

For a quick second, the thought of putting her hands on that hard chest, of having those firm, sexy muscles flex under her palms, of having those strong arms wrapped around her, pressing her against…
Oh for the love of—
“Shane, this isn’t necessary. Unless…” Her voice trailed off as a terrifying idea leaped into her head, stealing her breath. “Do you think”—she swallowed, propelled the words past her suddenly constricted throat—“are you expecting someone else to show up? To finish…?”

“No.” He strode forward and encircled her upper arms in an implacable grip. “Look at me.” Pinching her chin, he tilted her head up so she didn’t have a choice but to obey him. His jeweled gaze bore into hers. “I don’t believe anyone will come after you again tonight. They wouldn’t risk attempting two hits in one night. It would draw too much attention. Even if they did,” he said, his touch tightening. “I have a man outside your building, and I’m here. You’re safe. No one will get to you. I promise you that.”

Relief coursed through her in a heady flood. And it was the deluge of emotion that convinced her to give in.

One night—what was the harm in one night?

Wrapping her fingers around his wrists, she sank into him. Assured by his strength, by the fire lighting his bright gaze. “Okay.” She nodded. “Okay.”

But even as she agreed and headed to the linen closet for sheets and blankets to make up the couch for her overnight guest, she glanced up at the textured, water-stained ceiling.

Why did she suddenly feel like Chicken Little waiting for a piece of the sky to plummet and knock her the hell out?

Chapter Four

Fallon flopped onto her back, tossing the suffocating weight of the sheet aside. Any other night, she would’ve cracked the window to allow the cool, refreshing late-spring breeze in the room. But that was before she’d almost become a statistic. Now the window remained firmly shut, and though the warmth in the bedroom neared stifling, she refused to open it. Common sense railed that unless a possible assailant had been bitten and injected with arachnid DNA, no way could someone scale the brick building to break into her third-floor window.

Still…

With a huff of breath, she rolled over, stared at the far wall and the scintillating view of her clothes thrown over a chair. One a.m. The digital clock seemed to taunt her as the quiet crowded in on her. It pressed down until the silence reverberated in her chest, her ears, covered her like the sheet she’d just thrown aside. Heavy, smothering. And it didn’t help that every sense seemed to hover on high alert. As if even the very nerves in her body acknowledged that just a room away, Shane Roarke slept on her couch. Possibly naked. All that golden skin on display, begging to be licked, tasted, savored…

A hot pulse settled low in her stomach and spread its sensual, sneaky fingers to all points north and south. Especially south. Her nipples beaded beneath the thin cotton of her T-shirt, and she clenched her hands to prevent her fingers from inching underneath the top to soothe—or aggravate—the ache. But nothing could prevent her from squeezing her thighs together. From ratcheting the ache in her sex from a pulse to a steady throb.

She closed her eyes, flung an arm above her head, and trailed her fingertips over the path of skin left bare by the high-riding hem of her shirt and the band of her sleep shorts. Shivering, she substituted her touch for the phantom man looming over her in the darkness. No, not a phantom man. Shane. Behind her eyelids, his gaze blazed down on her. His rough, deep breathing echoed in her ears, telegraphing the lust that hardened his beautiful, warrior’s face into a sexual mask. Calloused fingers trailed the edge of her shorts, dipped beneath, sought damp flesh…

“Oh damn,” Fallon muttered, leaping from the bed as if flames had erupted from beneath the mattress. Masturbating while the object of her dirty fantasies lay only feet away? And with his damn bionic hearing, he would probably catch every sigh or moan.
Jesus Christ
. She scrubbed her palms down her face. This wasn’t going to work. Sleep was a nonfactor.

Tension. Belated adrenaline rush. Freaking nerves. All of the above could be attributed to her edginess. Not Shane’s sudden appearance. She’d gotten over her silly childhood crush seven years ago on her eighteenth birthday, after she’d been slapped down by the cold rejection from the man she’d idealized and loved.

Love. Hah. What a crock. More like candy-coated teenage lust. Love was fodder for movie tickets and romance novels. She didn’t dream of the house with the white picket fence, two-point-five-kids, and a minivan in the driveway. Inevitably, the house would be a pickup site for weekend custody exchanges, the kids would become casualties in a divorce battle, and the van would be traded in for a screaming-red, midlife crisis convertible.

Besides, she didn’t go for stern, inflexible, my-way-or-the-highway men. Okay, sure Jared had been a flake, but at least he knew how to relax, have fun. Freaking laugh.

So Shane had no reason to avoid her like the plague. She had no intention of repeating history by throwing herself at him.

And she’d prove it.

She left her bedroom and made a pit stop at the linen closet to grab a sheet before continuing toward the living room. She’d forgotten to give him one before heading to her bedroom for the night…okay,
escaping
to her room. Still, the belated offering seemed as good of an excuse as any to seek him out.

Light from the television cast flickering shadows across the floor, coffee table, and sofa. And the man stretched out on the cushions.

Oh Jesus, Mary, Joseph…

The piece of furniture appeared Lilliputian under his long frame. One large, well-formed foot balanced on the couch arm, while the other rested on the floor. Even relaxed in sleep, muscles corded his thighs, his power and ability delineated in every tendon. Her breath stalled and stuttered in her lungs, lust climbing her insides like a twisting, clinging vine. It didn’t require much imagination to envision those firm legs pressing hers wider, controlling her movements with an ease and strength that set her heart to pounding…and her panties to melting.

She enjoyed pretty things—cars, clothes, shoes, jewelry. Of course, since striking out on her own, she couldn’t fit most of those into her tiny budget, but it didn’t suppress her love of them. Beautifying the ordinary, bringing the fantasy to vivid life all played into her dream of owning an event-planning company one day.

The male dwarfing her sofa didn’t need embellishment. With a chain and dog tags resting on his collarbone and tight black boxer briefs hugging his upper thighs, he exuded a sexual magnetism that reached out to her like a primal mating call. Hell, she was two seconds away from rubbing her thighs together like a freakin’ cricket.

Disgust at her wayward libido pricked at her pride, but it didn’t stop her lascivious perusal. The man might possess the verbosity and rigidity of a Spartan warrior, but
Jesus Christ
, he had the body of one, too. It was a living work of art. Hard contours, defined ridges, enticing planes and dips. He could’ve been chiseled by a master’s loving and meticulous hand. Even the propped up foot was well formed, and utterly masculine. Speaking of masculine…

A rush of heat blazed a path from her belly, up her chest, and poured into her face. God knew, it wasn’t polite to stare at a man’s—especially a sleeping man’s—package, but Godzilla could’ve been spotted off the eastern shore, and she wouldn’t have been able to tear her enthralled scrutiny away.

The black cotton couldn’t conceal the large, impressive bulge that lined his thigh. With his legs parted, she had an excellent view of just how far down that bulge reached. Which was long enough to have her sex clenching in excitement and trepidation. Good God, he wasn’t even
aroused
. She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach. What would he look like fully erect, hard, tip flushed and glistening, ready to…?

Beneath the briefs, his cock stirred. Flexed. Lengthened.

Gasping, she jerked her gaze to his face. And collided with a searing, bright stare. A hungry stare.

She blinked. Surely the lust she believed she’d glimpsed had been her sex-deprived imagination. Because Shane didn’t think of her as a woman—a desirable woman. He didn’t want her, his little sister’s best friend. He’d made that abundantly clear.

And yet…yet, he continued to lie there, studying her from beneath thick, ridiculously long lashes, his eyes a rim of hot turquoise. Tension invaded his limbs. And his dick…

Swallowing, she once again wrenched her attention back to his face.

“I, uh,” she stammered, glanced down, and thrust her arm toward him. “Sheet?”

Instead of replying, he swung his foot off the couch to join the other on the floor and sat. And that quick, the reserved, distant, familiar Shane returned. His sharp, incisive scrutiny scanned from her wild bed-head, down her bare legs to her feet. As his inventory reversed direction, her toes curled into the threadbare carpet. The visual survey had been cold, impersonal. Yet, the quiver in her sex felt very
personal
.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“No,” she murmured, her arm falling to her side. “It’s too quiet.”

He nodded, rising to his feet. The dog tags around his neck clacked against one another, drawing her attention to the wide, naked expanse of his chest. How she managed to sound calm and unaffected by the sight of all that taut skin should be filed under minor miracles. Especially since inside her panties she popped, sizzled, and lit up like a damn Fourth of July fireworks show.

“Here.” He scooped up the television remote from the coffee table and tossed it to her. “Take the couch.” He bent, picked up his pants, and turned to step into them. “I’ll sleep on the—”

“
Jesus
Christ
.” She caught the remote on autopilot, the sheet dropping from her numb fingers. Horror poured through her in a thick, choking deluge. Before her mind could catch up with her body, she was closing the distance between them. Her hands were reaching for him, gripping his hips above the low-hanging black band of his boxers and unbuckled, sagging pants.

Her eyes were drinking in the terrible scars marring his back.

Shane went unnaturally still, and the tensing of his muscles telegraphed his intention to jerk away. But she tightened her hold, ignored the fact that she’d violated his unspoken edict regarding her touching him.

“Please,” she whispered, unable to prevent the pain and fear from seeping through. Maybe he detected it, detected the desperate need. Because, though he didn’t relax, instead remaining as rigid as a statue, he didn’t move away from her. Didn’t leave her.

Emitting a sound caught somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, she gently—reverently—traced the gouged-out flesh just below his waist, the hard, puckered skin surrounding the old wound. Pressing her forehead to his shoulder blade, she smoothed fingertips over the long, ridged scar aligning the bottom of his spine. Stroked the raised, shiny mark the size and shape of a nickel on the back of his upper arm.

Grief for his suffering, panic at the realization of just how close she’d come to losing him pummeled the breath from her chest, leaving a hollow, agonizing ache behind. Of course she’d known he’d been hurt; only a serious injury could’ve kept Shane from returning to the Army he loved. But four years ago when she’d received that call from Addy about Shane being shipped home, her friend had told her he’d been shot. That’s it. She hadn’t detailed the gravity the scars covering his body conveyed. They’d kept her in the dark. Purposefully.

“You wouldn’t let me come to the hospital,” she said.

“No,” he stated, voice flat.

“Why?” she demanded softly. He didn’t reply, only fisted his fingers at his sides. “I would’ve come. If you’d let me, I would’ve,” she murmured, then bent and brushed her lips over the scar on his waist.

Jolting as if struck by a bolt of lightning, he whipped around, a fierce frown darkening his face. “What the hell are you doing?” he growled.

Slowly, she straightened, the truth glued to her tongue. She hadn’t paused to debate the gesture but had acted on impulse. And need. A need born of the many times in her childhood when her hurts and scars had never been kissed or even acknowledged. Her mother had been too preoccupied with the next husband, aka victim, and her father had been busy at work. Even as a little girl, she’d realized the simple act of lips to a bruise or scrape wouldn’t magically erase the sting or ache. It was the attention that soothed the sting. The love and caring that said,
I can’t make the pain go away, but I would take your hurt into me if I could.

Shane wouldn’t have allowed his mother to tend to his wounds. When Fallon had first met him, he’d been a mature, contained eighteen-year-old. And even back then she’d had the feeling he’d been that way for a long time. After meeting Trudy Roarke, she understood why. Though affectionate and loving, Shane and Addy’s mother hadn’t been the most…reliable or stable. Shane had been the adult in that family.

Lying in a hospital bed, enduring unimaginable pain, he’d probably still been the one to comfort his mother and sister, not permitting them to baby him.

He deserved to have someone fuss over him. Deserved to have someone kiss his scrapes.

But explaining that to him—telling him she’d only wanted to take away his pain—wouldn’t go over well. Not at all.

Instead, she shrugged a shoulder. “I didn’t—”

“Think,” he snapped. “You don’t think before you act.” He snatched up his shirt and, yanking it over his head, strode from the living room.

“Well, ouch, damn it.”

In spite of her flippant response, his harsh words sliced into her, and she swiftly worked to cauterize the wounds before they bled freely. Only Shane could inflict that kind of damage. Not her parents; she loved them, but after years and years of carelessness and emotional negligence, Fallon had built an immunity to their thoughtless cuts to her heart and spirit.

Shane, though, he still retained that power.

“Look,” she continued when he reentered the room several moments later, carrying a cup, “I know spending the night in my apartment on my couch isn’t how you envisioned passing your time—”

“You don’t know anything,” he interrupted. That aggravating icy calm had returned to his voice—and belied the hard shove of the warm mug into her hand. The aromatic scent of peppermint floating to her nose halted the acerbic comment hovering on her tongue. Tea. He’d made her tea.

“Thank you,” she murmured then sipped. Humming, she closed her eyes, savoring the minty flavor and the comforting, warm slide of liquid down her throat. She opened her eyes and found Shane seated in the chair next to the sofa, his shadowed, unwavering gaze focused on where her mouth rested on the rim of the cup. For a long, taut instant, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The heaviness of his stare could’ve been tactile, brushing over her lips, caressing them…

Finally, when her lungs started to rebel at the lack of oxygen, his intent study lifted to her eyes. She could read nothing in the shuttered, turquoise depths. Releasing a trembling sigh, she lowered the mug.

“I don’t regret being here, Fallon,” he said in his low, controlled tone. “Like I said before, I wish you would’ve called me, not Addisyn.”

“So you said.” She peered down into the steaming dark brown liquid. “But I didn’t want to impose. I’m not family, and the police assured me I would be safe.”

“You are—”

“Don’t call me your sister again. We both know I’m not.”

“—like family,” he finished as if she hadn’t cut him off. “And it damn sure wouldn’t have been an imposition. Cases like yours are what we created GDG Security for.”