Cindy Gerard - Killing Time

Her dead husband.

Brown was very much alive. And because of that kiss, she felt alive in a way she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Groaning, she rolled to her stomach and pulled the covers over her head. She’d become a cliché. A sex-deprived widow, looking for a little strange to get her through a rough spot.

Sad as that thought was, she almost wished she could chalk it up to that. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and she had a healthy libido. But she had never been ruled by her hormones. There had to be more than animal attraction for her to consider a physical relationship. There had to be respect. Affection. Trust. None of which she felt for Mike Brown.

As Gabe had glibly put it: That was her story and she was sticking to it.

What happened between them had been about fatigue. About their startling discovery that Joseph Lawson had been in Afghanistan on the night that had changed her and Brown’s lives forever. It was about what they’d both been through to get to this point. It was about raw emotions and anticipation. Her goal couldn’t change. Ramon deserved vindication and she was getting close to making it happen.

And Brown—well, he had to be as exhausted as she was. His emotions frayed beyond reweaving. Everything had changed for him tonight. His past. His future. It stood to reason he’d be responsive to and even intuitive about what she’d been feeling when she’d stepped out onto the terrace.

So that kiss, the lingering pangs of longing… it was simply about action and reaction, nothing more. This she could comprehend. It made sense.

If only it was even remotely true, because, damn it, she was thinking about him again.

Was he lying awake, too, thinking of her?

Or was he thinking about Cooper? Had he made the call?

It couldn’t have been easy for him.

The thought sobered her.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she sputtered and threw back the covers. She wasn’t going to get any sleep. Not until she knew.

On a deep sigh, she sat up, finger-combed her hair away from her face, and got out of bed. Because he probably could use someone to talk to, she told herself. He wouldn’t talk to Gabe because guys didn’t spill those kind of personal pains with each other. They trash-talked, joked, and skirted the tough issues. A slap on the back, a quick silent glance. Problem solved.

Not so much. She opened the bedroom door. She knew what it was like to be alone. To cope. To deal. To try to make sense of something that was senseless. Why she felt that it was up to her to make certain Brown was okay, she didn’t know.

Or maybe, she thought with disgust, she did.

Gabe’s office was dark, but there was a light on in the kitchen. She followed the smell of brewing coffee—and found Brown. Alone. Standing with his back to her at the counter, shirtless, barefoot, wearing the pants she’d bought him.

Tan chinos hung low on his hips, emphasizing taut, hard buttocks and a narrow waist, the whipcord leanness of his ribs. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He was all defined muscle and ropy sinew. Canned ceiling lights in front of the cabinets cast soft light and shadows on his broad shoulders, showcased a scar beneath his left shoulder blade. It was about three inches long, the skin puckered and raised.

She stared at it, wondering how he’d gotten it, suddenly knowing she’d made a major mistake. She needed to go back to the bedroom.

Then he turned around.

For a long moment neither of them said a word. The soft gurgle of the coffeepot, the ticking of the clock above the sink, and her uneven breathing were the only sounds.

She needed words to break the quiet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He nodded. “Apparently you have the same problem.”

Oh, she had lots of problems. Most of them were wrapped up in six-plus feet of this ridiculously gorgeous, shirtless male.

She cleared her throat. “Did you call Cooper?”

Raw emotion put gravel in his voice and so much vulnerability in his eyes that it made her heart hurt. “Yeah. I called.”

She didn’t know why she was so sensitive to him, and yet she was. “Is he… is he coming?”

He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and propped one bare foot on top of the other. One broad, bare shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I don’t know. Doubt it. I got his machine. Left a message.”

Her heart dropped. “I’m so sorry you didn’t make a connection.”

He compressed his lips, gave another shrug, but he wasn’t fooling her. He was hurting.

“Look, Eva. I’m a little raw around the edges. Lack of sleep. Ketamine. It’s probably not a good idea for you to be here right now.”

She agreed, this was not a good idea at all. And yet she stood there.

“Probably not,” she said finally, her gaze locked on his.

His eyes were so dark and so tortured as he watched her, trying to get a read on why she was still standing there.

God, why was she? She should definitely go.

But she didn’t want to leave him. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and hold him. To feel the press of his lips and be more to him than a warm body who understood this kind of pain.

She stood there. Heart racing. Breath caught.

While he watched her, eyes piercing, eyes searching. Finally understanding what she was offering.

He slowly unfolded his arms, stood up straight and pushed away from the counter, never taking his eyes off her face.

Her heart nearly exploded when he started walking toward her. She held his gaze, smothering a cry of relief when he finally stood in front of her, their bare toes touching, his strong arms drawing her hard against him.

She tipped her head up to his. It was all the invitation he needed. His mouth slammed down on hers and she stopped thinking, stopped doubting, and reacted. She opened her mouth under his, met his tongue with wild, hungry strokes, and wound her arms around his neck when he picked her up and carried her back to the bedroom.

There was no talking. No reasoning. What happened now was all about feeling, all about loss, all about giving as his rough hands tunneled under her shirt and slid against her bare back, then reached for the hem and dragged it over her head.

She gasped as he bent her backward onto the bed and followed her down, his mouth hot and wet and ravenous on her breast. Electric shocks fired to her core as he suckled and licked and fed like a man whose appetite had not been satisfied for a long, long time. Like a man whose desire was in frantic need of slaking. Like a man whose heart was in desperate need of healing.

She arched against him, reached between them, and slipped her hands inside his pants to cup the hard, pulsing length of him. He groaned and gently nipped her, hard enough to sting, soft enough to excite, and rocked his hips into her clasping hand.

Out of body. Out of mind. Her responses were primal, raw and consuming. When he reached down and undid his pants, shoving them away, she was right there with him, wriggling out of her borrowed boxers and parting her thighs, making room for him there, where she was wet and achy and… Oh, God… so much in need.

She bit his shoulder when he touched her, rubbing her all the right ways until she rocked against him, digging her nails into his back and begging him to come inside her.

She didn’t know where he got the condom. Only cared that he got it on. Then he was holding himself above her, his biceps bunching, his hands braced on the bed on either side of her waist, nudging her center with the tip of his erection, asking her with his eyes to guide him home. She raised her knees to her chest, open, vulnerable, and did exactly what he wanted. She surrounded him with her hands, tilted her hips toward him, and centered him over her core.