He glanced at the cane braced against the passenger floor as he climbed out of the truck, but left it there. No way in hell was he gimping his way to her door, cane in hand. It was humiliating enough limping there under his own steam. It was also uncontroversial proof that he’d lost his mind.
What was he thinking?
He’d avoided the woman for five years because of the fire she lit under his skin and now he was going to lie there on her massage table and let those hands, that had been plaguing his dreams for more nights than he cared to remember, roam over his bare skin? One of those bullets must have been a head shot, because he’d sure as hell lost his mind.
A woman with spiky pink hair tending a stainless-steel coffee cart greeted him with a flirty smile when he reached the front doors. He ignored her, concentrating on the gold plate with its rows of numbers and names next to the entrance. He found K. Winchester, apartment number 607 and pressed the button beside the name.
“Yes?” a woman asked immediately.
Cosky stirred uncomfortably beneath the rasp of her voice. They’d made the arrangements through text messages, so he hadn’t heard her speak. Nor had he expected her voice to affect him on such a visceral level. Wasn’t that just perfect? Now her damn voice could join her hands and hair in an erotic dream trifecta.
“Kait Winchester?”
“Lieutenant Simcosky?” The lilt at the end of that smoky voice turned his name into a question.
“Yeah.”
There was a short pause, as though she was surprised he’d shown up. That made two of them.
“I’ll buzz you in. There’s an elevator at the back of the lobby. I’m on the sixth floor, apartment 607, end of the hall, on the left,” she said in that raspy voice, as though she’d just crawled out of bed.
An image flashed through his mind—golden hair spread across a dark pillow. He swore softly as his body tightened. Shit, he was already twitchy as hell, which didn’t bode well for lying there chaste as a priest while her hands roamed over him.
“You’re visiting Kaity?” the coffee girl asked. “She’s at the end of the hall, sixth floor.”
“So I heard,” Cosky said tersely, reaching for the door as soon as the buzzer sounded. The image of pale hair sliding across silk sheets followed him into the lobby. This was insane. But he kept walking.
Aiden claimed that there was magic in those slender, aristocratic hands. And his teammate had the miracle to back that claim up.
Cosky wasn’t so sure. But nobody had expected Aiden to walk again. They sure as hell hadn’t expected him to run. Yet, there he’d been, barely six months after they’d pulled him into the Black Hawk, running a mile and a half in nine minutes.
Nine. Fucking. Minutes.
So Cosky would lie there and let those sexy hands of hers drive him out of his mind, in the hope he’d be blessed with a miracle too. Because without one, his seat in the Zodiac would be handed over to someone else. A gimpy leg had no place on the teams.
A trio of coeds spilled out of the elevator and approached him, their toned arms cradling tennis rackets. He ignored their flirtatious smiles, and lurched along faster, trying to catch the elevator.
It closed two feet before he reached it.
Swearing beneath his breath, he jabbed the up button. Four months ago he would have hauled ass up the stairs without a second thought. But then four months ago he’d given this building a wide berth. He’d have signed up for a battery of psych evaluations, rather than face the threat of her massage table.
Four months ago he’d still possessed a brain, in the upper quadrant of his body.
By the time the elevator reached the sixth floor his leg was shrieking like a Black Hawk shedding its propellers and the last thing on his mind was sex. Thank you Christ.
Not that he’d ever had trouble bringing his body to heel, but at least he wouldn’t have to struggle with that particular demon during the next hour. Not when cutting off his leg, without anesthesia, sounded like a viable alternative to its current bitchiness. As he limped his way out of the elevator and toward her apartment, her massage table was sounding better and better. At least he’d get off the damn leg.
He pressed the buzzer beside her door and fought the temptation to lean against the doorjamb while he waited for her to answer. He probably should have brought the cane, although the humiliation of hobbling his way into her apartment, cane in hand, just might beat out the humiliation of crashing face-first at her feet without the cane to stabilize him.
When the door opened, he breathed a sigh of relief. There was no sign of that loose golden hair from his dreams. She must have pinned it to the back of her head. She was also wearing a loose, peach T-shirt and baggy, lightweight cotton sweats, which meant everything of interest was covered.
So far, so good.
Until she opened her mouth.
“Aren’t you supposed to be using a cane, Marcus?”
There was something far too intimate in the way her throaty voice caressed his name. Something that made his body flex and fix on her with too much interest.
Besides, only his mother called him Marcus. “I go by Cosky, or Cos.”
Intense brown eyes studied his face, and her eyebrows lifted. “I’m not one of your teammates.”
He stiffened slightly. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Before he had a chance to ask, her mouth was moving again. The shape of those curvy, pink lips distracted him for a moment. By the time he shook the distraction aside, he’d missed most of her response.
“…by refusing to use the cane, you’re setting your progress back?”
Forcing his weight onto the leg in question, he locked down any sign of pain and stared back. “It’s fine.”
“Riiiiight.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. “Of course it is. That’s why you’re here.”
He studied her heart-shaped face, for the first time recognizing the stubborn tilt to her chin. “We going to do this out here, or can I come in?”
She flushed slightly, but stepped to the side. “Can you make it on your own? Or do you need a shoulder?”
As in her shoulder?
Like hell.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, hearing the grit in his voice.
“So you said.” She stared right back, without giving an inch, disbelief rounding her eyes and compressing her lips.
Her eyes were dark brown, her eyelashes and eyebrows dark as well. The dark coloring was striking beneath that golden hair. Would a true blonde have eyes so dark? Maybe those golden strands were courtesy of a bottle, rather than nature. Not that it made a damn bit of difference.
“You coming in, or not?”
When he brushed past her he caught a whiff of something sweet and tangy—citrusy, like lemons, or oranges, an echo of the scent that had haunted him for the past five years. He’d never cared for lemons or oranges, so why the hell would his skin suddenly tighten and tingle? Or his belly clench with sharp, inexplicable hunger?
To combat the unwelcome reaction he bore down hard on his leg and focused on the shards of glass digging into his knee. Three steps later, and the tension in his muscles had more to do with pain than hunger.
The short hall was lined with photos. Most were of her father, Commander Winchester—whom Cosky had served beneath back in his Minnow days—and her brother Aiden. But there were two women on the walls as well. The one, a golden-haired beauty in yellowing photos, looked enough like Kait to be her twin, or her mother. The other woman was small and round with a short bob of silver hair. Cosky studied the picture as he passed, seeing an echo of Kait in the shape of the face and the stubborn chin.
Kait’s monument of pictures was proof of how important family was to her. It reminded him of his mother’s entryway. Mom had lined the entire hall with photos too. He couldn’t walk through the door without staring himself in the face.
The hall emptied into the living room. He didn’t see a massage table. Instead she’d spread a white sheet acro
ss the couch, anchoring it in place by tucking the excess fabric beneath the cushions. Next to the sofa, a coffee table bristled with an array of plastic bottles, and a pile of folded towels.
“I’m surprised you came,” Kait said from behind him. “I didn’t think you’d be open to metaphysical healing.”
Metaphysical healing? That’s what she called it?
“The jury’s still out.” He turned to face the mouth of the hall, where she stood watching him. Their eyes locked and he could have sworn the room shrank by half. A current of electricity skittered down his spine.
“I’m not surprised.” A shadow touched her eyes. With a slight twist to her lips, she stepped forward. “You’re not the type.”
“There’s a type?” Cosky tilted his head and thought of Zane, of premonition after premonition that had saved their asses more times than not. Some events couldn’t be ruled by logic. They had to be accepted on faith.
“Yeah, there is. It involves a degree of openness, which you don’t have.”
Cosky stomped on a burst of irritation. She’d known him for all of two minutes, hardly enough time to box him into a type. “If I were a cynical man, I’d think you were setting up excuses for this experiment’s failure.”
She shrugged and took another step forward. “Aiden said he told you that most of the time this doesn’t work.” She frowned at him, frustration flashing across her face to settle dark and brooding in her eyes.
With a slight shimmy of her shoulders, she seemed to cast her frustration aside. Dark brown eyes zeroed in on him again and Cosky felt the room shrink another few feet. A wave of citrusy scent wafted past him.
His skin tightened and started to prickle.
Just. Perfect.
He broke eye contact by turning toward the couch. Anything to avoid that intense gaze; it was doing freaky things to his heart and respiration, which was the last thing he needed under the circumstances.
“How do you want me, on my back or stomach?”
“Your stomach. I’ll work on your back first, try to relax you. The more relaxed you are, the better your chances for healing. I told you to wear shorts, remember? I need skin on skin contact.”
Skin on skin contact. Every muscle in Cosky’s body twitched. The hair on his arms, legs, and the back of his neck lifted.
He almost turned and headed for the door. Almost.
Until Aiden flashed through his mind. Aiden running that nine minute mile. His hands dropped to his waistband instead.
“I’m wearing shorts beneath the sweats.”
“The bathroom’s to your left if you want privacy,” she said, her voice was huskier, closer.
Prickles played up and down Cosky’s spine.
Damn it, there was something in her voice he didn’t want to hear. Something husky and thick and ravenous. Something too damn close to arousal. He hesitated a moment then gritted his teeth and yanked his T-shirt over his head. With a quick shove his sweats slid down his thighs. He sat on the couch, bent to unlace his boots, and pulled them off. His sweats followed.
Without looking up, he turned and stretched flat on the couch, crossing his arms so they served as his pillow. He turned his head so it faced the back of the couch.
See no evil, want no evil.
He swallowed a curse of derision, far too aware of the tension through his crotch. Too damn late for that.
His skin tightened at the faint whisper of her footsteps on the carpet, but they stopped across the room, and a new age melody swimming with flutes suddenly rippled through the air. The music shielded her approach and he tensed, straining to catch the sound of her footsteps beneath the flutes.
It was her citrusy scent that warned him she’d joined him. Suddenly her body heat warmed him from ass to shoulders and that fragrant cloud enveloped him, bathing him in citrusy sweetness. Every cell in his body locked, fixed on her with growing hunger.
Son of a bitch, he was already in trouble and she hadn’t even touched him yet.
“Here,” she said, as the back of his neck heated. “You can use one of these as a pillow.”
A slender hand placed one of the folded towels in front of his head. He held his breath as her body brushed his, and then unfolded his arms and dragged the towel beneath his cheek.
“I’m going to put one under your ankles too,” she said, her body burning a path down his side as she brushed against him. “It will support your lower back.” He tensed as she lifted his bare feet and slid the towel beneath them.
To his left came the sucking sound of a plastic bottle being squeezed, followed by the oily shush-shush-shush of well-lubricated hands rubbing against each other.
“I’m going to start on your upper back and shoulders,” she said, her voice husky.
The warmth radiating along his side migrated up his back as she leaned over him. That sultry, citrus cloud cinched tighter, enveloping him, until he felt encased in a fragrant bubble.
He flinched as her hands touched down and began sliding up and down his back in a series of long, lingering strokes. Suddenly her scent was the last thing on his mind.
In his dreams, her hands had been cool and soft and sinuously smooth, gliding over his skin in a silken skim, leaving his flesh itchy and ravenous in their wake.
In reality, they were hot.
Strong.
Determined.
They dug into his back with strength and confidence, kneading muscles that were growing tenser by the second. Heat flowed from the point of contact, spreading out in fiery waves, setting fire to every muscle, every nerve, every bone, until his entire back felt aflame.
Tingles were the least of his worries.
Spontaneous combustion was a definite concern.
“Does it hurt when I touch you here?” she asked, her breath a cool mist against the nape of his sweaty neck.
Her touch shifted from kneading to caressing and he realized she was massaging the mangled, scarred memento of the two rounds to his back. She leaned closer, her body brushing his waist, her hands sliding gently up and down and around the blistered scar tissue.
Her hands lightened and slowed, taking on a rhythm that was more caress than massage.
Was she petting him?
A puff of humid breath washed against the back of his neck again. It sparked an electrical charge, which zipped up his spine and into his brain. He went light-headed and dizzy.
Jesus Christ. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
“No.” The word sounded like he’d gargled with gravel.
Her burning hands inched higher and bore down again, her fingers digging in and squeezing, then settling into that kneading pattern. He tried not to breathe, but it was a losing battle. Each laboring breath drew her scent deeper into his lungs and muddied his brain, until he was drowning in her.
Standing next to the couch, Kait took a deep breath and bent over Cosky. He flinched when she settled her left palm on the ridge of muscle to the right of his spine, and then fell rigidly still.
Bracing her arms, Kait placed her right hand on top of her left and bore down, slowly rotating her arms so her palm crawled up his back in a series of lazy, counterclockwise circles. The muscles beneath her fingers were hard and hot, steel sheathed in silk.
Her belly tightened beneath a wave of heat and her head went light. Kait choked on a shallow breath. Good lord, she’d been so fixated on the feel of him, she’d forgotten to breathe.
It was almost impossible to believe that Marcus Simcosky, the man she’d been drooling over for more years than she cared to admit, was stretched out across her couch wearing nothing but a loose pair of athletic shorts—his muscled, tanned flesh just lying there, awaiting her pleasure.
Of course, he hadn’t arrived with the intention of providing her with a buffet of sensual delights, and she fully intended to keep her promise and massage the hell out of that gorgeous, lean body in the hope she might channel some of that magical energy and jump-start the healing of his knee. But good God, she wasn’t an
idiot. The good lord had provided her with a six-foot-four-inch specimen of mouthwatering masculinity, and nothing was going to stop her from enjoying the unexpected treat.
Particularly since this would be her only chance to experience the joy of his long, lean body beneath her hands.
It was clear from Cosky’s flinty expression, clipped replies, and rigid muscles, that he wasn’t enjoying this session like she was. If his knee didn’t show marked improvement after this healing, he wouldn’t be stretching himself across her couch again.
But he was here now, his flesh hard and silky beneath her fingertips. Separating her hands, she widened her thumbs and dug her fingers into his tight back, lifting and kneading the rigid muscles. Rather than loosening, his back tightened even further.
She frowned; maybe she was digging in too deep.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked, easing back slightly.
“No.”
Since his voice sounded tense and a ripple shook the flesh beneath her fingers, she eased back even more. He wouldn’t admit it if she was hurting him. Men and their silly pride.
As she neared his shoulders and the round, red scars that mottled his sleek skin, her touch gentled. She caressed the raised, rough tissue with the very tips of her fingers, carefully gliding over the puckered flesh.
Bullet wounds.
Although she’d never seen such scars before, she recognized them immediately.
Her chest tightened and her hands slowed, gliding back and forth over the angry, red puckers of flesh. She’d known he’d taken a couple of slugs to the back. But hearing about the damage and having the aftermath beneath her hands were two totally different beasts.
They were so small—barely the size of a quarter—so innocuous for the amount of damage they’d caused.
Nausea climbed her throat as she imagined the bullets plowing into him, puncturing his beautiful back—destroying muscle and bone. She stroked the scars again. This time the flesh beneath her hands twitched.
“You’re certain I’m not hurting you?” she forced the question through the sudden constriction in her throat. To think of how close he’d come to dying…
Forged in Ash (A Red-Hot SEALs Novel) Page 5