Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  And then she pulled back. "Make love to me."

  It wasn't an entreaty he needed to hear twice. "I'll check on Tash," he said hoarsely.

  She slipped out of his arms. “I’ll take some candles into our bedroom."

  Candles. Candlelight. Yes. Frisco picked up his crutches and moved as silently as he could toward the room where Tasha was sleeping. He could hear the child's slow and steady breathing before he even reached the doorway.

  She was asleep.

  For how long, he couldn't say. She might wake up in an hour or two. In fact, she'd probably wake up in an hour or two and be scared and confused. But for right now, she was asleep. For right now, he had the freedom to lock himself in that other bedroom with Mia and indulge in physical plea­sures the likes of which he'd gotten a taste of early this morning.

  For Mia, their joining would be more than mere physical satisfaction. Mia loved him. She actually believed that she loved him.

  But sooner or later, just like Tasha, Mia would wake up, too. And then she'd see him without those rose-colored glasses that she always wore. She'd realize that he had been lying—lying both to her and even to himself.

  His knee wasn't going to get any better. Steve Horowitz was right. Frisco had come as far as he could. He'd fought hard and long, but to keep fighting would only damage his joint further. It would be counterproductive. It would put him back into a wheelchair—maybe even for the rest of his life.

  It was time to accept that which he'd denied for so many years.

  He was permanently disabled. He wasn't going to be a SEAL ever again.

  The truth crashed down around him, crushing him, squeezing him and he nearly cried out.

  He had to tell Mia. She said she loved him, but would she love him if she knew the truth?

  He wasn't Lt. "Frisco" Francisco of SEAL Team Ten. He was Alan Francisco, disabled civilian. He didn't even know who Alan Francisco was. How could she possibly love him if he no longer knew who he was?

  He had to tell her. Yet at the same time, he didn't want her to know. He couldn't bear the thought of her looking at him with pity in her beautiful hazel eyes. He couldn't bear to say the words aloud. It was hard enough to admit he was tem­porarily disabled. "But permanently disabled...

  Mia's hair was down loose around her shoulders and she was smiling as she came toward him. He closed his eyes as she began unbuttoning his shirt, tugging him toward the bed at the same time.

  She took his crutches and lay them on the floor. Then she gently pushed him down so that he sat on the bed, and swept his shirt off his shoulders.

  “Mia..."he rasped.

  "Get rid of the gun, will you?" she murmured, pressing feathery light kisses against his neck.

  He unbuckled his shoulder holster and slipped it and his gun into the top drawer of a rickety old bedside table. He tried again, and again his voice sounded hoarse and strained. "Mia. About my knee..."

  She lifted her head, gazing directly into his eyes. "Does it hurt?"

  "No, it's all right. It's not-"

  "Shh," she whispered, covering his mouth with hers. "We've already talked enough tonight."

  She kissed him again and he let himself drown in her sweetness. He'd tried to tell her, but she didn't want to talk. And he really didn't want to say any of those awful truths aloud.

  She was offering him a temporary escape, and he reached for it eagerly. He grabbed it with both hands and held on tight to the magic of right here and right now. In Mia's arms, reality vanished, leaving only sheer perfection, only pure pleasure.

  The outside world, with all of its problems and harsh truths disappeared.

  But only for an hour or two.

  He rolled back with her onto the bed, covering her with his body, kissing her, determined to take that hour or two and use it to its fullest.

  He pulled her shirt up and she helped get it over her head. She was wearing a bra, and the black satin and lace against her skin was enticingly sexy, but not nearly as sexy as the candlelight would be, flickering across her bare breasts. He unfastened the front clasp, freeing her from its restraints.

  He made a sound, deep in his throat as he touched her, and she pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Is your knee all right? Maybe I should be on top."

  Her eyes were a swirl of yellow and brown, flecked with bits of green and concern.

  "No," he murmured, lowering his mouth to where his hands had been just moments before, lightly encircling one hard bud of a nipple with the tip of his tongue.

  He heard her sudden inhale of pleasure, felt her legs tighten around him and her hips rise to meet him. But just as quickly as she'd reacted, she released the pressure of her legs. "Alan, please, I don't want to accidentally hurt you—"

  He was balancing on his left leg. It was awkward, but with practice, he knew he would become more graceful. "You're not going to hurt me," he told her.

  "But what if—"

  "Mia, you're going to have to trust me on this, okay? Trust me enough to know that I'll tell you if I'm in pain. Right now, I'm not in pain." He pressed himself against her, fitting his arousal to her most intimately, to prove his point.

  She moaned, arching up against him. "I do trust you."

  Her words broke through the many layers of his desire— a pinprick of reality breaking through to this dreamworld. She trusted him. She loved him. His stomach tightened with remorse and despair, into a solid, cold block of deceit.

  But her fingers were unfastening his shorts and her mouth covered his in a breathtaking kiss, warming him, melting him—at least a little bit, at least for a little while.

  He awkwardly moved back, pulling her shorts and pan­ties down her smooth, silky legs. She lay back against the pillows, her long dark hair fanning out across the white sheets, her eyes on fire as she gazed unsmilingly up at him. She was naked and so vulnerable in that position, yet she didn't try to cover herself. She didn't even move. She just waited. And watched as he pushed down his own shorts, as he released himself from his briefs.

  She smiled then, gazing first at his arousal and then up into his eyes.

  She watched, unmoving, as he covered himself, the heat in her eyes growing stronger, even more molten. She shifted her hips, opening herself even further to him, her invita­tion obvious.

  Frisco inched himself forward, brushing the inside of her ankle with his mouth, trailing kisses up the smoothness of one calf while he caressed the soft inside of her other leg with his hand. He lifted his head when he reached her knees. She was up on her elbows again, her breasts rising and fall­ing with each rapid breath. Her lips were parted and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. As he met her eyes, she smiled a hot, sweet smile.

  "Don't stop there," she told him.

  Her smile was contagious and Frisco found himself grin­ning back at her before he lowered his head and continued his journey.

  He heard her gasp, heard her soft cry of pleasure as he reached his destination. Her hands were in his hair, the softness of her thighs against his face as he tasted her sweet pleasure.

  Maybe this would be enough.

  The thought flashed through his mind as he took her higher, as he brought her closer to the brink of release.

  Maybe he could find contentment or even happiness spending the rest of his life as Mia's lover. He could live forever in her bedroom, waiting for her to return from work, ready and willing to give her pleasure whenever she so de­sired.

  It was, of course, a ridiculous idea.

  How could she love a man who did nothing but hide?

  Yet, hide was exactly what he'd been doing for the past few years. The truth had been there to see if he hadn't been so damn busy hiding from it.

  Yeah, he was a real expert at evading the truth.

  "Alan, please..." Mia tugged at his shoulders, pulling him up.

  He knew what she wanted, and he gave it to her, filling her completely with one smooth thrust.

  She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out, r
ising up to meet him.

  His own pleasure was so intense, he had to stop, resting his forehead against hers while he struggled to maintain control.

  "We fit together so well," she whispered into his ear, and when he lifted his head, he could see all of her love for him shining in her eyes.

  And he knew at the moment that there was no way he could continue to deceive her. He had to tell her the truth. Not now. He couldn't tell her now. But soon. Very soon.

  She began to move slowly underneath him and he matched her pace, watching her eyes, memorizing the pleasure on her face. He knew that once she knew the truth, she was as good as gone. How could he expect her to stay? He'd walk away from himself, if only he could.

  "You're so serious tonight," she murmured, reaching up to touch the side of his face.

  He tried to smile, but he couldn't, so he kissed her in­stead.

  Her kiss was like magic, carrying him away to a place where there was only pleasure and light, where darkness and despair were set aside, if only temporarily.

  They moved together faster now and even faster, bodies slick with heat and desire. There was no room between them for anything but the giving and taking of pleasure. Or love.

  Frisco felt Mia's body tighten around him felt her muffle her cries of passion with a deep, searing kiss. His body re­sponded instantly to the sounds and sensations of her re­lease, and he exploded with a fireball of pleasure that flared with a white-hot light behind his closed eyes.

  The brilliant light brought clarity, and clarity brought another unwanted truth. He loved her.

  He loved her.

  Oh, Lord, he didn't love her. He couldn't love her.

  His emotions were confused, and that, combined with the chemicals his body released at his climax, had given him this odd sensation that he had mistaken for love. It was noth­ing, and it would no doubt fade the same way his intense feelings of satisfaction and pleasure would eventually di­minish.

  Frisco slowly became aware of the soft hissing sounds of the candles' flames, of the ticking of Mia's watch from where it lay across the room on the dresser, of Mia's slow and steady breathing.

  Damn, he was twice as big as she—he was crushing her. He rolled off of her, gathering her into his arms and cra­dling her close.

  She sighed, opening drowsy eyes to smile up at him be­fore she snuggled against his shoulder.

  "Mia," he said, wondering how to tell her, how to begin. But she was already asleep.

  It was not a big surprise that she was asleep—she'd been up all of the previous night, helping him take Tasha to the hospital. Like he, she'd probably only had around a two-hour nap in the morning. And then she'd had to endure the upset of Dwayne Bell's destructive visit to his apart­ment—

  He gazed down at her, curled up against him, her hand pressed against his chest, covering his heart.

  And that odd feeling that was surely just a strange chem­ical reaction made his heart feel tight and sore.

  But that didn't mean that he loved her.

  It didn't mean anything at all.

  "Where's Tash?"

  Frisco came out of the bathroom with his hair still wet from his shower, dressed only in a pair of shorts slung low on his lean hips, a towel around his neck. His question was phrased casually, but Mia couldn't miss the undercurrent of tension that seemed to flow from the man.

  He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well last night. He hadn't been in bed with her when she'd awoken this morn­ing. She had no idea how early he'd gotten up. Or why he'd gotten up at all.

  She'd fallen asleep in his arms last night. She would have loved to have awakened that same way.

  Mia set her book down on the end table, first marking her page with a leaf Natasha had brought inside to show her.

  "Tasha's outside," she told him. "She asked, and I told her she could play right out front. I hope that's all right."

  He nodded, sitting down across from her on the couch. He looked more than tired, Mia realized. He looked worn-out. Or burned-out and beaten down. He looked more like the grim angry man she'd first met. The glimpses of laugh­ter and good humor and joy he'd let her see over the past several days were once again carefully hidden.

  "I wanted a chance to talk to you while Tash was out­side," he said, his voice uncommonly raspy. But then he didn't say anything else. He just cleared his throat and gazed silently into the cold fireplace.

  "Well, Tasha's outside," Mia finally murmured. "And I'm listening."

  He glanced up at her, briefly meeting her eyes and flash­ing one of his crooked smiles. "Yeah," he said. "I know. I'm just... you know, trying to find the right words." He shook his head and the flash of pain in his eyes nearly took her breath away. "Except there are no right words."

  Mia couldn't believe what she was hearing. What had happened between last night and this morning? Last night they'd made love so perfectly, hadn't they? Or maybe it had only been perfect for her. He'd been quiet, almost sub­dued—she'd even commented on it. She leaned forward, wanting to reach for him, but suddenly, horribly afraid of his rejection.

  He'd been honest with her, and told her he didn't love her. She in turn had told herself she didn't care, but that had been a lie. She did care. She wanted him to love her, and she'd foolishly hoped that the sex they shared would at least hold his attention until she could somehow, some way make him love her, too.

  She couldn't bear to know the answer, but still, she had to ask. "Are you trying to dump me?"

  His blue eyes flashed as he looked up at her. "Hell, no! I'm... I'm trying to figure out how to tell you the truth." He held her gaze this time, and Mia was nearly overpow­ered by the sadness she saw there, mixed in among his qui­etly burning anger.

  She wanted to reach for him, but his anger held her back. "Whatever it is, it can't be that bad, can it?"

  "My knee's not going to improve," he said quietly, and she realized there were tears in his eyes. He gestured to his crutches. "This is as good as it's going to get. Hobbling around on crutches or with a cane."

  Alan was finally facing the truth. Mia felt her own eyes flood with tears. Her heart was in her throat, filling her with relief. This wasn't about her, wasn't about them. It was about him.

  She was so glad. He was facing the truth, and once he looked it in the eye, he could finally move forward.

  At the same time, she grieved for him, knowing how hard it must’ve been for him to reach his conclusion.

  He looked away from her, and his voice dropped even lower. "I'm not going to be a SEAL again. That's over. I have to accept the fact that I'm... permanently disabled."

  Mia wasn't sure what to say. She could see the anger and bitterness beneath the pain in his eyes, and she realized that by telling her this, he was probably uttering these words aloud for the very first time. She decided to keep her mouth shut and simply let him talk.

  "I know I told you that I was going to work past this," he said. "I know I made that list that's on my refrigerator, and if wanting something badly enough was all I needed to make it happen, damn, I'd be doing wind sprints right now. But my knee was destroyed and all the wishing and wanting in the world isn't going to make it better. This is it for me."

  He looked up at her as if he wanted her to comment. Mia said the only thing she possibly could in the circumstances.

  "I'm sorry."

  But he shook his head. "No," he said tightly. "I’m sorry. I made you think that there would be something more. I let you believe that I had some kind of future—"

  She couldn't let that one pass. "You do have a future. It’s just not the one you thought you'd have back when you were eleven years old. You're strong, you're tough, you're creative—you can adapt. Lucky told me there's an instruc­tor job waiting for you. If you wanted, you could choose to teach."

  Frisco felt a burning wave of anger and frustration surge through him, devouring him. Teach. Man, how many times had he heard that? He could teach, and then watch his stu­dents graduate out of his c
lassroom and do the things he would never do again. "Yeah, I'll pass on that barrel of laughs, thanks."

  But Mia didn't let up. "Why? You'd be a great teacher. I've seen how patient you are with Natasha. And Thomas. You have an incredible rapport with him. And—"

  His temper flared hotter, but the anger didn't succeed in covering up his hurt. There was nothing about this that didn't hurt. He felt as if he were dying. Whatever part of him that hadn't died back when his leg was nearly blown off, was dying now.

  "Why the hell do you care what I do?" It wasn't exactly the question he was burning to ask her, but it would do for now.

  She was shocked into silence, and gazed at him with her luminous eyes. "Because I love you—"

  He swore, just one word, sharp and loud. "You don't even know me. How could you love me?"

  "Alan, I do know-"

  "/ don't even know who I am anymore. How the hell could you?"

  She nervously moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Frisco felt his rage expanding. Dear God, he wanted her. He wanted her to stay. He wanted her to love him, because, dear Lord, he was in love with her, too.

  The tight, uncomfortable feeling in his chest had never faded. He'd awakened repeatedly throughout the night to find it burning steadily, consuming him. It wasn't going to go away.

  But she was. She was going to go away. Because, really, how could she love him? She was in love with a phantom, a shadow, an echo of the man he used to be. And sooner or later, even if he didn't tell her, she'd figure it out. Sooner or later she'd realize he was scamming her—that he'd been scamming her all along. And sooner or later, she would re­alize that she'd made a mistake, that he wasn't worth her time and laughter, and she would leave.

  And then he'd be more alone than ever.

  "Why should I bother to teach when I can sit home and watch TV and collect disability pay?" he asked roughly.

  "Because I know that would never be enough for you." Her eyes were hot, her voice impassioned. How could she possibly have such faith in him?