by Pippa Grant
While he was thinking about me.
Which he’s probably not, because aside from the fact that he totally dipped his breadstick in my Alfredo bowl at Parker’s wedding, he actually seems really normal.
For a military guy built like he’s carved out of marble, that is. Don’t see them every day.
“If you’re not going to tell me something useful, shut up and go to sleep,” he mutters.
“I’m not talking.”
“You don’t have to be. I can hear your hard drive buzzing.”
“You have a hard drive.”
“I have a floppy disk.”
“You so have a hard drive.”
“Fine. It’s a hard drive. But if you’re not going to talk, you don’t get it. Shut. Up. And. Go. To. Sleep. Or whatever the hell you’re planning on doing once I’m asleep. Some of us have real jobs to get to in the morning.”
The rustling stops, except for Prince Snufflesaurus wiggling on the papers on top of the fridge. I hear him hit the cabinet, then the floor, and a minute later, my cat’s outlined in the lone window in the room.
Enough ambient city light filters in that I can see Rhett lying on his side, facing the wall, clenching a pillow over his head. There’s a white sheet pulled halfway up, blocking the view of everything except the wide set of his shoulders.
They seem tight. Like he could use a good rub-down. I picture myself straddling his hips and kneading his neck and shoulders, and I’m getting hotter and wetter and tighter, which should be physically impossible given that I just came so hard I broke my vagina, but there you have it.
I want to have sex with him. Not just let him go down on me
Telling me no is clearly only one part of his torture plan.
He’s going to exude pheromones that make me so horny I’ll confess to everything in the hopes that he’ll bang me one last time before I become someone’s prison bitch.
I squirm, because it’s starting to sink into my brain that I’m in serious trouble—the leg warmer bad guy found one of my apartments, which means he probably could track me to my other actual addresses that I use, and I could be in a body bag right now—and I’m being denied more distraction by a guy who’s keeping me safe.
This isn’t a normal conundrum.
And if I think too hard about it, I might actually hyperventilate, and I’ve pissed Rhett off enough that I don’t think he’d give me mouth-to-mouth, and I actually don’t mean that in the sexy way.
It’s not that I want to be obnoxious to Rhett.
It’s more that I don’t know how not to be.
And apparently I’ve pushed him as far as he’s willing to be pushed.
Which is fair.
He put up with me longer than most people would’ve.
But unlike most people, he’s actually someone I might miss when I’m gone.
I eyeball the computer.
Rhett rolls over, grabs it and stuffs it under the mattress like he can read my brain waves, then goes back to staring at the wall.
I sigh, even though Rhett reading my mind is a transcendent level of sexy, and find my pants in the darkness, then slip into the bathroom to put myself back together. When I get out, I’m still in a weird mental space, but Prince Snufflesaurus distracts me from the panic when he begins his nightly song to his people.
It’s a lovely rrrowly kind of song, with some mmeeewwwwing put in between the rrrowling, and it’ll go on for probably thirty minutes or so, if he keeps to his normal routine.
Something bangs on the wall. “Shut that fucking cat up!”
“I SEND DICK PICS!” squawks from somewhere outside the room.
The normalcy of the sounds of the city at night helps even out my breathing.
Rhett flops on his bed, and I wonder if he’s blocking out the noise or if he’s trying to smother himself in his sleep.
“I always sleep like a baby after a really good orgasm,” I offer, because it’s what I’m supposed to say, and if I keep doing what I’m supposed to do, then the panic can’t get to me.
“Then you should be passed out cold. And I know six different ways to pull out your vocal cords with just my pinky,” comes the muffled reply.
“You know that sort of shit turns me on.”
“Shut your cat up before I throw it out the window.”
I don’t believe he’s actually going to toss Prince Snufflesaurus, but I gather the cat up and move to the couch, where he rubs his face into my chest and assures me everything is going to be okay.
“Forget it, Spikes,” Rhett says. “Pigpen gets the couch. You get the bathtub.”
“You have a stand-up shower stall and that’s it.”
“And you’re four feet tall. Curl up and enjoy.”
Truth?
I’m really fucking grateful to be anywhere Dirk Lemonson and his leg warmer mafia can’t find me. So I take both my cats into a small corner of the kitchen, far from the door, and curl up with a musty kitchen towel for a pillow.
Rhett might hate me at the moment, but I’m almost positive he’ll keep me safe if the bad guy does find me here before I can get out of the city.
And even though I shouldn’t be tired this early in the night, and despite the panic that’s edging into the corners of my brain, I’m out like a light within five minutes.
19
Rhett
There’s not enough coffee in New York today.
I’ve slept better in concrete bunkers with mortar rounds going off all around me than I slept last night. Every time Eloise so much as sighed in her sleep, I heard it. Every time one of her cats moved, I heard it. When she got up to go to the bathroom at 2 AM, I heard it. When Pigpen came back around 3 AM with cat food and kitty litter boxes, I heard it.
And all night long, when I wasn’t hearing Eloise or her cats or Pigpen, and when I wasn’t reliving burying my face between her legs and tasting the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had the privilege of licking, I was replaying the closest thing I got to a confession out of her.
It might not be legal, but it’s not immoral.
Her words are still with me as I step over her and her cats in the kitchenette. She’s curled up on the scarred wood floor next to a cabinet with no blanket and only a dishtowel for a pillow, snoring, one arm wrapped around both cats who are also snoring. Her spikes are wilting, her glasses are off, and her cheeks are a soft cherry over parted pink lips.
She’s fucking adorable when she’s unconscious.
Add in the cyber ninja skills and the whole Robin Hood thing, and she’s also hot as hell.
I’ve been a SEAL for over a decade. You learn to compartmentalize, because you have to. I signed up for the Navy so my Ma wouldn’t spend her life worrying about having to bail me out of jail. When I got selected for SEAL training, I knew I was going to save the world.
And I have, a couple times over.
Don’t mention it. You’re welcome.
But sometimes saving the world means innocent people get caught in the crossfire.
And no matter how much chaos I loved in my younger years, and no matter how much I love being in the thick of the fight, I fucking hate when bystanders and civilians get hurt.
Physically, mentally, emotionally, however they get hurt, I hate it.
All of it.
So I understand. Eloise is doing her part in her own misguided way. If some fucker sent random dick pics to my sister, then you’re damn fucking right I want to put a fist through his face and rip his nads off.
And I have put a fist through a few of her exes’ faces for being turdstools who wrecked her self-esteem.
I can’t fight in cyberspace.
Not like Eloise can. Shit, the FBI could use her skills if she’s done some of the things I think she has.
And there’s nothing that revs my engines more than a smart chick taking down asswipes at their own games.
Add in that thrill factor of not knowing what she’s going to do next, and I’m hooked.
Enthralled.
>
Fascinated.
I’m concentrating on measuring grounds into the coffee filter, and not on the never-ending wood party in my pants that isn’t getting any better every time I glance at Eloise, when Pigpen comes back into the apartment with a four-pack of coffee with a logo on the carrier that I don’t recognize.
Eloise twitches at my feet. “Razors don’t burn the sun,” she mutters.
Then she snaps bolt upright. “Coffee? Oh, yes, you are my hero.”
She’s on her feet before I can say boo, diving for Pigpen. Her cats meow and chirp and scatter, one leaping as high as it can get on the fridge, the other diving under my bed.
I ignore the thick objection welling in my chest to Eloise calling anyone else her hero.
Pigpen’s a hero. He earned that title.
Not that she has any idea what he’s done, unless he actually talked to her last night while I was out.
She grabs two of the paper cups and gulps the first one while cradling the second to her chest. She tips it back too far, and milk-chocolate colored coffee sloshes down her chin and drips on her shirt.
I stand in a stupor and just watch.
She has a double-helix inked up her neck, and I can’t make out what’s hiding under the collar of her T-shirt, but it has wings. Her arms are covered in a mishmash of music, cyber, and flower tattoos. She has three arrows pointing toward her palm on the inside of her wrist, and a turtle over her ankle.
She also has a line of Shakespeare running down the side of her thigh that I can’t see now, but I still know it’s there.
And she’s standing there slamming an entire sixteen-ounce cup of joe like she has places to be and things to do.
I snag them both from her.
She sputters, coughs, and spins on me while I dump them both in the trash.
“What the fuck?”
“No coffee until you talk.”
She wipes her face with the back of her hand, then goes up on her tiptoes and gets right to my collarbones, which apparently isn’t good enough, so she grabs my shirt and yanks.
I don’t move.
She double-fists my shirt and tries again, growls, and settles for glaring at me. “I. Didn’t. Ask. For. Your. Help.”
Damn dick. It grows three inches and sprouts Viking horns because I’m both irritated as shit and turned on as all fuck.
There’s something irresistible about a woman unafraid to tell you how it is.
“You’re still here,” I point out.
“I’m an opportunist.”
“Yeah, I can see it was a great opportunity for you to learn how to launch viruses and steal money you don’t keep for yourself.”
Her eyes flare wide for just long enough for me to know I’ve hit on the truth before she smirks. “Who says I don’t hire that shit out? And where do you think I get the cash for my cats’ gourmet kibble?”
I lift a brow and wait a beat.
“Oh, fuck,” she mutters, like she’s just realized she admitted to using her money for her cats before using it for herself. She slugs me in the arm, which feels like maybe a butterfly passed by. “And sometimes I buy myself foie gras just to prance around Central Park licking it in front of the poor people and I buy a new car every other day.”
“Pigpen, tie her up and turn on the polka channel.”
Her eyelid twitches.
Pigpen flips me off. He’s been sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and watching the show, but I know what he’s thinking.
She doesn’t want to be helped, let her go.
My entire body tightens like I’m about to be struck by lightning, because there’s no way in fuck I’m letting anything happen to Eloise.
She’s twisted. She’s crazy. She can’t answer a question honestly for anything. God probably can’t even imagine what she might do next.
But her heart’s in the right place.
And I don’t think most of the world even knows she has a heart.
Would my commanding officer kick my ass to hell and back if he knew I was helping a potential criminal? Hell, yeah.
Do I give two shits?
Nope.
I don’t get to put heart into missions. I get my orders, I execute them. I know I’m doing good, but that goes in a little compartment that I can’t touch, because if I let my heart in, I hesitate, and hesitating gets more people killed.
Heart is attractive.
Heart is fucking addictive. Especially when you’re not expecting it.
And yeah, I want to bang her again.
But I’m ninety percent sure whatever’s going on here is more about her heart than her body.
“Taking out the bad guys and saving people who do good things is what I do.” I glower at Pigpen. “It’s what you do too.”
I don’t wait for the double middle finger that’s inevitably coming and turn back to Eloise instead. “You want to go run away from everything, fine. Do it. But don’t you dare come back bringing chaos into my sister’s life.”
She stares back at me with those big blue eyes unobstructed by her glasses, her dark lashes making them pop even more, and fuck me, she’s pretty.
She hides it behind her sass and her clothes and her attitude, but she’s gorgeous. The round, soft cheeks. The perky pink lips. Her tiny button nose.
Fucking. Perfectly. Gorgeous.
“I need a computer,” she informs me.
“For what?”
“So I can show you the problem.”
“With some screen that’s full of numbers and letters scrolling by while you chatter about XZ addresses and Pop-Tarts and sphincters?”
“You abusing geek speak is so hot.”
She calls me hot, Mr. Winky throbs, and my whole focus shatters. I growl and step back, looking for that fourth coffee Pigpen brought. “No computers. No talking. And if your cats shit outside the box, you’re cleaning it up.”
“You gonna handcuff me to keep me here?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I get a mental image of her handcuffed to the radiator, legs spread while I lick her center, and I have to get out of here before I give Pigpen a show.
Forget the coffee.
I need a cold shower and a dose of reality.
“Don’t let her touch the computer,” I grunt to Pigpen.
He shoots me a no shit look, and that’s good enough.
I need to go for a run. Clear my head. Call an old buddy.
And save Eloise, whether or not she likes it.
Just hope saving her doesn’t shred what’s left of my sanity.
20
Rhett
I call my boss at the recruiting station and tell him I need to use a day of leave, then hop the subway to Eloise’s neighborhood while Pigpen watches her.
The city is eerily quiet. Fewer people talking on phones on the streets. Fewer phones ratting out dick pic senders.
Batteries must’ve all died.
I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt and slouch through the streets in the chilly morning, earbuds in place, nodding my head like I’m listening to music while I check out the area around Eloise’s three apartments. Three cop cars with lights flashing but no sirens sit at the building where her place was trashed. I lean against the building and text Brooks while I wait to see if any cops come out before I need to move on.
Fucker gets all winter off—when he’s not posing for commercials or billboards—but there are benefits. He’s been stopping by and taking Pigpen to the gym every day while I’m at work. I let him know I’m on leave today, so he doesn’t have to babysit, which is my way of telling him to stay away from my apartment without coming outright and saying stay away from my apartment.
And then my phone blows up with a group text.
Brooks: Whoa, apocalypse alert. Rhett took a day of leave. We need supplies and a bunker.
Gavin: I have beer.
Jack: I’ll bring the beef jerky.
Brooks: Knox can bring the porn.
Knox: Book porn is my life.
Parker: I gobble I turducken wife.
Parker: ATF!
Parker: Truckdriver mansplain DUCK DUCK DUCK.
Gavin: Some days I think we should cut her out of group texts, but then she duck duck ducks us…
Jack: I love a good duck.
Brooks: You wouldn’t know a good duck if it quacked up your ass.
Knox: I fucking love you guys.
Parker: And what am I? Gorgonzola masturbate?
Jack: Whoa
Gavin: *masturbate hand gesture gif*
Brooks: *cheese emoji*
Knox: Rhett, you sick?
Brooks: Hold up, Mr. Romance. We’ll see if Rapunzel has a fever after we’re done mocking your wife.
Gavin: He has a point. Rhett never takes leave. We need to get to a bunker stat.
Knox: Wait. Parker’s asking if this has something to do with Eloise.
Jack: The freaky drummer chick?
Brooks: The one who tried to hump my arm?
Gavin: The one who gave her drumstick a blow job?
Rhett: Would you all shut the fuck up?
Jack: Whoa.
Gavin: Holy shit. You like her.
Brooks: Are you getting freaky with the freak-meister?
Parker: Shovel the fiduciary cup.
Parker: *hamburger emoji*
Parker: DUCK
Knox: Parker says Rhett, touch Eloise and die, but also did you find her? And the rest of you, quit mocking her friend.
Brooks: Texting with Parker is way less fun now that she has an autocorrect translator.
Gavin: Agreed.
Jack: *thumbs up emoji*
Two cops come out of the building and head to a squad car before I can throat-punch my family through the cell signal, and if you doubt that’s possible, you’ve clearly never met a SEAL.
Who the fuck do they think they are, making fun of Eloise? So she’s not traditionally pretty on first glance. So what? She’s better. She’s funny when she’s not pissing me off by denying that she’s in trouble. She doesn’t waste her breath apologizing for being who she is. She owns it.
She’s fucking brilliant on top of being fucking sexy.
And I’m starting to suspect the only reason she acts outrageous is to keep people at arm’s length.