by Em Petrova
Don’t do that, he wanted to say. Don’t hide from me.
He took up the chair he favored, but it felt like sitting on springs and bolts when his mind was filled with thoughts of Atalee’s soft form under him.
She let out a shaky breath. “I probably shouldn’t have come, but I had to make sure you’re all right.”
“I am.”
Her gaze dropped to his chest again, and he knew she was thinking of his scar. A leftover from his early days in the Texas Rangers.
While having her here was doing unspeakable things to his control, he’d just gotten in, showered the grime and most of the blood off himself, and thrown on a pair of jeans right after hearing the knock at the door. Even now, he could feel the fresh blood running down his calf from the wound on his leg.
The mission had been a bloody one, and he was damn lucky to have escaped with only this minor injury. He glanced down at his leg, and Atalee followed the action.
“You’re bleeding!” She jumped up.
“Yeah, I was about to take care of it when you turned up.”
“How can I help?”
A few drops of blood had hit the floor by his foot. “First-aid kit under the sink in the bathroom.”
“I’ll find it.” She took off through his living room, sharp little heels tapping on the hardwood. Her curves disappeared around the corner, and Shaw leaned back in his chair, feeling the effects of twenty-four hours without sleep and a hell of a lot of physical exertion.
His eyes slipped closed, images of Atalee’s round little ass flashing behind his lids before he heard the tip-tap of her return.
She was carrying the red box he’d used countless times over the past few months since joining the Ranger Ops. Or being recruited, rather.
Atalee knelt at his feet before he could stop her, and damn if his dick wasn’t shoving hard at his fly now, aching with the need to sink into her wet mouth, pussy… or ass. If she’d let him.
God, he had to stop these thoughts before they got out of control.
He reached for the box. “I can do it.”
“I’ll help,” she said at once. “It’s your leg?”
He nodded and shifted to tug up his jeans over the bulge of his calf muscle. The ragged wound stung like hell, but all he could think about was Atalee kneeling at his feet. Dirtier thoughts than he’d ever had in his life popped into his mind.
She let out a low gasp at seeing his leg. “What happened to you?” she almost cried.
He latched his gaze onto hers. “Not the question to ask a man like me.”
“It’s a bullet wound, isn’t it? Oh my God, Shaw!” As if to cover her reaction, she tore open the box lid and rifled through the contents.
“Gauze, alcohol, tape. That’s all I need, baby doll.” The endearment rolled off his tongue before he could snatch it back. She sat back on her heels and stared up at him, sea-green eyes burning with tears.
Jesus Christ, he was a goner for this woman.
Reaching out, he cupped her face in his palm, threading his fingers into her soft hair as he’d been wanting to forever.
“If you’ll find me those items, I’ll take care of it. No need to watch.”
She shivered and leaned her head into his touch. Gawd, he couldn’t stop this pull between them—it was like the tides.
“I-I’ll help, I told you.” Pulling away, she located the roll of gauze that was almost depleted from his last injury.
“Cut some into squares using those small scissors,” he instructed.
She flashed a look at him. “How many times have you done this?”
He didn’t answer—she didn’t want to know.
He watched her snip the gauze into several squares. “That’ll do,” he said. Taking the bits, he pressed them to the wound, staunching the blood flow, which had slowed to a trickle. “If you’ll cut a few more and pour some o’ that alcohol on it, I’d appreciate it.”
Without a word, she did as he asked, though she was a bit paler from the experience. He’d give her a nice shot of whiskey and get her feeling better.
Or two shots and make her clothes fall off.
He ground his teeth at the thought of her naked and spread-eagle on his bed.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this? It’s going to hurt,” she said.
He gave a nod and removed the bloody bandage for her to clean the bullet graze, a good inch wide and half an inch deep, digging through the muscle of his calf.
When she pressed the alcohol-soaked gauze to the cut, he let out a hiss of pain. A tear dropped from her eye.
“Oh Jesus. Baby doll, I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. Let me have it.” He placed a hand over hers on his leg. Her hand shook, and she looked up at him, eyes swimming with tears.
“I’m okay. I just hate to hurt you, Shaw.”
Hell, did she know how freakin’ sweet she was? Probably not. Women like her were rare, because they did things for others without asking for anything in return. It was how he knew she was a great therapist.
“I’m okay,” he assured her, though his tone took on his emotions and came out thick.
He took over for her, wiping harder to clean out the cut the way he knew she wouldn’t for fear of hurting him further. “More gauze,” he said.
When she handed it to him, he placed it beneath the wound and looked into her eyes. “Pour the alcohol straight in.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. It will hurt you.”
“I have to clean it out, and it’s too deep for just a wipe or two. Pour it in. Please, Atalee.”
After two heartbeats, she nodded and picked up the bottle. It wavered over his leg, and then she dumped it.
The searing pain cut through his muscle, but he bit back any sounds he might have made if he was alone. When she looked up, he gave a nod to stop. “Now we just bandage it.”
“That I can do. Lean back and let me take care of it.”
He did, too tired to resist, and besides, having her soft hands working over his leg soothed him in ways he hadn’t known he needed till now.
She fussed over him, placing the gauze bandage just so, and then she taped it down, commenting that the tape would pull out his leg hair when he removed it. That brought a half-smile to his lips. When she was finished, she sat back on her heels again.
That stirring was back full force, his cock head weeping pre-cum. Was it wrong of him to want to ask for a blow job?
He sat forward. “Thanks for your help.”
“Of course.” She got up and moved back to the sofa, though she didn’t place the pillow over her lap this time. “Can I do anything else for you?”
He shook his head. “I just need sleep.”
“Oh. I can go.”
“Don’t,” he heard himself say, far grittier than he’d planned.
Her eyes widened in that innocent way they had on the day of her wedding when he’d lay his heart at her feet.
“We can talk a bit.”
“If you’re up to it.” She bit into her lower lip, tugging at the skin and arousing the hell out of him.
They stared at each other. What was going through her mind? He’d like to know.
“As you can see, I’m fine.”
“Except you’ve been shot at.”
He chuckled. “Part of the job.”
“You don’t think anything of it, do you?” she asked with amazement in her voice.
“It’s what I’m paid to do.”
“It isn’t about the money to you, so don’t try to convince me it is.”
The comfort of his chair—and her voice—were working magic on his exhausted being, and he felt himself sinking deeper into the cushions. “I doubt anyone who serves his country or the public does it for the money.”
“Shaw, you’re an amazing man, you know that?”
He shook his head. Lord, she was lovely, sitting there all prim and proper in her sweater and glasses, Ms. Clinical Psychologist. He’d like to bend her over and show her how a good,
hard fucking could rock her world.
His eyes slipped shut.
Chapter Five
Watching Shaw sleep raised some deep, inner warmth in Atalee, wrapping around her heart like a soft blanket. After a few minutes, his breaths grew deep and even, and she knew he was out for the count.
Poor man must be dead tired to just drop off to sleep this way while talking to her. She glanced at his leg again, glad to see that no blood had seeped through the white of the gauze.
Quietly, she boxed up the first-aid kit and returned it to the bathroom, stealing away on her bare feet after kicking off her heels so as not to wake him. When she returned, her gaze roamed over him.
All steel and muscle, his expression stern enough to scare away anybody even in his dreams. For a moment, she stood watching him with indecision. Then she moved forward to pull the lever of the recliner, lowering the head and raising the footrest.
He didn’t budge and his breathing never changed.
Feeling he was more comfortable, she looked at him again. She’d seen only a bit of him and the scars he bore were enough to make her heart tremble. How close had she come to losing him without even knowing it?
He also had a difficult time talking about himself, and now she knew what she had to do in order to truly help him.
She darted a look at her handbag, which held his file. On soft feet, she stole over to the sofa, grabbed the bag and headed to another room. She discovered his kitchen in such a neat state she wondered if he had a woman to clean up after him or if he hired someone. Either way, the idea gave her a pang.
She sank to a kitchen chair and took out the file. With it open on the warm, light wood tabletop and Shaw asleep in the other room, she began to read.
About ten o’clock, she stopped reading—there was a lot in here. Raising her head, she looked off toward the living room. The man had been through more shit than anybody should have lived through—and that was only as a Texas Ranger.
Now she knew what had caused that incision scar down his chest. It struck her that he wouldn’t want her to know these things, so she couldn’t bring it up to him or ever ask about the man who’d stabbed him in a vicious battle on the streets of Houston. The knife had slipped between Shaw’s ribs and he’d collapsed. One of the other Texas Rangers on the scene had gotten him shuttled off to the hospital immediately, which had probably saved his life.
Turned out, that was an incision like a heart patient, because the knife had nicked Shaw’s heart and they’d gone in to repair it.
He didn’t seem the worse for it, though the entire thing made Atalee’s blood run cold with fear for an event that had come and gone.
She wished she had been there to support him through it.
She shook her head. She couldn’t think about that—she’d been married and had her own life to see to. There was little point in looking backward when Shaw was now in her present.
She got up, stretching out the kinks of hours spent hunched over his file. Drifting to the living room, she watched the beautiful man, his face softened as the restorative sleep healed him.
It was impossible to stay away from him. She walked over to the chair and trailed her fingers over his forearm, still hard and formidable even in a relaxed state.
He moved a bit under her touch. Then he grasped her by the arm and pulled her down. She hit his chest with what she felt was a hard thud, but he didn’t even seem to wake.
Atalee went still. Was he aware he’d drawn her onto the chair with him? His breathing hadn’t changed, which made her think he wasn’t. Should she get up? Doing so might wake him, though.
And he felt nice beneath her. No, not nice—amazing. All hard and safe, his big chest cradling her and her hip perfectly fitted to his.
She breathed in and got a nose full of his fresh, soapy, masculine scent. Relaxing bit by bit, she lowered her ear to his chest and heard the solid drum of his heart. Another centimeter or two and Shaw would have been irreparable, but he’d been so damn lucky. Only a man like Shaw could use up some lives like a cat and live to tell—or not tell—about it all.
Her breathing matched itself to his and soon she was feeling drowsy. In his warm arms, she curled close and let her eyes slip shut.
If he woke and found her asleep on top of him, what would happen? Would he slide his hand up under her sweater and cup her breast, thumb the tip?
A shiver of excitement ran through her system. Call her wanton, but she hoped so.
* * * * *
The scents of frying eggs hit Shaw, and he cracked his eyes. Disoriented from sleep and from the lewd dreams he’d battled half the night, he finally realized he was in his recliner.
He moved a bit, feeling stiff after sleeping in a semi-upright position, though he’d found worse sleeping conditions in his life.
He blinked as it struck him—Atalee. She’d come to him last night, and she must be cooking eggs.
Wait a damn minute.
He sniffed his T-shirt. Sure enough, the soft notes of her perfume lingered on the fibers. Had she slept here with him in the recliner?
Now he was pissed—how the hell had he slept through such a thing? Finally having the woman of his dreams in his arms, tucked against what must have been one hell of nighttime boner knowing his dreams, and he hadn’t even made his move.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Son of a bitch.”
Getting up, he felt the twinge in his calf with every step he took toward the kitchen, but his libido—and his nose—carried him along. When he spotted Atalee, back to him and spatula in hand, he stopped dead.
Three pans were set on the burners of the stove, and judging by the scents, she had eggs, sausage and potatoes frying. Two plates were set out, and glasses of OJ had been filled.
God, she was cooking him a huge breakfast, and he didn’t know if his stomach, his heart or his cock was more affected.
At the scuff of his bare foot on the floor, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. A smile lit her face. “Morning, sunshine. You slept like a log.”
He hoped he hadn’t snored.
“God, that looks good.”
She faced him.
He didn’t mean the food cooking on the stove.
Even in her wrinkled skirt and sweater from the previous day, her hair unbrushed and tousled, she was glorious.
And exactly what he wanted to open his eyes to every damn day of his life from here forward.
“Have some juice,” she said, waving toward the glasses.
He reached around her, purposely brushing close, and closed his fingers around his glass. He brought it to his lips and chugged the entire thing in seconds. When he slammed it back down on the counter, her mouth dropped open, but he didn’t give her time to think about what he would do next.
Grabbing her, he hitched her against him—hard. As he lowered his mouth to hers, he felt a shudder race through her body. “I’ve wanted to do this for years,” he grated out a split second before he claimed her lips.
She made a sound of surrender as he angled his head and deepened the kiss. The pressure of his hand on her spine bowed her to him, and her perky breasts pushed upwards against his chest.
Jesus, why the hell hadn’t he done this years ago? She was sweet heaven.
Lashing her to him, he lifted her onto tiptoe as he pushed his tongue into her mouth. The first sweep was bliss—the second shook his control. Atalee raised her hands to his chest, clinging to his shoulders as he bent to his task.
Tasting her bit by bit, sinking deeper with every pass of his tongue. As he finally got to slip his hand under her hair and feel the blonde silk flow over the backs of his fingers, he hardened to full mast. All the pressure of his night of passionate dreams featuring this beauty right here in his arms had him biting back his need to explode.
He yanked back and stared into her eyes, gauging her reaction to him. If he hadn’t tasted her desire on her tongue, he saw it in those crystalline eyes.
He slammed his mouth over her
s again. When he felt her fingers fumble over his back, he battled with an inner need that went far beyond what he’d ever dreamed it could.
Lifting her, he spun to the counter, settling her on the top and cupped the back of her head as he swooped in for another round at those tormenting lips.
She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “The food will burn.”
He reached over and switched off all three burners with a flick of his wrist. “To hell with the food. I’ve got something tastier right here.” He took her mouth again, this time showing her how damn serious he was about having her.
All of her.
Parting her thighs, he wedged his body between them and thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. She gulped back a sexy cry and settled her hands on his chest.
He was well aware of the second she laid eyes on his scar peeking from the neck of his shirt, and he watched her carefully as she traced a fingertip down his front.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered.
“No. Just a battle scar.”
To his shock, she moved in slowly and pressed a delicate kiss to the top and began working her way down it. With each soft caress of her lips, he lost himself a little more to this woman. This delicious, perfect girl who was now free from her marriage, in his kitchen… and about to be fucked like she’d never been fucked before.
* * * * *
Atalee’s panties were ruined, soaked through with juices of her arousal, and she was too far gone to think of Shaw being her patient. After this, she was totally certain they couldn’t work together in that capacity, and while she wanted to help him in any way possible, she was just fine with that.
She dug her fingers into his hard shoulders even as she traced the line of his scar downward with gentle kisses. Passion flowed through her veins until she couldn’t think of anything but taking off her clothes.
Just as she thought she might expire from her own need, she raised her head and found Shaw’s intense stare on her.
Without a word, he tore open her cardigan. A pearl button went flying and her bra followed. When he cupped both her breasts and dipped his head to kiss and suck her nipples, moving between them like a starving man, she tossed back her head and gave in to the moans falling from her lips.