Protect and Serve: Fox and Feral

by Angela Knight

  “Maybe I’m tired of watching you take a bullet because I fucked up.”

  “Yeah, well, I should have seen the jerk taking aim. As to getting distracted -- you’re human. I hear that’s going around.”

  “Ha. Funny.” He walked toward me, and I watched him come, so tall and broad-shouldered and tempting. When we were bare inches apart, he touched my cheek. His fingertips were warm and rough. He smelled of cordite and armor and sweat. I wanted to eat him with a spoon. “Let me make love to you. Or let me go.”

  My nipples peaked, and I was glad the armor hid them. “No.”

  He curled his lip, and I realized for the first time that Feral was pissed. “I’ve got to get you out of my system. This thing is too damned distracting. I’m going to get you killed, and God help me then. The cops’ll have to put a bullet in my brain to keep me from killing every motherfucker on the scene.”

  Wait -- he thought screwing me would get me out of his system? When I knew Goddamn well nothing could ever get Feral out of mine?

  I exploded. Just lost my mind, five years of sheer frustration emerging in one furious snarl. “You want to fuck? Fine, we’ll fuck.” I bent over and snatched my helmet off the roof, jammed it down over my head, and buckled it under my chin with a vicious jerk. “If you can catch me, asshole.”

  Then I jumped to the top of the roof parapet and balanced on the three-inch wide wall until I spotted a streetlamp. I leaped into empty air before I’d even shot my line. Stupid, but I was pissed. I’d always had a temper, and nobody could set me off like Feral. Not even Dad.

  “Damn it, Fox!” I heard him roar, but the line caught, and I was flying, rage blistering me like a desert sandstorm.

  In retrospect, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I’d sworn to keep my distance from the man I’d craved like a drug for five long years. I knew all the reasons I had to keep my need under wraps, and they were damned good ones.

  In that moment, none of it mattered. I wanted to kick his ass for saying he wanted me “out of his system” when I’d been in love with him for years. Worse, he thought one fuck would do the job. As if I meant that little.

  Yeah, well, good luck with that, asshole.

  He wasn’t going to catch me. I’m shorter than he is by five inches, but for all his strength, I’m a hell of a lot faster.

  Feral spent his thoroughly middle-class childhood playing football. Poor little rich girl that I was, I’d trained to become an Olympic gymnast from the time I was two -- at least until Daddy realized I was growing too tall and way too busty to win the gold.

  When my father lost interest in the daughter he considered a failure, I’d tried various ways to win him back. A black belt in Aikido, running track, target shooting. No matter how many ribbons and trophies and medals I won in which butch sports, my father never seemed to care. Eventually I realized he loved the tech company he’d founded a hell of a lot more than he ever would me.

  So I’d enlisted in the Marines, the ultimate “Fuck you!” to Daddy. He’d raised me to become CEO of Foxtech, not a lowly Marine. But I liked being a Marine, and I liked being the officer of a Special Ops team even better. I had a talent for leadership, and I could do hard-ass with the best of them.

  I wasn’t Steve Fox’s daughter for nothing.

  Then they’d given Feral and me a couple of Silver Stars when we’d rescued Lt. Starnes, and the top brass had offered us a chance to volunteer for the Desert Warrior program. The recombinant DNA treatments had hyped my natural agility and speed to a level even Feral couldn’t match.

  Then again, I’d once seen him lift a car off a six-year-old. If he caught me, I was fucked. Literally. But he wasn’t going to catch me.

  By all rights, I should have burned off some of my rage as I leaped and swung from rooftop to rooftop, flinging myself into somersaults and vaults, building up my speed as I raced along.

  Instead my fury grew with every flip and soaring dive. I’d spent my childhood driving myself past exhaustion and pain, trying to prove I’d inherited my brilliant father’s steely determination. Despite my looks, I wasn’t my airhead mother, one of a series of supermodel trophy wives who took him for all the alimony they could get.

  Daddy hadn’t given a rat’s ass.

  I’d spent my adult years turning myself into Mighty Marine, so I could fight beside a man who desperately needed me as my father never had.

  A man who’d just told me he wanted me out of his system.

  Fuck running. I skidded to a stop on the roof I’d just hit, clenching my fists in their Titan Laminate gloves. Damned if I was going to run from Feral any longer. Instead, I was going to give him a taste of the pain he’d just inflicted on me.

  I scanned the roof, automatically checking out its potential as a battleground. Huh. I’d apparently managed to pick a building belonging to someone with serious money, because they’d planted a rooftop garden. Trees and bushes snuggled against the cream stones of the parapet, and flowers bloomed in a profusion of red and yellow blooms in semi-circular beds around the trees. A cream brick walkway curved a wandering path among the greenery. There was even a patch of grass about twenty feet square, soft and vibrantly green, complete with a wrought iron bench in case you wanted to contemplate your little slice of Manhattan nature.

  Off to one side of the plant life squatted a couple of air conditioning units, as well as a rooftop access that rose like a cream stone castle turret. I could see through the glass doors that the lights were off inside. Hopefully nobody was home. The last thing we needed was to get arrested for trespassing.

  I considered picking another roof for my brawl, then decided not to bother. Those trees would make dandy concealment for the ambush I was planning. Besides, the beauty of the garden seemed like the perfect setting to kick Feral’s ass.

  The sun was setting, and I slipped into the shadows of an apple tree to look back the way I’d come.

  There he was, a couple of rooftops behind me, running full out. No showy leaps or flips for Feral. He covered ground with the grim determination of a hunting wolf, sure that sooner or later he would catch up to me.

  It was going to be a lot sooner than he expected.

  Watching Feral run was enough to make a nun cream. Even as pissed as I was, he was hypnotic. The New York skyline formed a glittering backdrop for his hard-charging strength, throwing glints of light off the armor’s black dragon scales as they rippled over the working ridges and hollows of his body. I admired the brawny pump of his arms with each long stride, the sleek slide of abdominals and pectorals, the bunch and release of powerful thighs. I’d seen him shirtless, and the view was even better. Good enough to inspire dreams.

  My gaze dropped to the armor’s groin cup. God, I wanted to see the cock curled tight inside that Titan shell. I wanted to touch the long veined shaft, feel the weight of his balls in my palm, brush my fingers through the thick ruff that surrounded them.

  No shaved, hairless perfection for Feral. His chest was covered with a soft cloud of dark hair that narrowed to a teasing treasure trail. I ached to trace it with my fingers even when patching him up, as I’d done so often in the ’Stans.

  And every time I saw him like that, I wondered about his cock. Was it as long and thick as his powerful body promised?

  I’d imagined licking it like an ice cream cone, feeling him writhe against me, all that masculinity and strength rendered helpless by my mouth. I’d imagined handcuffing him to my bed and touching him, tasting him, bringing him to a gasping peak of pleasure, then doing it all over again.

  And all he wanted was me out of his system.

  Asshole. Motherfucker. Bastard.

  Feral soared over the gap between rooftops to hit the garden walkway with the solid thud of armored boots on stone. He barely took two running strides before he skidded to a stop, his head coming up, as if he’d scented my simmering rage. He probably had. Like everything else it had enhanced, the Desert Warrior Program had sharpened our senses until we could see like ea
gles and follow a scent like wolves.

  I burst from the shelter of the trees and threw myself into a spinning kick aimed right for his muscular gut. He jumped back and knocked my foot aside with one bladed hand. “Damn it, Fox, what the hell are you…”

  I didn’t wait for him to finish the sentence, plowing into him with a series of one-two punches, body blows with my full strength behind them. He blocked them with automatic skill, but I still drove him back a step.

  Not enough. It wasn’t enough. Even if I got through his guard, his armor would protect him from my fists, regardless of my enhanced strength.

  So I flung myself into a backward somersault, kicking my feet up and over to catch him squarely in the jaw. He staggered, shaking his head hard as I hit my feet.

  Ha. Got you that time, jerkoff.

  I threw myself at the trunk of a tree, kicked one foot off it to build momentum, and flew at him to slam my fist across his helmeted head with all my weight behind the blow. His head snapped around with the force of the punch. Electric pain raced up my abused arm and into my shoulder, but I ignored it, dancing around him, watching for the next opening.

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” he snapped, both fists lifting to guard his head as he pivoted, tracking me.

  “I thought you wanted to fuck,” I growled, bouncing on my toes and considering another roundhouse kick. “You caught me. So come get it.”

  “A kinky chase is one thing, but I’m not going to fight you.” He dropped his fists and stepped back. “If you don’t want me, fucking say so. That’s all it takes.”

  “Oh, I want you,” I said bitterly. “I’ve always wanted you.”

  “Then what was the kick in the face for? That hurt, Cap. Even through the helmet.”

  “Good! You deserved it, you bastard!” I swung at him again and again, hips and shoulders behind the blows, but he blocked the punches, dancing on his toes like a boxer.

  “What are you so pissed about? You’ve never gotten violent with me before. We don’t play like this.”

  “You hurt me -- and I’m going to hurt you back!” I launched a spinning kick that would have given him a concussion if he hadn’t ducked with that superhuman speed.

  “Okay, enough!” Feral pounced on me, grabbing my wrists and driving me backward. One boot caught my ankle, jerked, and I went down under his weight, my shoulders hitting the walkway stones.

  But I’m a black belt, and it ain’t that damned easy to pin me. I hit rolling, caught his belly on my boots and flipped him off me. I was on my feet and closing as he scrambled up, my speed telling now.

  “Shit!” Feral bounded back, avoiding my kick. There was a note of real alarm in his voice now. “Cap, I think you’ve gone berserk.”

  “Bullshit,” I snarled, still looking for a way to get through that impenetrable guard of his. I wanted to make his body bleed the way I was bleeding from the heart. “I don’t do that, remember?”

  “It’s a known side effect of the Desert Warrior drugs, Candace. Everybody in the program goes berserk -- except you. Until now.”

  “I don’t go berserk.” That’s why they’d made me his control. All the other controllers were Marines who hadn’t been in the program, because you had to have someone who could snap the Warrior out of his killing rage. “I’m just pissed!” I closed in, driving punches as hard as I could, flat-footed and brutal.

  He blocked every damned one of them.

  I don’t think I’d ever been so furious in my life. The rage had a taste, copper on the tongue, hazing my vision with red like a veil of blood.

  He grabbed my wrists again, forced my arms wide, and jerked me full against him. “Candace, snap out of it!”

  I snarled and kicked his kneecap with a force that should have broken it. Instead he growled and jerked me around, my back to his front, and wrestled me to the ground.

  Somehow we’d ended up on that big grass patch, but I barely noticed. As I writhed and fought, he coiled his big body around me and hooked his legs around my torso from behind, pinning my arms between his thighs. I kicked fruitlessly, my booted toes scrabbling at the sod, but I couldn’t reach him, and I couldn’t free myself from his strength.

  Feral reached up with one hand and jerked off his helmet -- a thoroughly stupid move, because I fully intended to give him a head-butt he’d never forget.

  Unfortunately, he then unbuckled my helmet and tossed it aside, blowing that plan. I tried to snake my head around to bite his lower lip, but he caught my chin in his fingers and forced my eyes to meet his.

  “Your pupils are pinpricks,” he told me. “And it’s way too fucking dark for that to be natural. You’re definitely berserk.”

  “Fuck you!” Frustration drove my fury higher, and I squirmed and bucked against his powerful body. Some part of me knew there were ways to free myself, but I couldn’t think beyond my raging need to kick his ass.

  Then he thumbed the release of my chest plate, and it split wide. Cool evening air brushed my hard nipples. I froze, disoriented by the sensation.

  Feral touched me. His big, callused fingers stroked over the hard pink tips of my breasts, and pleasure slid like a blade through my fury.

  “You’re so pretty here,” he whispered in my ear, and I shuddered at the warmth of his breath. “I always thought it was ironic that an ass-kicker like you would have tits like yours.” He cupped them tenderly, then used his rough fingertips in skillful caresses, tracing circles and spirals on my skin.

  His tongue flicked out, found the shell of my ear, and tasted it in delicate little licks. He used his teeth next, in tiny nibbles that made me shiver.

  My rage began to drain, taking my strength. I opened my mouth to tell him to stop. Then I closed it again, because I knew if I told him to, he would.

  And I didn’t want him to stop.

  Not with the way his hands cupped my breasts together, mounding them high so he could tease both my pointed nipples. Delight sighed along my nerves like a cooling wind, and the sweet gusts thinned my rage to tattered smoke.

  When he started keying the releases on the rest of my armor, I didn’t try to fight him. He pulled off each section and threw it aside as I lay against his armored chest.

  The rage died to ashes, replaced by hot need, wet and low in my belly.

  When he had me naked, he released the grip of his thighs and turned me in his arms until we were face to face. The sun had set, but there was enough light coming from the office building next door that I could see the vivid blue of his eyes gazing into mine.

  “You want me?” he asked in a velvet growl.

  “God, yes.” Fervent. Desperate.

  Feral kissed me. Slow, soft, his mouth like silk against my lips. Using tongue and teeth, tasting and licking and biting in a gentle seduction I would never have expected of such a big brawler of a man. His lips held such fragile sweetness, as if I was his dream, his obsession, his driving need.

  Nobody had ever kissed me like that, not the fumbling rich boys my father had sent to tempt me into marriage, not the careless playboys I’d fucked to piss him off.

  No one. Maybe because they’d all been boys, and Feral was definitely a man.

  He kissed down the line of my neck, pausing to lick a bead of sweat rolling over my leaping pulse. His fingers slid down my belly, tracing ticklish little designs until I laughed softly, threading my fingers through his hair.

  “This isn’t how I thought we’d make love,” Feral said, looking up from my collarbone, where he’d paused for a gentle nibble. “I imagined silk sheets scattered with rose petals on a bed surrounded by candles.” He gave me another thoughtful lick. “A little Wynton Marsalis playing in the background.”

  “Romantic, but probably not us,” I murmured. “This is more our style.”

  I found the thick muscle of his shoulders and traced my short nails over the elegant shapes. The scales of the armor felt slick and cool, an abruptly unbearable barrier. “I want to see you.” I let the need I felt show in my eye
s. “All of you. Let me take off your armor.”

  He smiled, slow and hot, and sat back on his haunches, releasing me. I rolled up onto my knees in the grass and reached for his chest plate release. The armor popped open, revealing the tanned width of that gorgeous chest. I peeled the chest plate away from his brawny body and dropped it on the rooftop.

  Dark hair grew in a soft cloud on his torso, and I stroked my fingers through it, enjoying the silky texture. His small male nipples jutted. Unable to resist, I leaned forward and licked one of them, savoring his groan of pleasure. Drifting my fingers across the width of his chest, I paused to thumb the release for the arm sections and helped him pull them off.

  I’d dreamed of this. Of being able to touch him, to hell with regs. Touch him and taste him. Kiss the shrapnel scars from the IED that had damned near killed us both. One piece of that lethal little bomb had missed his heart by inches. I thought I’d lost him.

  I damn near ate my weapon that night.

  Chapter Three

  “We’ve come so close to dying so many times,” I breathed against one of the hard little dimples in his skin left by jagged steel. “I’ve often thought how bitter it would be to lose you without ever making love to you.”

  “I’ve had nightmares about your death.” His fingers slipped into my hair and cradled my face, tipping it up for another of those mind-searing kisses. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you. I’d have nothing.”

  I was breathing hard by the time his lips left mine. I wanted him naked, and I reached for the release over his hip.

  He groaned in relief as the groin section sprang open, and his erection tumbled out into my waiting hands. “Thank you. That damn cup was cutting into my dick.”

  “I can see why.” Feral’s cock was, if anything, even more impressive than some of my fantasies had painted him. Thick, long, and hot, with a vein snaking its length, its head an elegant ruddy cap pearled in pre-cum.