by Naima Simone
“I got your six,” the sniper confirmed.
Keeping the line open, he nodded at Tristan, who returned the gesture. As one they pushed off the ground and, keeping low, darted around the vehicle. Gunfire erupted around them, momentarily transporting him back to the war zone he’d left years earlier. But he gritted his teeth, and in seconds, he crouched next to Tristan, their backs pressed to the bumper, shoulder to shoulder, guns raised. Though he harbored doubts about Tristan’s involvement with Jonah Michaels and the Lords of War, a part of him stubbornly trusted his friend to not put a bullet in his back. Throwing up a prayer that he wouldn’t come to regret the decision, Shane pointed his fingers straight ahead.
“Cover me,” Shane ordered.
“10-4.”
Tristan shot to his feet, returned the fire aimed in their direction, and with Alex guiding him, Shane launched across an empty parking space and flattened against the side of the bordering car. Moments later, Tristan followed. Once more he jumped up, popped off several shots while Shane gained more ground toward his target. They repeated the coordinated advance until they silently came up behind the asshole hunkered down behind a sedan. Every time he tried to stand and peer over the front of the car, a shot would ring out, hitting the hood and sending him back down again. Shane smiled, the movement taut, grim. Alex was good.
Holstering his gun, he crept forward. The bastard never heard him.
Shane snaked an arm around the thug’s neck, his other hand gripping his wrist to lock the motherfucker high and tight against Shane’s forearm. Frantic, the gang member dropped his gun and clawed at Shane. But he held on, relentless until the other man slumped against him. Only then did he loosen his hold, allowing the other man to drop to the ground. Hard.
In that instant, an eerie quiet descended over the parking lot. The gunfire that had been so deafening, ceased. Even the shouts pouring from the police station seemed to reach him from a narrow tunnel stuffed with wool.
“He dead?” Tristan asked, staring down at the unconscious male at Shane’s feet as he replaced his weapon in his shoulder holster.
“No.” Not that the urge hadn’t been riding him hard. “Knocked out.”
Shane glanced up, stared silently at Tristan. The detective had assured Shane he hadn’t informed anyone of their meeting this morning. No way had Shane been followed to the police station. So that left Tristan. Either the gang members had followed Tristan to work and sat on him in case something—or someone—turned up. Or…
Or Tristan had lied to him, hadn’t expected Shane to attend the meeting with backup. And if that was the case, the “timely” arrival of the Lords of War meant one thing…
Tristan might have set Shane up to die today.
…
“Shouldn’t he have been back by now?” Fallon questioned the quiet stranger who reminded her of a sexy desert sheik. Khalil—his name as unique as his eagle eyes—lifted his attention from his iPad and studied her from his seat on the living room couch. She rose from the glass table, her chair screeching in protest over the hardwood floor. For hours she’d tried to concentrate on the business proposal she planned to submit to the bank once all this was over. But with each painfully slow circuit of the short hand on the ornate, gilded clock on the wall, her concentration wavered. Right now, as five o’clock came and went, so did the last remnants of her focus.
Khalil had been giving her short updates throughout the day. First the shoot-out. Oh God, a shoot-out. Her heart still hammered against her sternum at the thought of Shane caught outside, bullets flying. Two in a week. Because of her. Briefly closing her eyes, she squeezed the bridge of her nose, attempting to stem the tears stinging the back of her eyelids. He’d placed his life on the line, had his threatened, because. Of. Her.
Why?
For years they’d been wary strangers, circling one another if they couldn’t manage out-and-out avoidance. His obvious reluctance to even breathe the same air as her had never left any doubt about his feelings toward her. But as soon as he’d heard she might be in trouble, he’d ridden to her rescue like the proverbial white knight. His armor might be dented, his horse an intimidating “Man Rover,” and he might wield a gun instead of a sword, but she’d never felt safer. Ever.
And her heart had never been in more danger.
Huffing out a breath, she strode out the room and down the hall to the vestibule. For the umpteenth time she peered out the window next to the front door. Shane had been held for questioning, but according to Khalil, had been released about three thirty, almost two hours ago. She scrutinized the driveway, all her focus zeroed in on the spot where the drive intersected with the privacy road. As if all her staring would make his vehicle appear. Where was Criss Angel when you needed—
A gray SUV turned into the driveway.
“He’s here!” she shouted, reaching for the doorknob. Joy soared inside her, filling her chest like an inflated balloon. She didn’t question why—was afraid to ask why. And right now, she didn’t care. He’d returned to her.
“Hold on.” A strong hand covered hers on the handle, and she jumped. Jesus, the man moved like a freaking ninja. She hadn’t heard him leave the living room or move behind her. “Let him come up to the door first, and then I’ll deactivate the alarm.”
The longest moments of her life entailed Shane emerging from the Range Rover and striding up the sidewalk and porch. True to his word, Khalil punched in the alarm code on the mounted security pad and nodded at her. Before Shane could fit his key into the lock, she jerked the door open.
And drank him in.
Grim lines cut into his lean cheeks and bracketed his sensual but stern mouth. His eyes glittered like jewels as they ran over her as thoroughly as she scanned him. Her palms itched with the desperate need to caress his taut shoulders, smooth down his wide chest, and slide over his back. Maybe when she touched him this clawing, empty ache would start to loosen its talons, and she could breathe again without terror straining every inhalation.
“Next time you go off to play Spy vs. Spy, make sure you leave me with someone who speaks more than five words. He’s nearly as bad as you.”
He didn’t reply—not that she gave him a chance.
She launched herself through the door and threw herself against him.
And a breath shuddered from between her lips when his strong arms rose and wrapped around her, holding her close. Only then did she permit the shakes to overtake her. He could’ve been killed. And she would’ve never seen him again. Never have heard his exasperated tone again. Never have kissed his mouth, his skin. Never have welcomed him within her body, moved under him, been broken apart in pleasure by him. Her arms tightened, and she burrowed her face into his chest, pressing her lips to the place where his heart beat.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” he murmured against her hair before brushing a kiss across her curls. With an arm still encircling her shoulders, he turned to Khalil, extending a hand to his friend. “Thank you for staying with her. Keeping her safe for me.”
The other man nodded, clasping Shane’s hand. “Of course.” Khalil glanced down and winked, shocking her. “Any time.”
As Shane started giving Khalil instructions, she slipped out from under his arm and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Quietly, she closed the door behind her and slumped against the wood.
Get it together, she ordered her shaking limbs and racing heart. He’s fine. No need to get all emo. He’s fine.
How long she stood there trying to convince herself that the suffocating knot in her chest was due to her concern over his safety and not much, much more, she didn’t know. But when she finally exited the room again and headed toward the stairs, she passed by his bedroom. Through the open door, she heard the shower running in the en suite bathroom. She paused, staring at the empty room. Neat as a pin except for the black jeans and shirt he’d been wearing that were strewn across his military-straight bedcovers.
Jerking her attention to the partially closed bathroom
door, she lifted her hand, covering her belly as if the touch could alleviate the widening ache there. A desperation she despised but acknowledged pulsed, transmitting an urgency through her veins she didn’t understand but couldn’t deny—or resist. She entered the room, her feet carrying her across the floor to the bathroom. Steam seeped out of the cracked door, and she pushed it open. And stepped inside.
The enormous glass shower cubicle hid nothing.
Water poured down over his head, plastering his short, black hair to his scalp. Rivulets streamed over golden, taut skin. And as he lifted his arms to flatten his palms against the tile wall, muscle flexed and relaxed along his shoulders and back, creating a sensuous dance that set up a low, hungry throb between her thighs. Her gaze traveled down his spine, over the dip at the base, and lingered over the tight, firm curves of his perfect ass. And those thighs…
Without removing her gaze from him, she drew her shirt over her head, and quickly shed the rest of her clothes. When she slid the door aside, he lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder. Slowly, he straightened, turning as she closed them inside the humid space together. He didn’t speak; he didn’t ask her what she was doing or order her out. Instead, he stood as still as a statue, watching her through hooded eyes that were both hot and cold. Blazing with need and shuttered. She shivered. His gaze beckoned her closer and warned her off. Her stomach twisted. Even now, naked physically and emotionally, she feared his rejection. But she wouldn’t leave. Wouldn’t run.
Picking up the bar of soap and one of the luxuriant bath cloths, she moved closer to him. She lathered up the cloth and rubbed it over his shoulders, down his arms, and then back up to clean his chest and ridged abdomen. Slowly and with dedicated attention to detail, she washed every inch of him, even wrapping his cock in the thick cotton and stroking his flesh until he groaned deep in his throat.
She dropped the cloth to the tiled floor and circled him. Humming in pleasure, she smoothed her palms up his back, loving the strength and power of him. He was a lethal male animal who hunted and fiercely protected those he loved. But who also would allow himself to be petted, stroked. As he did now. And it was a gift, a privilege.
Her gaze dipped to the scars marring his waist and bordering his spine. With his confession from the night before clear in her head, she brushed her fingertips over the puckered skin. Unlike before, he didn’t stiffen or jerk away as she pressed her lips to his damaged flesh. He let her reassure herself that he was whole, alive. That he’d returned to her from war and from earlier today.
Tomorrow he might walk away. Tomorrow he might exist in her life in only the most peripheral manner. Tomorrow she might again be reduced to his little sister’s best friend.
But in this instant, she comforted herself, trailing her mouth up the valley bisecting his back, in this pocket of time, he was hers to touch, to kiss.
And that was enough.
Chapter Fifteen
“Oh my God.” Fallon moaned, tipping her head back on her shoulders. “If you were Rumpelstiltskin, you would have my firstborn child by now. Just as long as you didn’t stop.”
Shane snorted. “I swear, some of the weirdest shit comes out of your mouth,” he drawled, but continued dragging the brush through her damp curls. When Addisyn was younger, he would sit in her bedroom and comb her hair before putting her to bed. But that brotherly duty didn’t compare to the cocoon of intimacy surrounding him and Fallon as he perched on the living room couch with her encased between his legs, performing the same task. Especially when she released another of those groans that conjured thoughts of the sounds she uttered when he sank into the tight, welcoming flesh between her thighs. Relieved but hungry. She shuddered, and inside he did the same.
And not just from the silken slide of her heavy strands over his hands and wrists. Or the intimate embrace of his legs hugging her shoulders and torso. Or the provocative scent of her freshly washed skin as she leaned back against him. Yeah, all of those lit the desire curling in his gut and winding through his veins. But they didn’t make him shake. Make him clench his fingers in the wild delight of her hair. Make his chest tighten like a vise compressed his sternum.
The memory of her stepping into the shower with him assumed that blame. The gentle, attentive way she’d washed him in the shower. The tender brush of her lips over his scars. Those gripped him like a pit bull’s jaws and refused to let go.
“Thank you,” Fallon murmured, breaking into his memories.
“For?”
“This.” She fluttered her fingers toward her hair. “No one’s brushed my hair for me since I was a little girl. It’s…nice.”
He gathered her curls away from her forehead, then threaded the thick strands through his fingers. The cinnamon-and-gold spirals wrapped around his skin, and he resisted the urge to burrow his hands in them, tug her head back, and capture her mouth with his.
“It’s not completely selfless.” He snorted. “I’ve had a thing for your hair for years.”
She stiffened under his hands. “What?”
He huffed out a laugh, lifting a thick lock. “Yeah, I think I may have developed a fetish. Golden, wild, free. You,” he admitted with a wealth of reluctance. Still, he surrendered to his need and tangled his fingers in the mass. “Your hair is gorgeous and reminds me of you.”
He detected her swift, soft intake of breath and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, tilting her head to the side.
Chagrin and a confusing flash of sadness raced across her face before disappearing behind a mask he was unaccustomed to spying on her expressive, revealing face.
Her lashes lowered, further hiding herself from him.
“When I was eight, Rachel Bowers told me I had ‘nappy’ hair. Up until then I’d never questioned why I had tight curls and both my parents had bone-straight hair, but suddenly, thanks to that little bitch, I did. Even though I was a kid, some sense of self-preservation kept me from asking my mother why. It didn’t matter though, because a year later I overheard my parents arguing, and my mother yelled at my father that I wasn’t his daughter.” Shane’s hand tightened as he went rigid behind her. “At nine, my rose-colored glasses had been ripped off. Suddenly, I understood why I was so different from the people I’d called Mom and Dad. Why my skin was a couple of shades darker than theirs. Why I had gray eyes when my mother’s were green and my father’s were brown. Why I was short and thick while my parents were both tall and slender.”
“Fallon.” Shane breathed. He cupped her chin, tried to turn her more fully toward him, but she resisted.
“Dad never treated me different. Even after he and Mom divorced, he never brought up the fact that I may not be his biological child. Still, I couldn’t help—can’t help—believe every time he sees me…my hair, my skin, my appearance…he’s reminded of the possibility, of my mother’s betrayal and lies. And I can’t help but wonder if that’s why he’s so cold and distant. I’ve never mustered up the courage to ask him or Mom. Partly because I don’t want to hear him confirm my suspicions. I don’t think I could stand it.”
“Baby.” His grip on her chin firmed, and this time he wouldn’t allow her to deny him. He cupped her shoulders and shifted her body around until she had no choice but to give him her attention, to lift her stormy gaze to his. “I’m sorry you were hurt by the adults who were supposed to protect you. And I’m sorry you’ve had to doubt your identity all these years. I can’t imagine how painful the uncertainty has been for you. But everything you’ve mentioned—every difference you’ve listed—they’re what make you beautiful.”
He lifted a strand off her shoulder, held the curl up, and studied it in the waning late afternoon light as dusk crept across the sky. After a moment, he released the lock and trailed his hand over her shoulder and down her arm.
“They make you unique,” he murmured, studying the difference between the shades of their flesh. “Your skin reminds me of honey and cinnamon. And for years I’ve obsessed about your taste, dr
iving myself insane wondering if you would be as sweet on my tongue.” His burning gaze flashed upward, crashed into hers. “You are.”
She blinked, again lowered her lashes but not before he caught the moisture glistening in her eyes. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, and he gently tugged it free, grazing his thumb across the abused flesh. Uttering her name, he tugged her to her knees and pulled her into his arms, her legs straddling his legs, her head tucked under his chin. He pressed a kiss to her hair, the sight of this unbreakable woman so vulnerable tearing a gaping hole in his chest.
She lifted her hand to his face, and he stared into the desire deepening her dove-gray eyes. A slow, thick heat sidled through his veins. He’d become well acquainted with that particular shade in the past week—it was the same shade when she’d crossed the floor of his bedroom before taking him deep into her mouth. The same shade when he kissed her. The same shade when he first penetrated her pussy with his cock.
Yeah, well acquainted with that look. And he’d come to crave it.
Tilting his head down, Fallon studied him for several long moments. What did she see? Most likely something he was terrified of her noticing, but it couldn’t be helped. The shield he’d erected between them years ago wore so many fissures, they resembled spider veins. At one time he’d managed to maintain the facade of polite distance, had cemented the pretense of indifference. But now, after several days with her, rebuilding the wall seemed not only impossible but futile.
“It seems for the past three months I’ve known nothing but fear. And now I’m shut up in a safe house, the murderer I’m set to testify against probably looking for me at this very moment. And yet,” she murmured, tracing the lines of his mouth with a fingertip. “And yet, these past few days have been the happiest of my life. Thank you, Shane. Thank you for coming for me, for protecting me, for giving me new memories. No matter what happens after we leave here, I’ll never forget them.”
Then her mouth was on his, drowning out the unease slicing through his chest at her fatalistic tone. Her tongue teased the seam of his lips before demanding entrance—which he conceded. With a hungry growl, he allowed her in and yanked away control of the kiss. Gripping her waist, he lifted her up and dragged her over his lap so she straddled his thighs. He tugged her closer until her lovely breasts were crushed to his chest, her pussy in perfect alignment with his dick. He rocked against her and swallowed the low moan she released. Her hands abandoned his face, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, opening wider under his tongue. He suckled, licked, and consumed, unable to get enough of her even as he took…even as a small part of him acknowledged he’d never be able to get enough of her.