Conquered

by Angel Payne

  “Errrmmm…yeah? And?”

  He cupped the back of her neck. Massaged upward, dragging his fingers against her scalp. “Well, it was a fantasy. And now you’re tellin’ me you’ve had others? A lot of others?”

  “Errrmmm…yeah.” Her gorgeous face crumpled with tighter confusion.

  “Well, that leads us to a new challenge.”

  “A challenge?” Her scowl intensified. “To do what?”

  “Grantin’ some more fantasies, of course.”

  She laughed. Loudly. “Is that so?”

  He rose to his haunches but kept her gaze engaged with one of his most wicked winks. The hand she’d raised to his chest now rested against his kilt, which fanned across the small space between them. “I should probably tell you I’m pure rocket keen for a good challenge.”

  She laughed once more. The action brought different lights to her eyes, sparklin’ like sugar dust that could have topped the delicious desserts of her gently swaying breasts. He amended the description. They’d be luxury desserts, something exotic concocted by one of the celebrity chefs who’d set up shop up and down the famous Strip of this city. It would have to be named after her and taste-approved by him. His mouth bloody near watered from the thought.

  “Sayeth the high laird Mackenna?”

  Her cute quip distracted him from her chest long enough to explain, “Officially, my name’s actually more Irish. But when the famine hit in the eighteen hundreds, someone hopped on a boat somewhere and then stuck his banger where it didn’t belong.”

  She wove a droll quirk over the smirk. “Imagine that.”

  Sam surprised himself, choosing not to emulate her look. The next second, his logic caught up with his instinct. “You’re tryin’ to change the subject again.” Swift as a ninja, he grabbed up her hand once more. “Why?”

  She skittered her gaze away. He was about to push back over and notch a finger beneath her chin, but when she pulled away from his clasp, he hesitated. And instantly wondered why. But then knew why. Holy fuck. Two minutes after admitting he was truly smitten with this woman, and he was already a pussy-whipped shargar, backin’ down at her every damn whim. And fuckin’ happy about it too.

  Which meant he was pure delirious when she decided to look back up at him of her own free will, despite the defined resignation across her patrician features. “Sam,” she murmured, though she stopped to sit up straighter against the pillows. Then look to her lap. Then fold her hands in it. “Okay, look…”

  “I am,” he interjected, laying it on thick with his burr, knowing how that turned the woman into a ball of aroused goo. “With pleasure.”

  He watched the accent do its damage, as he’d hoped it would. But would the gamble work and find its way beneath the noble shell she’d suddenly insisted on? He wasn’t certain, even after she started twisting her hands together. She was going for composed and noble but looking more like a real mouse in a huge hurricane, with the stormy green gaze to go right along. And damn it if he didn’t feel like a helpless leaf in her storm, swirled and tumbled and helpless to resist its sucking force…

  Even after she pouted and huffed, turnin’ those gorgeous chebs of hers into even more enticin’ desserts, before spewing, “All right, knock it off.”

  “Knock what off?” he countered, though he fully admitted he was edgin’ toward the realm of cheeky wanker. “The lookin’ part? Or the ‘with pleasure’ part?”

  A protesting sound ripped its way free from her. “Both,” she bit out. “Neither. I don’t know.” As fast as it had struck, her rage slipped free, leaving a residue of irritation. “Are we really doing this right now?” she snapped. “Because I’m pretty positive you don’t believe the let’s-just-be-buddies-when-we’re not-bonking thing any more than I can.”

  “Meaning…what?” he asked, deliberately careful about the enunciation. The alternative wasn’t a pleasant consideration. At all. That he gave in to the unease that began scratchin’ the edges of his mind, its claws sharpened by the terse underpinnings creepin’ into her tone. What the hell? They had just connected in a way few lovers ever did. He craved that connection again already—and he knew she did too. So why was she all but shamblin’ into a walk of shame out the damn door?

  “You know what,” she rejoined. “We both do, Sam.” She pulled in a long, visibly determined breath. Her release wasn’t so steady, mostly because a bunch of fast, hard blinks betrayed her ultimate purpose. She thought if she battled the tears like that, the ball in her chest that had sent them would get the message and go away. He wanted to tell her that would work, but experience had taught him it only made things worse. Lots of experience—from the countless times he’d attempted the same damn thing in front of too many therapists to remember. All the “professionals” and “specialists” the RAF had dug up for him to try. To “fix” him so he was ready enough to fly the most elite missions again. In the meantime, to keep his skills sharp—and perhaps reignite his killer instincts—they’d kept him busy with what he’d perceived as doaty cross-training.

  But right now, he didn’t feel so damn doaty.

  For the first time in a long damn time, he felt…

  Guided.

  Destined.

  In the exact right place, at the exact right time.

  Here. With her. For her.

  And just five minutes ago, he would have counted her right in the same damn clubhouse with him on that. Hell, she would have been shootin’ up her hand to be president of the place. And he would have let her. He had no intention of moldin’ the beauty to his will except when the lights were down and her panties were off.

  But now, Jen looked ready to dive a hand into his pocket, fish out the underthings, and cover her gorgeous bits as fast as possible. More swiftly than she’d manage to wall off the rest of herself from him—though fuck, did she manage to make an impressive show to him otherwise, with her twisting lips and her worried expression. He yearned to yell at her to save it for an audience who’d actually buy the ticket but clamped himself back if only to hear what she had to say now.

  “Sam…you’re magnificent, okay? The most incredible, intense, funny, sexy man I’ve ever known—because amazingly, you’ve helped me remember and see and know all that about myself too…”

  “But?” He managed to spit it out at a reasonable volume. Pure jings, since he fuckin’ hated that word under most circumstances but loathed it with solid ferocity now. It was a polite version of another word he hated. That word was no.

  “But we’re doing this in a bubble,” Jenny supplied with too much haste before succumbing to a defensive huff. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, damn it. It’s an awesome bubble, okay? The most stunning moments I’ve ever known…”

  “And you think I run around throwin’ bubble parties like it all the damn time?”

  “I think you know how bubbles work, Captain.” Her rebuttal flung his tight, bitter tone right back at him. “But just in case your self-pity is making you a little deaf: bubbles are bubbles because they need to be appreciated in the moments of time that they last. Moments of time like getting four weeks of cross-training in another country—a country that’s several thousand miles from your own. And because of that, they’re temporary. Their beauty only lasts for a few seconds. It has to be appreciated, even intensified a little. But after all that intensity, the bubbles break. Some people are lucky, and they get some pretty goo in the grass even after the bubble breaks. But others—”

  She stopped short as he abruptly leaned in at her, using the breadth of his extended torso to fill her vision and the force of his growl to silence her science lesson. “You, Jenny Thorne, are worth every second of the goddamned bubbles. And aye, even the goo in the fuckin’ grass.”

  He had much more ready to say but stilled for a moment, watchin’ every tiny nuance of her reaction. Perhaps, tryin’ to learn from it. Probin’ her face for a clue, any fuckin’ clue, about the reasoning behind this new attack of her skittishness—but best as
he could fathom, her own body was tellin’ her exactly what his lips just did. The way she breathed in his scent, watched the depths of his eyes, studied the movements of his lips, even winced at the heavy gulps in his throat…

  Christ. She hated having to face the bubble burst even worse than he did. So why was she searchin’ for the damn pin already?

  “What the hell is goin’ on, Jenny?” he finally grated. “Why are you sittin’ here, the queen of every fantasy I can even remember for myself, doin’ this to us now? Don’t lie to me, damn it. You want all of what this can be—all of what we can be—as much as I do.”

  A rickety breath soughed down her throat. “Who the hell says I’m lying?”

  He tilted his head. Lifted his fingers and dug them against her hairline. “Because if the rest your fantasies really are as fine as mine, you’d want to be thinkin’ of them instead of startin’ the countdown timer to when I—”

  “Leave.” It cascaded from her atop a terrible sob, which she instantly gulped back. She slammed a hand to the base of her throat, as if ordering it to stay there, but the damage had been done. Several salty globs flowed down her angular cheeks, rushing toward the quavering curves of her mouth. “You’re going to leave, Sam. And it’s going to be fucking hell, and…and…”

  As her teary rasp dumped pain into his soul, she ripped that hand from her throat and tangled it into his hair. Sam swallowed hard as she pulled him even closer, clutching his shoulder with her other hand. He turned his head, smashing his nose and lips into her neck, filling his senses with the perfect scent of her skin in this moment. Her own vanilla and cream layered with his distinct spice and the unmistakable musk of the passion they’d shared. Fuck. He wanted her to smell like this all the time, every morning and night…and just for him. Only for him…

  “Hell won’t even be the start of it, lass.” His voice sounded like sandpaper as breathing got harder and harder. His fingertips shook against her cheek. “But why fight the chance to grasp heaven while we still can?”

  She released a soft, shaky sob. “Sam…”

  “Please, Jenny.” He dragged away enough to ensure she beheld the heat in his heavy gaze. He didn’t do a thing to lighten it either. He focused all of himself onto her. Gave her his heaviness and heartache, his darkness and violence, his blazin’ need to believe—to know—that despite all of it, he still had the ability to see some light. To see her light…through all the reaches of his heart and soul. And he did. In the pure magic of her intense gaze. In the silken planes of her rosy cheeks. In the gentle trust of her touch and even the bright offering of her tears.

  Holy God help him. He really did love her. So truly and deeply and completely.

  “Sam…” She threaded her fingers with his. Compared to his hand, hers was so tiny…and cold. He held her tighter, infusing her with his heat. Still, her voice was redolent with so much remorse. “Sam…”

  “Jenny.” He kissed her again but just with the surfaces of his mouth. “Please. Give me the bubble for a while longer.”

  “I want to,” she finally confessed as they kept brushing lips back and forth with each other. “Believe me…I just want to push the pause button. To have this whole night with you…to beg you to do sweet, dirty things to me…”

  “And I would.” He growled it before dippin’ to take her mouth with more force. The rough groan from her throat and the eager opening of her lips were all he needed to go further. To plunge deeper. To sweep his tongue into every wet, warm crevice she’d surrender to the demandin’ quest of his tongue. He only gave her time to breathe as he pulled away for three seconds—long enough for him to promise, “And I will,” before his mouth meshed with hers again, and they sought and sucked and bit and devoured each other in a wildfire of lust and need that threatened to best the passion of their first lusty fire. Dear holy fuck, he hoped so…

  But just when Sam dug a hand into Jen’s upper thigh and pulled, preparing to reposition her so he could spread her and spear his tongue into other parts of her, the woman let out a new moan—of protest.

  Unfiltered shock caused him to loosen his hold at once. Just as swiftly, Jen scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, not even stopping when some of the curtains caught around her ankle and she nearly fell flat on her face. When she apologized to the velvet drape, Sam almost rolled off and recaptured her.

  Almost.

  But damn it, he couldn’t take away this moment from her—or this choice. Or, goddamnit, the pain that drove it. The agony he saw on her face, even as she blurted a string of sorrys to a clump of velvet drapery. The desperation in how she scooped up her heels and then clutched them to her chest. And even worse—no, worst of all—the fear gripping every inch of her form as she jerked her shimmering stare back up to him once more. Clearly, this goodbye was already tearing her apart. Even more clearly, she couldn’t face the idea of it being even worse—even if that meant surrendering the joy they’d know now.

  Even if that meant how she had to stand there and stammer out, “You—this—all of it—was beautiful, Sam. Incredible. I won’t forget it. Ever. I promise. But we let a workplace crush get too far. We both know it. Why should we draw the torture out even further?”

  He rested back on his haunches. Regarded her with a newly darkened glare, as the three-paned mirror readily reminded him. The fun little nook where he’d been plannin’ on takin’ her next so she’d have been able to see how beautiful she was when a real man gave her real pleasure.

  Instead, he was on his fuckin’ knees in the middle of a gigantic empty bed and gritting through his teeth, “Right. Sure. The protocols and all that. Bet you’re happy now, aye? You were really right about your policies, Jennifer Thorne.”

  “Sam—”

  “You’d best get back to all of it, then.” He clenched his teeth to give himself enough fortitude for risin’ up to a full kneel. If she was going to leave him like a prisoner facin’ the guillotine, he was going to damn well look the part and deliver the guilt.

  “Sam—”

  “Good night, Jenny,” he muttered. “And goodbye.”

  With a tight sob, she spun.

  On bare feet, she staggered out of the room.

  The same way he left the damn place nearly a full hour later.

  Ignorin’ the joyous screams that bled through the door of Dan and Tess’s play room.

  Disregardin’ the sloe-eyed girl at the reception stand who didn’t look so distracted when eyeing his newly solo state.

  Oblivious to the glam and gilt of the rest of the hotel, which he afforded just fleetin’ glances while making his way to the Lyft queue for his ride back to Nellis.

  One step at a time.

  One step at a time.

  One step at a time.

  Even after he got back, heedin’ only that mantra to get his ass inside the little house, in the middle of a night thick with cicada song and desert breezes. A night that would have been hours of sheer enchantment world, if Jenny hadn’t chosen to run. And his little house, now just a house again…when hours before, just for a little while, her presence had made it into something more.

  Something like…

  A home.

  One second at a time.

  One second at a time.

  One second at a time.

  It was how he slogged through dumpin’ the rest of the Cabernet, rinsin’ out the glasses, and then wipin’ down the countertop that he’d wanted to hurl himself across, even durin’ their post-work clownin’. That even then he’d imagined securin’ her on, growlin’ orders for her to push her hands back and her breasts forward as he sank his link deep inside her and suckled both those sweet nipples until they were the texture of ripe, hard cherries…

  With a virulent snarl, he left the fuckin’ kitchen. Prowled into the bedroom, intendin’ to open his e-reader and get lost in a good, no-women-allowed political thriller, but that was a bigger mistake than wallowin’ out in the kitchen. All too clearly, he could envision Jen on all fours in the midd
le of the mattress, her lovely back arched and a glass plug in her arse, begging him to fill her sopping pussy with his vein-lined erection…

  So at midnight, he finally got up, changed into a tank and nylon shorts, taped up his knuckles, and surrendered to a new mantra.

  One punch at a time.

  One punch at a time.

  One punch at a time.

  And pummeled the fuck out of the bag in the base gym, not stopping until his vision blurred and his body was soaked.

  But obliteratin’ even one fuckin’ second of memories from bein’ balls-deep inside Jenny Thorne three hours ago?

  He was radgin’ screwed.

  There she was, parked right where he’d left her—in the stretch of his heart between desperate love and functional sanity. And as he slumped to a recovery bench, gulpin’ on a bottle of water, his imagination damn near stirred her to life before him. She was a sexy hologram of his mind, dressed as his version of a sexy fairy. Her face was made up in shades of green to match her eyes, and a collar embedded with emeralds encircled her neck, restin’ right beneath the wild pulse of her thunderin’ heartbeat. She wore a corset too—though it was one of those keen kinds with the center carved out, puttin’ her nude breasts on full display for him.

  He almost offered a swig of water to the hologram. Hell, he could even imagine her lips formin’ a succulent seal over the top of the bottle. Then the undulations of her throat as the water went down. And the sultry lift of her gaze as he ordered her to get well hydrated because the next liquid in her throat was going to be his come…

  And that did it. With a snarl of pure fire, he surged to his feet. Made his way into the gym showers with stomping fury but didn’t bother to even take off his shoes before divin’ under the spray, where he fisted his furious cock and came with hard, fast vengeance—roarin’ her name with every ruthless stroke.

  For a long while after, he stood with his hands braced against the tiled wall and his head dunked beneath the pummelin’ spray. And somehow found his mind coherent enough to issue two points of thanks, despite the Almighty’s refusal to listen to his other pleas of the night.