by Pennza, Amy
A giant fist squeezed his heart. He hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees. If the nausea struck, at least he wouldn’t puke on his bedspread.
As always, the shaking started in his legs and worked its way up. There was nothing he could do to stop it—he just had to ride it out. A cold nose touched his side, then Deuce wiggled his furry body next to Smith’s hip.
Smith managed to fling an arm over Deuce’s back. “Thanks, buddy.”
Deuce settled against him with a canine grunt.
In the hall, a door opened. Deuce’s ears perked up. Smith closed his eyes…and then he heard it, too. Her bare feet were quiet on the stairs. A few seconds later, the security system beeped, and the back door clicked shut.
Gone.
He pictured her crossing the lawn, her high heels in one hand. Dammit, the temperature was probably in the thirties. She had no business being outside without shoes.
You drove her to it. The thought bounced around his brain like a pinball. He opened his eyes and stared at the floor. It was better this way. Better for her, although she didn’t know it.
The tremors moved up his legs and entered his hands. As he watched his fingers twitch, another thought crept into his mind. Is it better for me?
As soon as he thought it, he dismissed it. The only thing that mattered was Ashley’s well-being, and that meant keeping her at a distance. It had been foolish to invite her to stay. Selfish, even. Pushing her away had been the right thing to do, even at the expense of their friendship…and whatever else might have been.
Doing the right thing didn’t always feel nice, but that didn’t make it less noble.
A still frame of her smiling at him over dinner flashed into his mind. She’d let her eyes drift shut in pleasure as she ate the food he made for her.
The fist squeezed his heart again. Damn, if doing the right thing didn’t really suck right now.
He turned his head, and his gaze landed on his dresser. The muscles in his back jumped as the last of the tremors left him. Gaze on the dresser, he stroked the thick hair around Deuce’s neck. When he was certain his legs could support him, he got up and crossed the room.
The photo was right where he’d left it—upper left drawer under a stack of t-shirts. Moonlight fell across the floor in thick bars. He stepped into the light. He stared at the photo for a few minutes, then looked toward the window that faced Ashley’s house.
For once in his life, he didn’t feel like being noble.
14
Ashley threw her makeup bag in her suitcase and zipped it shut. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the empty bedroom. One of the benefits of traveling light meant it was a lot easier to pack up and leave on short notice. She sank to her hands and knees and peered under the bed. Smith would be in the house eventually. She didn’t need him finding a pair of underwear she’d missed.
The floor beneath the bed was underwear-free, but there was an old dryer sheet and a few dust bunnies. Good. He could clean it up.
A ray of early morning sunlight spilled across her fingers. She needed to get downstairs before her taxi showed up. She’d estimated she had about four hundred dollars left in her savings—just enough for a ticket back to L.A.
She stood and muscled her suitcase off the edge of the bed. One of the wheels caught in the quilt and tugged it toward the floor. She swore under her breath, then untangled the quilt and smoothed it back into place. As she straightened, a wave of nostalgia washed over her. This was probably the last time she’d set foot inside Grandma Winnie’s place. She turned in a slow pivot, her gaze touching on items that brought back memories of growing up in the ramshackle house. A framed needlepoint of the Serenity Prayer hung on the wall. The bedside table held a clay candle holder she’d made in fifth grade. An old cedar chest at the foot of the bed sported dark rings where someone had set a drink down without a coaster.
The chest had been next on her list of refinishing projects—a list she’d never get to now. She gripped the suitcase handle and let out a heavy sigh. If she’d had any questions about the wisdom of coming home, the universe had most definitely provided answers. Returning to Prattsville had been a mistake, and she’d been delusional to think her money problems would magically disappear if she came to Texas and sanded down a couple of tables. Worse, she’d accumulated new problems. From her ill-fated dinner with Dean to Smith’s inexplicable freak-out, the whole experience had been one big confirmation that she simply didn’t belong in Texas.
The problem was, she didn’t seem to belong in L.A., either.
A lump rose in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut against the threat of tears.
Not now. There was time to cry later. Right now, she had to get her ass to the airport and get the hell out of Texas.
She carried her suitcase down the stairs, careful to skip over the broken tread at the bottom. The wheels bumped over the grooves in the hardwood as she wheeled it through the foyer and toward the kitchen.
As she maneuvered her suitcase down the hallway, someone knocked on the kitchen door. It had to be the cab driver. So much for making a cup of coffee before she left.
She entered the kitchen and stopped. Smith stood at the door, his face shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. He wore an old sweatshirt with a faded logo that looked like it had taken one too many trips through the dryer. The tips of Deuce’s ears were just visible along the bottom edge of the window.
Her heart sped up, and a little jolt of pleasure zipped through her. She tamped it down. Don’t get excited. He probably just wanted to make sure she hadn’t trashed the place.
She set her suitcase upright and opened the door.
“Hi,” he said. He wore a pair of loose running pants. Between the sweatshirt and the scruff, he should have looked like a hobo. He didn’t.
She folded her arms. “Hi.”
He looked at the suitcase in the middle of the kitchen. “What’s that for?”
“I’m leaving.”
Shock glazed his eyes. “What?”
“As soon as my ride gets here.”
“What ride?”
“I’m flying out today.”
Pain flashed across his features. He looked almost anguished. “Can we talk? I owe you an apology and…an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Her tone was brisk, but who cared? He’d yelled at her for not following his orders.
“Please,” he said.
Deuce whined.
Damn. The man she could resist—maybe. But the man and the dog? She stepped back.
“Thanks.” Smith entered the kitchen and looked around. “Is there someplace we can sit?”
She led him to the front parlor just off the porch. Two slipcovered sofas faced each other over a scarred coffee table. Deuce snuffled around the edges of the room. She settled on one of the sofas, but Smith walked past her and stopped in front of the screen door leading to the porch.
“Are those the tables you’ve been working on?” There was a curious note in his voice.
She leaned to the side so she could see past him. “They’re nightstands. I finished them a couple days ago.”
He faced her, surprise stamped all over his features. “That’s your work? All of it?”
“Yes.” Who else’s would it be?
He walked to the opposite sofa and sat down. “Ashley, they look amazing. Your work is amazing.”
Against her will, pride thrummed in her veins. As fast as it came, it leached away. She’d never sell them. She’d never sell anything in Prattsville. Her dreams of growing her business were as busted as her plan to revive her acting career.
Deuce snorted, drawing their attention. Tail swaying, he made a circuit of the room, then curled up on a rag rug barely bigger than his body.
When she turned her attention to Smith, he was looking at her. He took a deep breath. “Deuce isn’t a police dog. He’s a therapy dog.”
She glanced at Deuce. “Like for a blind person?”
“That’s
a service dog. They can serve in both roles, but Deuce isn’t trained for that.” He shifted to one hip and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He stared at it for a moment, then unfolded it and handed it over without comment.
It took her a second to realize it wasn’t a piece of paper at all. It was a photo. A group of men in tan military fatigues stared up at her. They looked happy, their smiles easy and confident. Most of them held futuristic-looking weapons, and a couple had high-tech scopes on their helmets. Despite the camo paint and heavy beards obscuring their faces, she picked out Smith right away. He knelt in the front beside several others. The man behind him rested his hand on Smith’s shoulder.
She looked up and met Smith’s gaze. “You were in the military.”
“The Army. For eleven years.” He nodded toward the photo. “That was my team. There were twelve of us.”
Were. Her heart sank, and a prickling awareness made the hair on her nape lift. “What happened?” she asked softly.
He looked at her, but it was obvious he was seeing something else. His gaze grew distant. “We were Special Forces. Green Berets. We’d been together for four years, embedded with the locals. I’d done countless missions with those guys. I knew everything about them. Kids’ names…anniversaries…what they liked on their hamburgers. I was the operations sergeant, tasked with gathering intelligence before we made a move or…or did anything, really.” His voice faltered.
She held her breath. This story didn’t have a happy ending. It was like they were both suspended in some horrible replay, with no choice but to let it run its course. Her hands twitched with the need to touch him, but some instinct kept her in her seat.
After a moment, he drew in a breath and let it out in a heavy exhale. “We got orders to carry out a humanitarian mission about twenty miles up the road. It was my job to secure our route. I’d done it dozens of times before. But something went wrong. I got bad intel or…I don’t know.” His hands flexed in his lap. “We were set up. A roadside bomb…”
Oh God.
He met her gaze. “They all died, Ashley. Every one of them. Everyone but me. I have nightmares and flashbacks—all the shit that comes with PTSD. God, sometimes it feels like I’m still there.”
Deuce got to his feet, then crossed to the sofa and pushed his head under Smith’s hand. He let out a low whine, and his tail thumped gently against the floor.
A tear slipped down Smith’s cheek. “I dream about that day.”
She was at his side in a heartbeat. Gently, so gently, she placed her palm against his cheek. The single tear was hot against her skin. How much had it cost this man—this strong, capable man—to bare his soul to her? “Smith…”
He leaned into her hand. His eyelashes were spiky with unshed tears. “I woke up on my back with not a scratch on me. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I might as well have killed those men.”
“No.” She took his face in both of her hands. “Listen to me, Smith Salvatierra. That is not true.”
A shudder passed through him. “You weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t. But I know what kind of man you are.”
His blue-green gaze searched hers. They were so close, she could see the tiny blue flecks in his eyes. His toothpaste-scented breath drifted over her face.
Voice barely above a whisper, he asked, “What kind of man am I?”
She brushed her thumbs over his cheeks. Stubble scratched her skin. “A man who offered a place to stay to a stranger who needed it. A man who rescued a woman off the street after she’d been attacked. A man who honored her wishes, even when it went against his sense of justice. A strong man, Smith. A good man.”
Slowly, the air between them changed—like someone blowing oxygen over embers, stoking flame from something that had smoldered under the surface.
He was so close. So close. Their breaths mingled.
His gaze dipped to her mouth.
She stroked his cheeks again and said, “A man I want to kiss me.”
His mouth met hers before she finished her sentence. It was as if he’d been dying for her to say that. He licked the seam of her lips, demanding entry.
She obliged him, and he plunged in. His hands tangled in her hair, then he held her head still while he stroked his tongue against hers. He moaned—a distinct sound of male satisfaction that vibrated against her lips.
Heat shot to her core. Oh man, he was good at this. He nipped at her lower lip, then licked the sting away.
A whimper made its way up from her chest. Warm moisture dampened her panties.
As if he sensed it, he pulled back. Two spots of color burned high on his cheeks. “I want you.”
Her nipples tightened at the bold statement. Fire with fire. She leaned in until her lips were just touching his. “So take me.”
* * *
A bolt of desire shot straight to Smith’s cock. Ashley leaned back and watched him with glittering eyes, as if waiting to see what he’d do next. Her lips were pink and swollen. Her nipples poked hard against her light-blue shirt.
She wanted him. Holy shit, she wanted him. And she’d just told him to take her.
He’d slept like garbage after she left, and he woke feeling like he’d been run over by a truck. At best, he’d expected her to hear him out and then politely ask him to leave. At worst? Well, he’d been prepared for her to slam the door in his face.
He sure as hell hadn’t expected this.
The problem was, he didn’t want to do this in a dusty parlor. The old sofa they sat on felt as sturdy as a sawhorse.
She tilted her head—the kittenish gesture a sharp contrast to the heavy, knowing desire in her gaze.
And just like that, he was undone. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.
“Upstairs,” she said.
“Upstairs,” he said at the same time.
She grinned, and it was like someone injected raw joy into his veins. He pulled her against him and seized her mouth. She tasted of toothpaste and sunshine. She twined her arms around his neck. Her soft breasts pushed against his chest.
Lightning streaked to his cock. Good…Lord. He wasn’t going to last long. He broke off the kiss and hiked her into his arms.
Deuce stood, tail wagging.
Smith shot him a look. “Stay.”
Ashley laughed and wrapped her legs around his waist as he turned and hurried to the stairs.
“Watch the second step,” she said, her voice breathless.
He skipped the broken tread, then took the stairs two at a time. “Which room?” he huffed.
“Third on the left.”
The door was open. He kicked it shut behind them. She grabbed his face and kissed him. The scent of vanilla rose all around him. Each stab of her warm tongue stoked a fire in his groin. Higher and higher it built, until his cock throbbed in sync with his heart.
She unhooked her legs, and he let her slide to the ground. Her body hit all the right places on the way down.
He broke contact and rested his forehead on hers. “If you touch me like that again, sweetheart, this is going to end very quickly.”
Her deep-blue eyes shone with mischief. “Then touch me instead.”
A blast of lust made his cock throb so hard, he groaned. He captured her mouth again as he walked her backward to the bed. She tugged at his sweatshirt. He broke off the kiss long enough to rip it over his head.
They reached the bed. She started to fall back, but he caught her arm. “Not yet.”
Confusion clouded her gaze. “What—”
“I need to see you.” He touched the bottom of her sleeve. “Take this off. Now.”
Her eyes widened, and for the briefest moment, he wondered if he’d pushed her too hard. Then she lifted her chin and grasped the bottom of her shirt.
Christmas just came early. No unwrapping had ever been this sweet. He clenched his fists so he wouldn’t spoil it by touching her.
She pulled the shirt over her head, revealing a delicate pink br
a trimmed in red lace. Her full breasts thrust up from the cups, which barely contained the quivering globes. Stiff nipples poked against the pale fabric like the tips of little spears.
Ah, and the bra fastened in the front.
He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Now the rest, sweetheart.” His cock twitched. “Rapido,” he added.
“That means—”
“Fast.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and unbuttoned her jeans. She glanced up, then bent and smoothed them down her legs. Her pink panties matched the bra. A swath of lace ran between her legs, not quite concealing the plump lips of her sex.
Her bare sex.
He was moving before he even realized it. His knee hit the bed, and he took her down as he claimed her mouth once more.
She fell back, accepting his weight along with his kiss. Her hot little sex was like a furnace against the top of his dick.
“Ashley…” God, he couldn’t wait.
She seemed to understand—or maybe she needed him just as badly—because her fingers fumbled at his waistband.
He balanced his weight on one forearm and helped her slide his sweats down. They caught on his foot, and he shook his leg. After a few hard kicks, they sailed off the end of his foot and tumbled to the floor.
Ashley let out a low, satisfied chuckle that sent another pulse of heat straight to his dick. Then she slipped her hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs and grasped his cock.
He sucked in a breath. “Jesus. No, don’t move, baby.”
She froze. “Did I hurt you?”
A bark of laughter burst from his chest. “Yes, but in the best possible way.” He leaned down and placed his lips over the frown between her eyebrows. “That feels so good, I’m afraid I’m going to embarrass myself and come in your hand.”
Her lips curved against his chin. “I won’t mind if you do.” She placed her other palm against his bare chest. “We have time, Smith,” she whispered. “We can do this more than once.”