Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  “Oh, we notice all sorts of things,” he said as he lifted it up for her scrutiny, wiggling the ring finger—which had a dark, even tan. She rubbed her bare arms and tried to pretend she hadn’t just asked if he was married.

  He lowered his hand and picked up his glass. “So, how about you?”

  She shifted in her seat. “What? Observant? I better be, considering my job.”

  He gave her a withering look. “Really?”

  She avoided his gaze and grimaced. “No. I’m not married.”

  Not that he’d thought for a moment she might be. But it was always good to know for sure.

  Slowly, he caressed the wet curves of his beer glass with his thumb. “Boyfriend?”

  She followed the movement with reluctant eyes, and he saw the tips of her breasts harden under the thin fabric of her tank top, as they had on the ride into town. Answer enough for him. “I guess not.”

  “Jeezus, Wolf,” she muttered. “Stop looking at me like that. I'm not interested.”

  He raised a brow at her unconscious use of his name—and at the obvious lie. Oh, she was interested, all right. She just didn't want to be.

  Sort of like him.

  But he also knew that, sooner or later, he was getting her naked. Regardless of any objections either of them might have. Their chemistry was just too powerful to resist.

  “Okay, little pup. You're not interested. Come on, it's late. Let's get out of here.”

  She blinked. “So soon? You haven't finished your beer.”

  He smiled, remembering the way she’d clung to him on the bike. He couldn’t wait to have her arms around him again. “I shouldn’t. I'm driving.” He stood up and pushed his chair in. Watching her hesitate, he grinned. “Unless you want to?”

  She looked at him suspiciously. “Uh, no, I better not. I’ve had two beers.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and gave her a cocky grin. “Okay. I’m happy to drive. But no hanky-panky on the back seat.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Funny, Wolf. Bye, everyone. See you later.”

  She pointedly ignored the guys’ eyebrow waggling and knowing looks as they headed for the door, but Coop couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder and waggling his own right back at them.

  They exited to a chorus of hoots and howls.

  “Idiots,” she muttered as the door slammed behind them.

  He just laughed, and guided her out into the dark parking lot behind the bar. They headed for the Yamaha.

  “By the way, nobody ever calls me Wolf,” he said as they walked. “Outside of my clan.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “They know what would happen to them if they did.” He winked. “But I just might make an exception in your case. I kind of like it when you call me Wolf.”

  “Just getting you back for that pup thing.” She shrugged. “But maybe I will. It suits you.”

  “How's that?” he drawled, ready to hear the usual corny lines wasichu women spouted about his name.

  “Oh...you’re a man of action. Proud. A bit shaggy.”

  He chuckled. At least she was original.

  She glanced over at him consideringly. “A loner. Cunning.” She looked away, her smile fading. “Dangerous.”

  Interesting choices.

  “Okay, I'll give you shaggy. A lone wolf? Definitely.” He searched his pockets for the keys. “Dangerous?” His mind filled with visions of her deadly curves. “No more than you are, woman.”

  She stopped behind him when they reached the bike. “Me? Dangerous? Don't be ridiculous.”

  An incredulous snort caught in his throat. No, she was right. She wasn't dangerous. He peered over at her shadowed features. More like fucking lethal. Lethal to his wits. Lethal to his libido. Possibly lethal to his career, if he didn’t get his head screwed on straight.

  Not to mention lethal to those bears...

  “Woman, if you were any more dangerous, they'd have to carry me out on a stretcher.” He handed her over her helmet.

  She frowned as she took it. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

  Yeah. Like he was really going to get into that. Nice try.

  “What do you think?” he muttered.

  She gave him a penetrating look. “I think maybe it means you’re hoping I’ll forget to lock my door tonight.”

  He stepped closer to her. Right up in her face. “You really think a locked door is going to stop me?” He smiled as he let his gaze drift over her pebbled breasts. Then he started to unbutton his work shirt.

  Her lips parted and she took a swift step backward, nervously eyeing his parting buttons. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He stripped off his shirt. “You'll freeze in that flimsy tank top.” He dropped the shirt around her shoulders. “It's not much, but put this on.”

  She rubbed shivers on her arms but didn’t touch the shirt. “No need. I'll be fine.”

  “The wind'll be cold when it whips over you.”

  She looked at his bare chest. He hadn’t worn anything under the shirt. “What about you?”

  “I'm Canadian, remember? Part polar bear.” He mounted the bike and pushed the starter.

  She fingered the sleeves dangling over her arms.

  He slid on his gloves and flipped on the headlight. Over the roar of the engine, he ordered, “Just put on the damn shirt. It’s not going to bite.”

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Twenty-Six

  Maggie relented, and pulled on his shirt.

  Immediately, she was surrounded by a deliciously unmistakable male scent. The kind of scent that any cologne company would pay big bucks to capture in a bottle. The kind that jammed a woman’s hormones into overdrive. A scent that was saturated with his unique pheromones, every one of which had her name written all over it.

  He beckoned her onto the bike with a quick jerk of his head. She jammed her helmet on, then climbed behind him, and tried not to breathe.

  His smooth, naked torso gleamed blue in the light of a neon sign in the bar's rear window. With his long black hair and his leather gloves, he looked like every woman's wet dream. His shoulder blades and well-defined muscles threw indigo shadows over the huge expanse of his bare back and arms. Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist, disappearing into the low-slung jeans riding his hips.

  Lord almighty. Where the hell was she going to put her hands?

  Catching her bottom lip in her teeth, she slowly, gingerly, placed her hands on his waist. His flesh jumped at her touch, and she felt a spasm run through his body as he abruptly straightened. She tightened her grip on him, and his skin rippled with goose bumps under her fingers.

  Her senses reeled with the touch and the spicy scent of him. Visions of two naked bodies exploded into her mind.

  She jerked her hands off him, flung herself off the bike, and practically ripped his shirt off. “I can't do this. I'll take my chances with the wind.” She tossed the work shirt at him. “Put it back on. Please.”

  He inhaled deeply, and she could practically hear him silently counting to ten. “Fine.” He grabbed the shirt and pulled it back on. “No problem.” Exhaling roughly, he shook his hair free of the collar and buttoned it all the way up to the top button. “Better?”

  Hardly. She knew she was fighting a losing battle trying to stay away from him. The thought sank like a lead weight to the pit of her stomach.

  She nodded, climbed back on, and after a slight hesitation, put her hands on his thankfully covered waist. “Ready.”

  He piloted the bike down the alley and out onto the deserted highway, then picked up speed as they cruised out of the sleeping village.

  Damn. He was right. The wind was viciously cold against her skin. She shivered, and snuggled a fraction closer to his back.

  He must have felt it, because he pulled her hand around to his stomach and laid one arm protectively over hers, resting his smooth leather glove on the back of her hand. The warmth of their close contact soothed her chills enough that, aft
er a moment, she sighed and wound her other arm around him in a tight embrace.

  Her breasts and pebble-hard nipples pressed into his back, and she knew he had to be feeling them...along with her legs parted around his hips and gripping his thighs. Despite the cold, a pool of moist heat was gathering between them.

  She let a low groan escape into the wind, and leaned forward in exquisite torture.

  He rocked the bike into high gear. The faster he went, the closer she squeezed into him. He was doing it on purpose. She knew he was. But somehow, she didn’t have the will to protest. She was too freaking cold.

  Her own fault. Next time she wouldn’t lend out her flannel shirt.

  Wait. Next time?

  Oh, hell no. This was not happening ever again. She’d learned her lesson. She shivered again. But this time, it wasn’t from the cold.

  He tightened his glove around her hand and, to her shock, slipped it up under his shirt. She tensed and tried to pull away.

  He held her firm.

  Her heartbeat doubled, pounding against his back, when he brought her icy hand even farther up his chest. She felt him suck in a breath, and a shiver rippled down his torso as he pressed her hand to the middle of his abs. From the chill? Or from her touch...?

  She barely resisted the urge to brush her fingers over his tight nipple to find out.

  He gave her hand a squeeze, then pulled his out and resumed steering.

  She was paralyzed with indecision. Jerk her arm back? Or leave it where it was...?

  Moments later, the decision was rendered moot when he repeated the process with her other arm. It felt...too good to move. She was still cold, but her hands and arms felt warm and tingly where they lay against his rock hard middle.

  Oh, what the hell. Touching him was better than hypothermia.

  A lot better.

  Spineless willpower.

  Sighing in guilty pleasure, she surrendered, and nestled tight against his body. Her visor was soon covered by his long, windswept hair. She felt an irrational urge to lift it, and bury her face in his hair and drown in his scent.

  The small bright circle from the Yamaha's headlight cast lacy shadows on the road in front of them as they whisked past tall pines and buzzed through the hushed night forest. She could feel his supple muscles working in unison with the bike, stretching and contracting to the rhythm of the bumpy, twisting road. Her own hands felt lost in the broad, angular geography of his chest.

  Long before they approached the unpaved track leading to the tower, she had all but forgotten her fears. Only the occasional jarring click of their helmets as they collided jolted home the incongruity of her feelings for him. She was furious with herself for allowing him to cut so easily through her defenses. But she was too lost in the sensation of her body rubbing up against his to do anything but enjoy the ride.

  Suddenly, he shouted, “Bear!”

  In a flash, the bike was tipping over, and she was thrown onto the dirt...along with her wonderful fantasies.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Digging his boot heel into the dirt road, Coop jammed on the brakes and pivoted the Yamaha around on the front tire, struggling to keep the bike from falling over completely.

  Behind him, Maggie screamed after she’d rolled off the back of the bike.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” she yelled, springing to her feet and whacking clouds of dirt off her jeans.

  “It was a goddamned bear,” he yelled back. “Didn't you see it?” He quickly scanned around them. Naturally, the animal had vanished.

  She continued to brush her jeans furiously. “No, I didn't see any damned bear! You could have killed us!”

  He was about to shout back again, but clamped his mouth shut. Jesus. When was the last time he'd yelled at a woman?

  At anyone?

  He took a cleansing breath. “There was a bear on the road,” he repeated, more calmly this time. “If I'd hit it, we probably would be dead. It's like running into a brick wall with claws and teeth.”

  “Well, you would know,” she muttered angrily.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Get back on the bike,” he ordered, muscling it upright again.

  “Not on your life,” she retorted. “I'll walk, thank you very much.”

  He scowled at her, smarting with frustration. “All right,” he growled. “Fine by me.” If she wanted to kill herself tripping over potholes in the dark, it was no skin off his teeth.

  But God damn it. Seconds ago, she’d had her hands on his bare skin turning him on like crazy, and he was pretty damn sure five minutes later and he’d have had his hands on her bare skin, turning them both on.

  Starting the bike with a jerk, he lurched up the remaining distance to the tower, lecturing himself the whole way. He really had to get a grip. He was acting like some kind of out-of-control hormonal teenager.

  He was putting the bike up on its kickstand next to the tower pylon when she stalked up and lit into him again. “You're nuts, you know that? A bear? Come on, get real, Cooper. Bears don’t just vanish into thin air.”

  Was she serious? Apparently he wasn't the only one out-of-control. He could practically hear her berating herself for letting her precious guard slip and actually enjoying the feel of her hands on his body.

  That's what this was about, not any damned bear.

  Her foot tapped a staccato riff in the gravel. “You must have had more than one beer at Gina's, hallucinating like that,” she fumed. “Un-friggin'-believable.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and scowled. It wasn't as if they'd been in any real danger of being hurt on the bike—he’d been going less than five miles an hour.

  He itched to shut her up somehow and get back to where they'd been.

  “I didn't,” he assured her. “And I wasn't hallucinating. I did see a bear. A big one.”

  She invaded his space to continue her tirade, punctuating her scolding with sharp pokes of her finger.

  He leaned back against the pylon and centered himself. Blocking out her words, he observed her body. It was wonderfully expressive, alive, passionate even in anger. Would it be the same in the throes of a different kind of passion? He looked down at her luscious lips—full, supple, ripe for plundering.

  “Are you listening to me?” she demanded, snapping him out of his reverie.

  “No. I’m not.”

  He grasped her arms and pulled her roughly to him, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, and brought those sweet lips to his.

  He kissed her, hard, and didn't let up until she was gasping for breath.

  Then he released her.

  She narrowed her eyes, hauled off and slapped his cheek with a resounding smack.

  He tried to decide whether or not he’d deserved it.

  Immediately, she took a step backward, bringing her hands to her own cheeks, her eyes wide with contrition. “Oh, God. I'm sor—”

  No. He hadn’t.

  In a motion, he shoved himself off the pylon, grabbed her arms, spun, and crushed her between himself and the hard wooden pylon.

  “Let go of me!” She tried to shove him away.

  He let her go, but he didn't move. Instead, he leaned in for another kiss.

  She turned her face away.

  Clamping down on an unfamiliar surge of violence that surged through his blood, he forced himself to shift gears. Gaining iron control of his raging adrenalin, he lightly, sensually, kissed her temple and her cheek.

  “No,” she said half-heartedly. “Don't.”

  His heart still pounding furiously, he gently skimmed his fingertips down her ribs and moved his lips first to her ear, feathering it lightly, then to the corner of her eye.

  “Stop,” she whimpered, but at the same time tilted her head to the side, offering her throat as her hands clutched his shoulders. He couldn’t move away even if he’d wanted to.

  He didn’t want to.

  He kissed his way down the satin column of
her throat.

  “Please don't do this,” she whispered, sliding her arms around his neck.

  “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Just a kiss.”

  He nibbled up her chin. Her lips met his willingly, and parted at the first touch of his tongue. With a groan, he sank into her moist, inviting mouth.

  Circling his hands around her waist, he tugged her soft, yielding body closer. Slowly, slowly, he inched her tank top up and slid his hands along the bare sides of her torso. Her body arched into him and a low moan came from her throat.

  Suddenly, she grabbed his wrists and broke the kiss. “No.”

  He silently swore. “Maggie...”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He slipped from her grip and ran his hands up and down her arms. “Your words tell me one thing, but your body is saying something completely different. Which should I listen to?”

  Taking a shaky breath, she escaped his embrace and folded her arms over her middle. “They're both saying the same thing now.”

  He leaned back against the pylon and mirrored her stance. He could feel the thread of his patience wearing dangerously thin. “Sorry. I thought you were enjoying the kiss as much as I was.”

  Her tongue peeked out and ran over her lips, gathering the moisture he had left there. He watched her taste him and swallow. “No,” she said.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Okay.” He ached to catch her up in his arms again, to cover her mouth and prove to her how wrong she was.

  Instead, he slowly drew the back of his hand across his lips, deliberately wiping away her wet, fevered kisses. “Sorry. My mistake.”

  She struggled not to look wounded, but the pain in her expression at his gesture couldn't have been greater had he taken his knife and twisted it in her heart.

  Her plump, sensual lips thinned to a hard line. “Be gone by noon.” Turning on her toe, she strode past him to the tower stairs.

  Standing alone in the dark, he listened to her take the steps two at a time all the way up to the top, and flinched at the sound of the cab door slamming shut behind her.

  He should not regret hurting her. There was nothing nastier a woman could do than tell a man she didn't like his lovemaking.