by Pippa Grant
She’s not closing her eyes. Not blocking me out.
And I don’t think that’s just like lingering in raw, unguarded adoration in her eyes.
I get it.
Because I’m there too.
I like her.
I more than like her.
Her lips part, her head goes back, but she doesn’t break eye contact as her pussy clenches hard around me and she moans out her climax.
It’s too much, and I might be a god on missions, but right here, I’m just a man, and my own orgasm explodes out of me.
“Yes,” she moans.
“Fuck, you’re so good,” I pant while my dick surges and spasms so hard that dots dance in my vision.
I could make love to this woman every day.
Every hour.
I can’t get close enough. Deep enough. I want more. Even as I’m riding the high of my release, my cock still twitching and coming, I want more.
She’s still coming, straining her body into me like she, too, needs more.
“Don’t…ever…stop,” she gasps.
Too soon, though, we’re both slumping to the ground.
Completely spent.
I fling an arm around her stomach while we both pant against the shower wall, and I press a kiss to the hollow between her breasts.
She’s special.
I don’t know how to tell her in words, but she is.
Someone bangs on the door.
“Open up,” Pigpen orders. “We got a location.”
Usually, a new op gets my blood pumping.
Today, all it gets pumping is dread.
Because once we have Dirk Lemonson, me and Eloise are done.
SEALs can’t date criminals.
No matter what our hearts might want.
30
Rhett
I don’t like this.
On a government-sanctioned mission, we have access to live satellite feeds. We have advanced intel. We have all the gear and equipment and support we need to set us up for success.
Now that we’re back up in the employee snack kitchen, looking at the static satellite image of Dirk Lemonson’s headquarters available on public internet maps, I have a feeling in my gut that won’t go away.
And I know this feeling.
Sometimes it’s a result of bad pastrami, but not tonight.
Tonight, it’s a combination of lack of knowledge about the target and his hideout, and too much knowledge about what Eloise and Nikki are capable of.
They’re whispering together about masks and filters and backdoors, and I have a bad feeling I know why.
Not even the post-orgasm highs from earlier can keep the dread out of my gut.
Brooks steps into the kitchen, where I’m trying to figure out why there are six buildings in Dirk Lemonson’s compound, and where the dynamic duo are plotting. I have a bad feeling about whatever they’re doing, because we already know Lemonson’s location, but I can’t bring myself to stop either woman.
Eloise is in a black tank top over her ripped jeans, giving me a clear view of the exploding firecracker on her left shoulder and the rose bush wrapping her right arm, both of which are fucking delicious. She’s in mismatched socks, one purple and normal, one a rainbow toe sock. I know now that the normal purple sock is hiding a sixth toe on her left foot, which makes her somehow all the more intriguing and special.
Her spine’s straight, her hair’s wilting, and every time she shifts her hips, Mr. Pokey Pants asks if we can have another three rounds.
“Is that English?” Brooks asks.
I realize he’s asking about their conversation, not my conversation with my dick, and I shake my head.
My phone buzzes. Ogre’s checking in, and he’s looped Rascal into the message. They’re both offering to get their asses to West Virginia if we want backup.
Pigpen’s monitoring video feed from two cameras he set up before he got here, one of our apartment building, the other of Eloise’s third apartment.
I didn’t ask how he got that set up. No need. It’s Pigpen. Gear acquisition is his specialty.
Or was. Before the gin got him.
I also don’t need to ask what Pigpen thinks of our chances of success, because I know it as well as he does.
Six buildings doesn’t mean one man.
Six buildings hidden in the woods a mile from a state park, off small backcountry roads, means an entire operation.
We’d be working in tandem with at least two other SEAL teams if this was an official op.
Which means we all know what we have to do.
Brooks isn’t smiling as he studies me. I consider punching him in the arm for kicks—it’s good stress relief too—but I’m too keyed up and I’d probably put him through the wall.
Ma would never forgive me if I ruined his baseball career. Or, more importantly, his pretty mug. She’s counting on him for the prettiest babies. They’d still get his genes, but his chances of getting a hot chick to mate with would go down significantly if he wasn’t also still pretty.
Eloise would make some gorgeous babies.
“You get like this every time you go out somewhere?” he asks.
I shake my head again.
This one’s different.
This one’s personal.
Logically, I know Eloise prompted all this by stealing the dude’s money. And logically, I know that if he’s preying on vulnerable people online, he’s probably playing them in person too.
Logic has nothing to do with the rage boiling in my veins.
He tried to hurt Eloise.
He’s going to fucking suffer.
But I don’t know how I’m gonna pull this shit off.
“Parker’s gonna kill you,” Brooks says quietly.
I grunt. There’s not much Parker could do to me that would be any worse than what I’m going to do to myself when this is over and Eloise is safe and I get off recruitment duty.
And no, I don’t want to talk about that panic welling up in my gut when I think about the next time Eloise tries to save the world.
Because if she doesn’t quit playing superhero in cyberspace, she’s gonna find herself on more real-life target boards around the world.
“Dammit,” Eloise mutters. She thrusts her fingers through her hair, shakes out her hands, and turns to one computer while Nikki works the other two.
She’s in her element. Doing what she was born to do.
Channeling her chaos into computers the way I channel mine into unconventional warfare and direct action.
Pigpen jerks his head toward the door. I nod and follow.
Brooks tags along. “You gonna tell her?” he asks.
“Tell her what?” That there’s no way she’s going with us to take down Dirk Lemonson? That there’s no way I’m taking down Dirk Lemonson without more help?
“That you’re in love with her.”
I round on my brother, ready to deny the accusation, but my objection lodges in my throat like a wad of stale Tootsie Rolls.
He dodges before I can punch him in the arm again and heads to the coffee machine behind the snack bar counter. “There’s no shame in loving someone,” he continues. “Even if she’s a little weir—”
I have him by the throat, pinned to the coffee machine, before he finishes the insult. “She is not fucking weird, you asshole,” I growl.
His eyes are bugging out, but he’s still grinning. “See?” he croaks out. “You love her.”
Fucker. He played me.
I drop him, rattling the tray of mugs and knocking the creamer and sugar display off the counter in the process.
“What the hell, Rhett?” Parker groans behind me.
Pigpen’s rolling his eyes at all of us.
“I got it,” Brooks says. Still ungodly cheerful. “He’s a man on the edge, Parker. The feelings are getting to him.”
“I’m going to kick your face in,” I tell him.
“I’m not your lover’s enemy,” he reminds me, then dodg
es another fist aimed at his jaw.
I’m predictable.
And he’s quick.
But then, he wouldn’t bait me if he wasn’t.
And I wouldn’t be baitable if he was wrong.
I dated a doctor once. A pro volleyball player once. The head cheerleader in high school.
And none of them ever drew me in the way Eloise does.
None of them ever made me want more.
Not in my soul.
Parker approaches slowly. She’s in her work get-up, some fancy pantsuit thing, and she’s watching me like I’m a wounded tiger. “You honestly really like her.”
I wait for the rest of it.
The you’re not good enough for her.
The we all know you’re going to leave.
The Ma would shit a brick if you brought home a tatted-up hacker.
Instead, she fans her face with her hand and goes teary-eyed. “You really like her.”
“Whoa,” Brooks mutters.
I take a step back too.
Crying sisters are not to be trifled with.
“Would you stay for her?” Parker whispers.
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
There’s so much I don’t know.
I don’t know who I am if I’m not a SEAL. I don’t know how I’d contain my own drive for chaos if I didn’t have the military to check me, especially if I went balls-deep into whatever schemes Eloise cooks up next too.
I don’t know if she’d even want me if I stayed.
But there’s one thing I do know.
I know I’m going to see her through this, and I know I’m going to keep her safe.
Whatever it takes. Even if whatever it takes means she hates me when this is over.
I’ve seen that map, and I have a damn good clue what she’s up to on those computers in there. Which means it’s becoming crystal fucking clear what I have to do.
I’m going to hate myself when this is over too.
31
Eloise
I’m not only afterglowing like a rock star, I’m also hacking like a beast.
Rhett didn’t say he needs live images of Dirk Lemonson’s hideout, but I watch criminal investigation shows. I know he wants to know the real situation as surely as I know my own name.
And my six secret aliases.
“Maybe you’re not half bad,” Nikki says, and I realize she’s quit typing. “Also, I have to be at work in like six hours.”
“You don’t sleep here?”
“We have our own nap space in IT. The glow off the computers helps me sleep better there. Plus, Sia just installed a gaming room off the main server room, and she lets us use the corporate FoodRun account, so we basically never have to leave if we don’t want to.”
“If I wasn’t independently wealthy, I’d so come work here.”
“You wish.”
If Rhett hadn’t so thoroughly owned my cupcake as many times as he has in the last two days, I’d consider getting a lady boner for Nikki.
Instead, I give her a fist bump. “Nice work.”
“Duh.”
She clears out, leaving two of the three laptops, and I get back to it.
But five minutes later, I get that creepy sensation on the back of my neck that tells me something’s not right.
Either Crunchy is about to be invaded by bad dudes, or Rhett’s leaving without me.
I slam the lid shut on the laptop and go hunting for him, because either way, I need to know everything’s okay. For once, my secondary worry is that Davey’s here, and I don’t want to put him in danger.
My primary worry?
That all these emotions swimming in my chest and alternately scaring the piss out of me and warming the crap out of my heart are interfering with my ability to think straight.
Since Sia basically told her security staff that some orcs and oversized ninjas might try to get into the building, I know there’s little chance of Dirk Lemonson’s minions getting in.
Which means this feeling in my gut is knowing that Rhett’s planning on leaving without me.
Not a fucking chance.
I dart out of the kitchen and check all the pods, which are empty, except for the pod with Davey and my cats, who are all three snoring. Since they’re safe, I head across the way to the snack bar.
I’m not wearing shoes, which isn’t a big deal, because when we get far enough down the road that they can’t dump me, we’ll just buy me some shoes. Probably.
Rhett might be the kind of guy to make me go to a leg warmer fight in just my socks.
I dig that about him.
He’s hard-core.
And he’s also at a round white table near the ice cream machine in the snack bar, talking quietly with Pigpen, who apparently is completely capable of talking when he wants to.
That man has secrets. Probably more secrets than Rhett and his scars.
But I’m not interested in Pigpen, and not just because of his name.
“Do you have a nickname?” I ask Rhett.
Both men jump and share a guilty look.
“You should be sleeping,” he says quietly.
I wave my arms all swishy and hypnotic, even though that warning buzzer in my brain is erupting louder and more annoying than an alarm clock. “I’m not here. You don’t see me.”
“Eloise.”
He’s not exasperated, but he’s not smiling either. It’s more of an I Am Man, I Will Solve This, Woman Go Back To Bed tone.
“What? You don’t need someone to read a map? Or talk to you so you don’t fall asleep in the car? Or sing some ‘Freebird’ for inspiration?”
“We need people who can be quiet.”
I’d be offended if it wasn’t true. “I can quiet the shit out of being quiet. And I know how to aim a glitter bomb just right to blind a person. Plus, I have a Hummer. That’s a much better attack vehicle than Pigpen’s old beater or risking Brooks’s Porsche.”
“Eloise,” he says again.
“Don’t,” I warn him. “I got into this trouble. I’ll get myself out of it. And I won’t sit by while you get yourself hurt for me.”
Their phones both buzz, and they both dig them out of their pockets to look.
Pigpen shakes his head, smiles a screw this shit smile, and rolls his eyes almost like whatever message they just got was inevitable.
Rhett goes grim and glances at me again. There’s a battle going on in his hazel eyes, and I’d like to be in there between the naked, greased-up warriors fighting over whatever decision he has to make, helping him decide.
And not just because I like him greased up. But possibly because I keep slipping into denial about being in trouble, even though I’m dead serious about wanting to go with them.
I definitely shouldn’t go with them. But I can’t fathom letting them go without me either.
“Who’s texting you at four in the morning?” I ask.
“Friends.”
Pigpen’s texting someone back, but he mutters a fuck, puts the phone to his ear, and walks out, muttering Yeah? and leaving me alone with Rhett and his glorious ass and his intense scrutiny and the lingering euphoria from that last orgasm down in the showers.
He studies me like he’s going to find an answer to his conundrum written between my piercings. Only one guy’s ever succeeded at finding a solution in my face, and I’m pretty sure he’d partaken in recreational drugs before asking if the triangulation of my piercings held the key to the world’s dental problems.
“Are your friends joining us?” I ask.
“Not this time.”
“So they usually do.”
“Nobody can save the world alone.”
“Not with an attitude like that.”
He bites the inside of his cheek, and I wonder if I’ve finally gone too far.
I probably should go even farther. It can’t be good for his sanity long-term to put up with me. Maybe I should sneak up to Poughkeepsie and become Phoebe Skittletits
for a few months anyway, just to give him time to realize what a mistake he’s made with me and how much easier his life is without me in it.
No, I don’t want to talk about the panic in my chest and the tightness in my lungs at the thought of letting him go. Or how so right it felt to lose myself in his eyes when he was turning my body into a lake of orgasmic lava cakes.
“You know how much good you’ve done on your own?” he asks.
I shrug and fake a bunch of modesty that feels completely inappropriate right now, but inappropriate is how I avoid dealing with feelings. Like the ones that are choking me because the truth is, I don’t want to go with him on some mission to take down Dirk Lemonson.
I want to go with him to find a way to stop him from getting hurt on my behalf.
I want us both to disappear to Poughkeepsie and be other people for a few months. Learn his secrets. Find something to hate about him. Get over him.
Make sure he doesn’t get any more attached to me.
I know, I know. I’m not making any sense. But nothing makes sense.
Because I’m pretty sure I quit thinking with my head at least two days ago, and I’m terrified of where my heart’s taking me.
“Yeah, I have a rough idea how awesome I am,” I tell him.
“Imagine what five of you could do working together.”
Well, fuckadoodle-doo.
The man might have a point.
“Five of you could be fifteen times as effective as one,” he adds.
He’s pulling the whole is greater than the sum of its parts shit on me, and he’s probably not wrong.
“Not if one of us isn’t a team player.” My voice shakes like there’s an earthquake in my vocal chords.
I’ve spent years avenging wrongs, but I’ve never stopped to consider that I could be bigger. More. Better.
That I’m holding myself back.
And maybe that’s what I’m doing with him too.
I’m refusing to admit that together, we could be bigger than what we each are individually.
That our skill sets are as complementary as this magnetic pull between us.
“Anyone can be a team player with the right motivation,” he says.
“And anyone can be a lone wolf with the right fears.” I clap a hand over my mouth, because that didn’t come out right.