by Kit Rocha
"But," he said, gently. Firmly. "Everyone knows what's at stake. And everyone is going to fight like hell. We may not beat them—that's not defeatist, it's just fact. But if we go down, we go down swinging. That's more than a lot of people get in this life."
The lump in her throat hurt when she tried to swallow. It seemed silly to waste tears on people who hadn't even fallen yet—especially when the days to come would no doubt give her plenty of chances to cry. But it wasn't grief trying to claw its way out—it was sick, terrifying helplessness. "I wish I'd learned how to fight. Bren tried to teach me, and I kept whining about it until he let me off with target practice. And now I can't help."
"Hey, that's not fair to you. To a lot of people." He cupped her chin and forced her to look at him. "Here's the dirty secret, Nessa. Soldiers with bullets can't win wars, not by themselves."
"Maybe not," she whispered. "Doesn't make being the one waiting at home any easier."
"No." His thumb swept over her knee. "No, I've tried, and I can't imagine anything harder than that."
All her life, words had come so easily to her. Dozens of them, hundreds of them. Sometimes blunt and inappropriate, but a never-ending wave to drown the restlessness inside her that shuddered at silence. But the ones that mattered, the ones that brushed the places inside her that weren't bright and shiny and gleeful—those had always seemed trapped.
Until now. "Dallas and Lex lead us, and everyone else fights and works and keeps the place running, but ever since Pop died…" She laughed hoarsely and closed her eyes. "God, this makes me sound like such an asshole, but I'm used to being the hero. The center of everything we do. I just feel so useless now."
"Ah, I see."
That was all he said for so long that she opened her eyes again. But Ryder wasn't looking at her. His gaze was traveling her shelves again, cataloging all the passions she'd abandoned.
"Do you know what a Molotov cocktail is?" he asked eventually.
"In theory, I guess." She wrinkled her nose. "They're popular in pre-Flare movies. It always seemed like a terrible waste of good booze, to me."
"Or gasoline, kerosene, oil—anything that burns. You bottled more raw alcohol than Jordan and his field medics can use. We could modify some of them in case we run out of grenades," he murmured distractedly, his brows drawing together. "What about the leather?"
"The leather?"
He shifted her weight, then rose with her in his arms and walked toward one of the shelves. "You have tools for working with leather."
"Yeah. I got obsessed with the idea that I could make corsets." In reality, she'd given everyone new belts and bracers for about six months before the appeal had waned—probably because something new and shiny had replaced it. "I can do basic things, I guess."
"Stuart's making some equipment for the fighters—ammo belts, stuff like that. But he's working as fast as he can, and none of the stuff is custom. We could use someone who can make them fit." He looked down at her, and the corner of his mouth tilted up a little. "See? All kinds of things only you can do."
He was just standing there, smiling, cradling her like a princess—but that wasn't why she kissed him. Nessa had been pampered and petted like a princess her whole damn life.
No one had ever invited her to build bombs with them before. That was why she kissed him.
She tangled her arms around his neck as her mouth found his. He parted his lips immediately, but it took him only a moment to move beyond the kiss, gliding his open mouth over her cheek and down to her jaw.
She let her head fall back, ignoring the dizzy sway of the room. She usually hated the feeling of being unmoored, adrift from the ground—but she wasn't adrift. Ryder was holding her.
He carried her to her bed, pausing long enough to snag the bottle of wine from the table, though he left the tumblers behind. "What do you think?" he rumbled. "Drink this in bed?"
"Eventually." She gripped his shirt and dragged it up. "Tell me more about how we're going to make bombs."
"No." He dropped the bottle and set her on her feet. "I don't want to talk about that anymore, not here."
She slid her fingers across his back to trace his spine. "What do you want to talk about?"
He pulled the clip from her hair and let it fall around her shoulders. "You. Me. Everything we can do right now to make sure that light stays in your eyes."
Once his shirt was over his head, she tossed it aside and sketched a path down his chest. The med-gel had done its work on his ribs, and the stitches were gone, leaving behind only a thin, mostly healed scar. "I don't know. I know shit about sex that would make hookers blush, but I haven't had a lot of it that was memorable."
His fingers combed through her hair, smoothing the strands. "That's a shame."
She swayed closer, brushing his shoulder with her lips. He still smelled like the woods—his soap or aftershave or something—and maybe if she closed her eyes, she could pretend they were locked in his cabin somewhere far away from war. "It is what it is. Sex can't be much more than decent with someone you don't really trust."
"Then it's a good thing you trust me."
Flutters burst to life in her chest, nervous and excited, because it was true. She trusted him so much, too much, and she didn't want to stop. She kissed the center of his chest before tilting her head back to meet his warm brown eyes. "I do. So ruin me some more already."
Ryder chuckled under his breath, a rich, low sound that shivered up her spine as he eased her back. Her legs hit the mattress, and he followed her down, catching her just before she hit the plush surface.
Pillows surrounded them. Nessa laughed and swept out her arms, knocking some to the sides and off the edge of the bed. "Sorry. I like pillows."
"I didn't notice," he murmured teasingly.
Her fist closed around one, and she swung it into his side. It bounced right back off, but her laughter dissolved into a gasp when his body settled more firmly over hers. The memory of pleasure tingled through her, and she let go of the pillow and gripped his arms instead.
His breath tickled over her collarbone. "Tell me about all these things. The yarn and the fabric and the paints."
She flexed her fingers on his shoulders and dragged her nails lightly over his skin. "I get...antsy. I like to keep my hands busy."
He guided her shirt up, baring her stomach. "You could do that with one hobby."
"I like to keep my brain busy, too." She sucked in a breath when his skin brushed hers, savoring the heat. As snuggly as her mountain of pillows could be, they hadn't done much to take the edge off winter's bite. "Don't you get that thrill when you learn something new for the first time?"
"No." He eased down, reaching for her belt with one hand while his lips grazed the bottom of her rib cage. "A job well done, yes."
She rose up on her elbows, breathing a little less steadily as she watched his nimble fingers tug her belt free from its buckle. "So you're saying you like to practice one thing until you get really, really good at it?"
"Focus," he breathed. "It has its rewards."
"I could be persuaded. Maybe."
"Why? You don't have to change." He tugged, and the button on her jeans popped open. "All you have to be is right here, in this moment."
Oh, fucking hell.
It was like some too-good-to-be-true fantasy come to life. A handsome, charming man coaxing her jeans down while he told her she was perfect, in all her imperfect, impatient glory. She couldn't even form words as she lifted her hips to help him, too distracted by the soft drag of his touch as he pulled the denim down her legs and over her bare feet.
Then she remembered her bra didn't match her panties—black cotton with cheerful pink skulls on them, of all fucking things—and wanted to melt through the bed again. No sophisticated silk or frilly lace, of course not. That would have required thinking like someone who was used to getting laid.
She still couldn't entirely believe this was happening.
He surged up and shifted the
pillows behind her, raising her into a half-sitting position. "All you have to do," he murmured, almost echoing his earlier words, "is watch."
"Okay," she managed. "No touching?"
"Only if you need to hold on."
He disappeared back down her body, and Nessa clutched at the pillows on either side of her. There was some sort of torturous hell in knowing exactly what he intended to do as he worked her underwear off her hips—but still not knowing how to prepare for it.
Knowing all of this shit in theory was not nearly as helpful as she'd hoped.
His lips grazed her knee, and she jolted. He pressed a kiss to the top of her thigh, and she gripped the fabric beneath her hands harder, swearing that this time she wouldn't start trembling before he'd even really touched her.
Then he edged her legs apart, and she couldn't help it. She was as naked as she'd ever been in her life, and he was right fucking there, his mouth inches from her pussy, staring at her in a way that made her squirm in a confusing mixture of anticipation and nerves.
God, what if this wasn't as good as everyone made it seem?
Fuck, what if it was better?
Ryder touched her—smoothing his fingers over her flesh, parting her with his thumbs. And just when she was getting ready to whisper his name, to beg him to put her out of her misery—he bent his head and licked her clit.
The jolt of sensation was immediate, almost too much. A startled noise escaped her before she dug her teeth into her lower lip, holding back a second, more ragged noise as he licked lower. That wasn't as intense, but it still felt good, the kind of good that spilled through her in a warm, restless wave. She squirmed when he found another sensitive spot, but he didn't pause there.
No, he was focused. So damn focused. He took his time, like he was making an exhaustive inventory of her reactions. Or maybe this was some super-spy recon shit, because once he'd dragged his tongue over every last vulnerable spot he could reach, he went back to the sensitive ones. The ones that made her hips jerk, the ones that made her toes curl. The spot that built up noises behind the dam of her teeth sunk into her lower lip, until she couldn't hold back a moan anymore.
Then he revisited all those spots again.
And a third time.
"Ryder—" Her hands ached from clenching the pillows. She released one and found the back of his head instead, but that didn't help. He was as immovable as ever, focusing on his mission, and when he meandered his way back up to her clit again, she needed it so badly she rocked her hips up in desperation.
He gripped her hips, but instead of pressing her back down to the bed, he lifted her to his mouth.
"Fuck!" Self-consciousness burned away as she reached for him with her other hand, clutching at him as the trembling started. Not the slow burn of last time, but something hot and messy and intense. "More, more please—"
He sucked her clit between his lips, lashing her with his tongue, and Nessa swore as the tension unraveled without warning. Bliss screamed through her, sending her heels scrabbling for purchase on the bed. But the strong hands on her hips held her in place as his tongue chased each spike of pleasure, wringing every bit of sensation from her until she wanted to start a new religion dedicated to the clearly superior concept of focus.
Her body melted, and his attention to detail was absolute. Just as sensation threatened to overwhelm her, he stopped and lifted his head. Nessa gave up and let her eyes drift shut, tracking his movements by the soft, tender kisses he dropped to her skin as he slid back up her body.
The mattress dipped as he stretched out next to her, and she let the movement roll her boneless body closer to him. His chest was a warm wall of smooth skin over muscle, and she had the drunken thought that if he stuck around after this war, she was going to feed him donuts and candy until she'd softened the edges of the weapon everyone else had honed him to be.
And if he didn't, maybe she'd just trek out to his weird little woodsy cabin once a week to shove cookies in his face.
He stroked the underside of her chin with his knuckles and kissed her, slow and easy. His lips tasted like her, and she smiled against them and snuggled closer. "Focus," she murmured. "I could maybe become a fan."
"To be fair, that's way more fun than knitting." Ryder toyed with the front clasp of her bra before flicking it open with a grin. "Wouldn't you say?"
God, so smug, and she was starting to find it cute. Or at least not irritating, because it was hard to be irritated when he'd earned that satisfied grin. She trailed her fingers down to tug at his belt. "At least as fun as knitting."
"Uh-huh." It was his turn to lean back against the pillows. He tucked both arms behind his head and watched her as she pulled his belt free. "If you tell me a scarf made you come that hard, I'm gonna have some questions."
Nessa tossed the belt over the edge of the bed and then let her bra slip down her arms to follow it. Naked, she straddled his thighs, her fingers hovering just over the erection straining his pants. "Not yet. But since I have about ten of them in the closet, maybe I'll use a few to hold you hostage in my bed until I've perfected my focus."
One eyebrow rose in a slow, perfect arch. "You have my attention."
"Do I?" She grazed his cock with the back of her fingers before reaching for the fastening on his pants. "Maybe we should talk about the possibilities. I mean, if you can make smugness hot, God knows what kinky sex games I could develop a sudden, inexplicable appreciation for."
He hissed in a breath, then smiled. "You O'Kanes sure do seem to be into that sort of thing."
"We fight hard, so we play hard." She slid her hands up to his shoulders and leaned over him, her hair cascading forward to form a pink and purple curtain around their faces. "This world's gonna make us feel bad, whether we want it to or not. So why should we leave any possible thing that could make us feel good on the table, just because it's intense?"
"You're preaching to the converted, Nessa." He rubbed his thumb over her side, carefully tracing each rib. "It was an observation, not a complaint."
It soothed an anxiety she hadn't realized she had, that tension that always knotted her shoulders around someone who wasn't an O'Kane. The part of her that was always braced for the snide comment or the preachy moralizing—or, worst of all, the sleazy come-on from some dude who thought a woman who wasn't ashamed of sex had to climb on the dick of any slimeball who wanted her.
If Ryder was like that, he wouldn't be here, because Lex would have stabbed him already. But she still let giddy relief curve her lips as she leaned down to kiss him. His mouth first, and then, breaking away before he could deepen the kiss, his chin. "Tell me," she murmured as she worked her way back down his chest. "Tell me the games you like."
He didn't answer immediately. "My whole life, I've been playing games," he said finally. "How long can I convince them of this, make them believe that? Stay in character, Michael, don't ever forget."
Nessa paused over his ribs and lifted her head. Michael. His first name.
"Every day, different people. Different me." Ryder shook his head. "There are things I like, Nessa, things that some people might call kinky. But no, I don't want to play games anymore."
She couldn't wrap her brain around it. Nothing in her life of endless self-expression had equipped her to understand being denied that most basic right. The right to be herself, whoever she turned out to be.
His abdomen trembled under her lips. She traced along the edge of his pants with her tongue before glancing up at him. "No games. Be Michael. Show me what you want."
A taut muscle in his clenched jaw jumped. "Take them off."
She slid down his legs to tackle his boots first, stripping them off one by one and tossing them haphazardly aside. His socks followed, and then his pants. She took her time dragging them down his legs, taking his underwear with them and trailing her fingers over his muscled thighs as she went.
When they'd cleared his feet, she paused at the edge of the bed, marveling that he could look so at ease, so righ
t—all his stern control and warrior strength surrounded by the bright, whimsical colors of her pillows and blankets. His secure confidence simply overpowered their silliness, and her heart raced as she crawled back up to kneel between his thighs.
He lifted one hand to beckon her, casual and commanding, all at once. "Come here."
She obeyed, because it felt right. Not because she'd discovered some new appreciation for obedience—she was still pretty sure she'd make a terrible submissive. But maybe they all got this same thrill—the fluttering excitement that flooded her as she straddled Ryder's stomach. The magic of being the one person he could put aside games with. The wonder of seeing him, stripped of everything polite and public.
His hands stroked over her skin, starting at her upper thighs. Up, over her hips, her sides, her shoulders, until he reached her hair. He sank his fingers into it and tugged, not hard enough to hurt, or even to move her, but just enough for her to feel it.
She caught her breath as the urge to squirm, to tug against his grip or lean into it or something washed over her. But she swallowed it and watched him.
Trusted him.
Ryder paused, then smiled his appreciation as he continued his exploration in reverse, stopping to cup her breasts.
"Oh—" Her head tilted back, and she almost reached for his wrists. Her fingers flexed against her thighs, wanting to move. Sitting still was torment, but so, so sweet. Especially when he pinched his fingers tight around her nipples—and twisted.
It wasn't pain—exactly. It was sensation, distilled. The shock of it snapped her head forward again, and she watched him, panting through the clash of heat and hurt buzzing through her.
Just as quickly as he'd introduced the sensation, it vanished, and he leaned up to soothe her nipples with his tongue. Lazy arousal shifted into something more pressing, and she couldn't stop the wiggling this time. "Fuck, Ryder—"
"Now?" he rasped against her skin. "Or can you be patient?"
Nessa had never had patience for anything in her life that didn't involve liquor. Everything had always been impulse and action with second thoughts trailing a distant third and regret creeping up behind them. She wanted to say no because no meant getting him inside her, and she craved that with an ache that doubled with every passing second.