by M. A. Grant
Life with her father had taught her when a man was out to pick a fight. She didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t let him distract her from the real issue.
“You’re brave and strong and loyal. You protected your men during the wars and still do. You find loopholes in bad contracts so you don’t have to fulfil the services. You open up your home to those in need.”
He shifted uncomfortably, eyes now focused solely on the plate that was still moving towards him. “You don’t know shit about the world.”
“You’re right,” she agreed, trying to keep her voice even. “I’m naïve and I’ll get into trouble all the time and I’ll make tons of mistakes. I’ll—”
“Leave.”
His voice was flat. She was two steps from him.
She’d never imagined he’d say that. “What?”
“You’ll leave.” He wouldn’t look at her. His body was coiled tensely on itself, radiating violence. “You always leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You’ll leave.” His voice was bleak. “We’re never good enough for you.”
He couldn’t be talking to her. He was caught in the past, stuck on some memory she couldn’t see, didn’t know. She tried again. “I’m not leaving.”
He looked up and she couldn’t recognise him.
“I’m not leaving, Peirce.”
“Yeah, she said that too.” He shrugged, a slight inclination of his shoulders. “Loved money and her real husband more, I guess. Society over substance.”
She had to make him understand. “I’m not leaving.”
He snorted.
Ladies always controlled their anger. Ladies accepted the cards fate dealt and played their hands to the best of their ability. Ladies always stayed polite, no matter how bad the circumstances.
Ladies did not hurl plates full of food at frustrating men. They did not behave like angry fishwives. They most definitely did not use profanities.
She’d learned so much in so little time.
“You arrogant son of a bitch!”
The plate hit him square in the chest, spattering his arms with food, smearing gravy down his vest, before clattering to the floor and coming to a stop by his boot. The shock on his face was almost worth the pain and hurt she was feeling.
“I spend hours preparing the perfect lunch for us, get dressed up in this fucking torture device, deal with all your past bullshit and all you can do is snort at me?”
She reached behind her to the table and its carefully organised settings. He dodged the first glass as it shattered against the wall behind him. The spoon she launched hit his arm.
“I HATE you!”
She reached for her plate of food, not caring if she destroyed the entire meal and had no leftovers for tomorrow. He’d already ruined her overture. This outburst was his damn fault.
She managed to grab the plate but he’d crossed the distance between them and stopped her from raising it up off the table. She struggled against his grip, trying to rip herself free. He didn’t let go. She held onto her righteous indignation even though his eyes had cleared, even though he was looking at her in wonderment. He began laughing and wrapped his arms around her, pressed his forehead to hers, holding her up against him, her feet dangling off the floor. “You’re something else,” he murmured.
“Put me down!”
Or, she would have said that if he hadn’t chosen that moment to kiss her so deeply she felt her toes curling in her shoes.
Then he set her down.
“You understand what you’ve just done, right?” he asked, picking up a napkin and attempting to wipe some of the food off his vest.
She couldn’t speak yet.
“I’m pushy, stubborn and mean. I yell a lot and swear too damn much. I’m irrational about stupid shit. I will beat a man to death for acknowledging you’re attractive.”
He’d backed her into the edge of the table. She stared up at him, mute, taking in every movement of his eyes, every change to the line of his mouth. He was watching her with the intensity of a predator.
“I will worship you for as long as I live and sometimes you will hate me for it.”
Now she opened her mouth to respond but he laid a finger gently over her lips, stopping her before she could say anything. “And despite all of that, I don’t care if you walk out tomorrow and leave me here,” he said hoarsely, “as long as you’re mine tonight.”
Chapter 7
His heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest after that admission. He tried to ignore that he’d actually meant every word he’d said. He’d analyse his emotions later. And the way she flung her arms around him and kissed him meant that later was going to be a ways off.
He somehow got her back to his room, set her down on his bed and knelt beside it, finally pulling his lips away from her mouth. She looked so tiny sitting there, even though he was on his knees. A part of him hoped that this was some kind of joke, a twisted prank, one he’d get over and move on from. But the way she was biting her lower lip, the anxiety and anticipation in her eyes, was sending another surge of adrenaline through his body.
If this was real, he’d never be able to forget her. If she did walk out, he’d go out on every mission with a death wish.
“Please.” Her voice was husky. She reached out and put a hand on his forearm.
He stood up, not bothering to hide his base lust, the aggressive lines of his body, his overwhelming size in comparison to her slight frame. She’d weighed nothing in his arms and still she looked at him like he was the only thing in the world.
Equipment was thrown hastily in its various places. He stripped off the vest, letting it hit the floor beside him with a dull thud. The tank followed.
Her eyes widened again and he knew she was looking over his scars. Most women he’d been with had been simultaneously turned on and disgusted by them. But Emma was looking at them with a familiarity she shouldn’t have.
You were hoping she’d be scared by them. You’re trying to get her to back down, he told himself.
To an extent, this was true but it was easier to rationalise it as his need to make sure she knew exactly what she’d be getting from him.
He slid out of his boots, flung them carelessly to the side and popped the top button of his pants. She had a dazed expression on her face. He knew how she felt.
He was sure he was going to wake up any second.
“Are you a—” he started, but gentled his voice when he saw the flush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. “Have you ever—”
“No.”
He shook his head, the civilised part of him reining in the little control he had left. “Your first time...it shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be with me.”
She gave him an undecipherable look. “Why not?”
“I’m not pretty about it.”
She stood up, closing the distance between their bodies. He fought down the urge to step back, to put space between them.
“You’d never hurt me,” she told him, reaching out nervously to place her hand softly against his ribs, right over the worst of the scars. His muscles spasmed under her touch.
“No,” he agreed.
“And...” She swallowed, but looked up at him with all kinds of hope written on her face. “I think you like me back.”
His throat tightened. If only she knew. “Yeah,” he admitted.
“What more could I want?”
Then she was pulling his face down and kissing him and he forgot all the reasons he’d hate himself after. She was all he could breathe in, taste, feel. He groaned against her mouth.
He was outside his body, still unable to fully comprehend what was happening. His fingers were scrabbling against the ties of the damn corset and he couldn’t get it undone to save his life.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
She did, without hesitation. He used his knife, sharp blade slicing up through the ties, destroying the corset in the process. He loved the way she shivere
d when he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “One fucking torture device neutralised.”
She was solely responsible for undressing herself from that point. Not because he didn’t want to help, but because he couldn’t get his mind to kick back in. Watching her peel off layer after layer of delicate white underclothes was the most excruciating form of foreplay he’d ever gone through. She didn’t turn back to him until she was in a thin shift.
He finished stripping his own clothes, grateful when he saw her admiration and wonder. But he had to touch her. He had to know this was real.
His hands, huge as they were, were tender as he grasped her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She leaned into his palm when he cupped her face. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.
She knew he meant it. Peirce’s blunt honesty was what she considered the greatest of his qualities. Men at her father’s parties had told her the same thing, often when drunk, their words leaving her uncomfortable and awkward. She’d never believed that she was beautiful until now, when those impossibly light blue eyes were on her and her alone.
This kiss was leisurely and deliberate and sent a flood of heat through her body.
“We’re going to take this slow,” he warned her as she tried to press closer to him. “I need it to be good for you.”
She was fine until he reached to lift off the shift and all the memories and fears and worries woke.
“C-can’t we turn the lights off?” she stammered.
“I want to see all of you.” The fabric was gone, leaving her exposed to the cool air of the room and his suddenly all-too-serious face.
She wanted to cross her arms over herself and hide the scars but he was already looking away from them, checking her, making sure she was okay.
“We all have scars,” he said simply.
And just like that, the tension was gone.
The scars were just part of who she was. It wasn’t the end of the world to show another person what she’d gone through down in the depths of Plymouth.
Peirce proved that as he lay her down on the bed and ran his hands over her skin like she would break from his touch, kissed her so carefully it physically pained her when he’d pull away to catch his breath. The rasp of his stubble against her cheeks, her neck, her collarbone, gave her goose bumps.
His mouth roamed her body, his attention focused on each and every mark, each brand of the terror she’d endured that was now seared into her skin. The jagged line where a burning board had fallen onto her thigh, trapping her leg until she pulled it away and beat out the flames with her hands. The raised gouge on her side where a sharp flake of stone had lodged itself during the explosion. The slim, nearly invisible line under her left breast, curving down over ribs. When Peirce’s tongue traced that one, she couldn’t stop her breath from catching as she tried to clamp down the dark memory.
He stopped when he heard that sound, looked up at her, eyes concerned. “It’s just me,” he whispered.
She nodded once and ran a hand through his short hair. Her racing heart slowed when he closed his eyes and sighed at her touch. With infinite care, he worked his way back up to her mouth. She was desperate to touch him. She ran her hands over his skin, taking in his scars.
Each scar she explored made her more grateful he was there with her. So many near brushes with death, so many times he shouldn’t have come home. But, impossibly, he had.
The bite marks were the most shocking, changing the landscape of the muscles and bone beneath the skin. He pulled back just a bit when she ran her hand over his side again, slowly this time.
“Did it hurt?” she asked.
“I thought it’d kill me.” He kissed her again, tolerantly accepting the way her fingers dipped down into the depressions left from the teeth.
“How—”
“Not now.” He took her hand from his side, pressing her fingertips to his lips as he threaded his fingers with hers. “Later.”
He ignored her murmured protest and worked his way lower, kissing down her ribs, her stomach, the curve of her hip.
“I love that you have curves,” he growled appreciatively into her skin as his hands gripped her waist.
And then his mouth was moving lower, sending up sparks of lust that were almost overwhelming.
“Peirce?” she asked breathlessly, unsure of his intentions.
The slow slide of his tongue over that intimate flesh stole the air from her lungs. She wriggled away from the sensation but his arms pinned her hips to the mattress. The next slow lick found her muscles loosening. His rumble of contentment just pushed her higher toward some plateau she was suddenly desperate to reach.
His attention seemed to go on forever, until she was writhing under him, begging him to do something to slake the fire he’d started under her skin. Only then did he finally relent. His fingers kept gliding over her, driving her toward insanity as he loomed above her and promised that no matter what happened, he’d protect her for the rest of her life.
She could feel him pressing against her slick skin and she squirmed against the pressure from that invasion. He froze above her, supported on his elbows, neck corded.
She pressed a kiss against his throat, afraid he’d lose his nerve. “Please, Peirce.”
“Emma—”
She instinctively pushed up and with a soul-deep sigh, he sank into her. The sting that came as he claimed her virginity was short lived, unimportant as he moved inside her. The thick muscles of his back flexed under her hands.
He felt too good. She was going to shatter apart because of him.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he demanded.
Unsure why, she followed his command and was surprised when he rolled over. He remained deep inside her as she straddled him and, as she watched his face, she understood what he was trying to give her.
It didn’t take her long to figure out what she wanted. Peirce watched in fascination as she moved above him, her brown hair drifting over her shoulders, brushing his bare chest when she leaned down and rolled her hips back.
He could feel her tightening around him, knew from the change in her breathing that she was nearly there. He ran his hands up her sides, cupping her breasts, then sliding down her back to press her against him.
“Yes!” she whimpered and moved down with more force.
His toes were tingling, his chest prickling. Any second he’d lose control. He tried desperately to recall the diagrams of Stallion engines, Eagle rotors, Brumby transmissions, taking inventory of the supplies in his garage but each time he tried to focus, his concentration was blown apart by one of her moans, by his desperate need to follow whatever breathy plea she directed at him.
The orgasm was crawling its way up his spine, bowing his body up off the bed. He managed to take one more choked gasp of air and—
Emma gave a wordless scream and clenched down on him so hard he saw stars.
He spasmed, every muscle tightening, his own shout joining hers. When she finally collapsed on him, he could only manage a dazed, “Gods, Emma...” before losing his command of intelligible speech.
Her back was damp from perspiration as he trailed his hand down her spine, groaning softly as her hips and thighs flexed from the motion.
“Is it...is it always like that?” she finally whispered.
“No.” He still couldn’t feel his legs.
She picked her head up off his chest and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the worried look on her face. He brushed a piece of hair from her cheek and let his fingers linger, tracing her cheekbone, the bow of her lips.
“Best. Fucking. Sex. Ever,” he swore solemnly.
Her smile was so huge her eyes crinkled and she buried her face against the crook of his neck.
He let his fingers trail over her hair, content to hear the rhythmic beat of her heart against his own. For the first time since Callie’s death, he was happy.
She shifted so she was looking down at him again. She was nibbling the inside of her lower lip and looke
d wary, but curious. “Peirce?”
“Hmm?”
“Can we do that again?”
He chuckled and threw an arm over his eyes. “Gods, I’ve created a monster.”
“It felt good—” she began protesting, her hand travelling south, but he cut her off by drawing her hand up so he could nip at her fingertips. Safe from her eager exploration, he gave her another kiss, deeper, hotter, than before.
“It’s going to feel better,” he promised.
“I’m not sure it could...”
A short time later though, she’d changed her mind.
The pounding on his front door woke him. He was up, gun in hand, crouched in preparation before Emma had time to adjust to the disappearance of his body.
“Peirce?” she mumbled in confusion.
“Shh,” he warned.
She went still and he wished he had time to appreciate the image of her in his bed, hair mussed, drowsy eyed, tangled in his sheets. But there wasn’t time, not when the pounding continued and dread tightened her features.
“Stay here.”
He didn’t bother to throw on clothes; if it were someone looking for trouble, he didn’t want to waste precious time dressing.
He flicked on the security feed and looked at the feed image. “Aww, shit,” he grumbled.
“Who is it?” Emma asked from the bedroom door, wrapped carefully in the sheet. He smiled when he saw she was tentatively holding his boot knife in her free hand.
“Just Kai. I’d suggest you close the bedroom door unless you want to endure his smart-ass comments.”
Peirce undid the locks and opened the door cautiously. Just because it was Kai didn’t mean there were others there with him, out of range of the security camera.
“Damn, boss-man, lose your pants?” Kai griped as he stepped inside the apartment.
Peirce ignored him and locked back up before turning away and heading to the bedroom. “Food in the fridge,” he called behind him.
Emma was nearly dressed when he joined her in the bedroom.
“Why’s Kai here?”
“Brought your money from the jewellery.”
“Oh.” She turned and let Peirce help do up the last few buttons on her dress. He kissed the nape of her neck, smiling when she shivered.