Laura Kaye - Hard As It Gets

Except, really, what did she know about Nick? Ex-Special Forces. Had been with her father when he died—which made her eyes sting if she thought on it too much. Lived with his brother. Did occasional tattoos. Made kick-ass sloppy joes. Had a dimple on his left cheek and at least one tattoo. Helped her when he didn’t have to.

Actually, she supposed she knew more than a little.

And, geez, she’d come at him with a butcher knife.

He’d disarmed her in a flash of movement and muscle. In her terror, she hadn’t fully registered that moment, but her mind went back to it now. Replayed it. Resurrected the feel of his tense, hard body trapping hers against the counter, his masculine heat and the soft caress of his breath washing over her.

And now that hard body lay sleeping just down the hall.

A flush ran over her skin, and Becca tossed back the covers.

Sitting up, she reached for the lamp and squinted against the light when she turned it on. Lying there was no use. Her brain felt like that of a kid who’d consumed too much sugar, bouncing from one thing to the next, and her body was wired to the point of being jittery. There wasn’t much she could be doing for Charlie in the middle of the night, but that didn’t stop the urge from flooding through her.

Out of bed, she slipped on some sleep shorts under her old tee and stepped to the door. It opened with a click that revealed nothing but quiet darkness on the other side.

Keeping one hand on the wall to guide herself, she made her way to the big open kitchen and living room. At a panel of switches she’d noticed earlier, she tried each one until she turned on the cool, industrial fixture over the breakfast bar. It threw a wedge of gold on each side, casting illumination over both the kitchen and the closest edge of the living room.

She opened the fridge and surveyed the shelves and drawers. After all, the last thing Nick had said to her before they’d gone their separate ways at bedtime was “Make yourself at home. What’s mine is yours.” Which had left her mind churning on exactly what the full practical application of that principle might include . . . But, at the very least, she assumed it included midnight raids on his fridge. One of her worst and most favorite habits.

But the contents primarily fell into one of four categories: beer, other drinks, restaurant takeout and general leftovers, and meat.

Wrinkling her nose, she closed the lower door and opened the upper one. Icy air blasted out as her gaze landed on a two-deep stack of ice cream tubs, the double chocolate fudge brownie catching her eye in particular. “That’s more like it.”

She pushed the door shut and turned to the counter. And screamed.

Nick was standing like a silent phantom at the edge of the dim light. The half-gallon container flipped out of her hands and did a triple somersault in the air before she dove for it at the same time Nick did.

They crashed and she shrieked, her hands flush against a mountain of bare, hard flesh, and the tub of ice cream fell at their feet. His arms came around her, his greater weight nearly knocking her over and making them stumble until he’d all but pinned her against the counter.

Time froze for an instant, then Becca burst out laughing, the ridiculousness of the past ten seconds growing in hilarity the more she thought about what had just happened. She covered her mouth with one hand as her head fell back and her laughter devolved into a series of choked chortles she couldn’t control. She gasped for breath, her forehead falling against Nick’s chest.

His chest. Holy crap, the man was half naked and she was touching him. Her hand. Her face. Her stomach against his. The details of their position finally registered in her sleep-deprived brain.

He was all over her.

She lifted her gaze over the hard planes of his chest, getting snagged for a long moment on the swirling tribal pattern of black ink that ran over the bulge of his shoulder and down his arm. Finally she met the light green of his eyes. Nick stared down at her, one eyebrow arched, one corner of his mouth lifting enough to bring his dimple out to play.

“Hi,” she whispered, the release of the laughing fit making her shoulders lighter, less tense.

“Hi,” he said. He didn’t move away or drop his arms from caging her against the counter.

Heat bloomed over her skin. Becca released a shaky breath, one that emphasized just how close they were. Her hands, lying flat on the pads of his pecs, itched to move and explore. And her tongue volunteered to follow close behind.

What was it about this guy that made her brain shut off and her body turn on? Way on. Her nipples went tight, liquid heat gathered low in her belly, and her hips were a breath away from grinding against his. Wanting this man—and acting on that desire in any way—was a really bad idea. All her energy needed to be focused on finding Charlie. But when she was around Nick, need vibrated through her veins and lust became a living thing inside her. And, oh, how she wanted to let herself go.

As if he’d picked up on the shift in her mood, Nick’s gaze went molten and he leaned in, just the smallest bit, his line of sight zeroing in on her lips. Oh, God, he’s going to kiss me . She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry.

“Hey, is everything okay—oh. Oh, shit. Sorry. Carry on.” Jeremy’s voice retreated as quickly as it had appeared. Down the hall, his door clicked shut.

Nick wrenched back, leaving Becca frozen and breathless and hungry against the granite. As much as part of her absolutely loathed the distance between them, his position several feet away allowed her to soak in the whole of him. The broad, muscled shoulders, the cut definition of his chest and abdomen, the way his unbuttoned jeans hung on his lean hips. Unbuttoned. Like he’d just pulled them on. And, with how low they sat, no way he was wearing anything underneath. Even his bare feet, sticking out beneath the ragged hem of the denim, were sexy.

“Becca, what are you doing?”

Busted. Her gaze whipped up to his. The heat absolutely blazing in his eyes did nothing to help pull herself together. She bent down and retrieved the fumbled ice cream. What she really needed was a cold shower. With a handheld showerhead. And really good water pressure. The thought was so not helpful.

“Midnight snack,” she said as she placed the tub on the counter’s edge, hoping he believed the rasp in her voice was left over from sleep. “Want some?”

He remained silent until she looked at him. “Maybe I do.”

The words hung in the air between them, seeming to answer a question she hadn’t asked. Or maybe she had. If they were playing chicken, she definitely lost, because she was the first one to turn away.

A moment later, he stepped to the counter, then leaned onto his elbows next to her. The position bunched his biceps, pulling her attention to another piece of ink he wore there. Toward his shoulder, above the band of fallen soldiers, a silver knife lay atop a pair of crossed arrows. The inner part of the Special Forces crest, readily familiar to her from her father’s service—except this was different. A black circle surrounded the weapons like a shroud.

“Trouble sleeping?” he finally said.

She dragged her finger through a bit of condensation on the ice cream’s lid. “Yeah. I’m wired. Too much nervous energy. Didn’t mean to wake you, though.”

He shook his head. “Wasn’t asleep.”

“Oh.” She wondered why, but since he hadn’t offered, she didn’t want to push. She blew out a long breath, trying to get her body to settle down. His proximity wasn’t helping. Heat poured off his arm into hers.

“I might have a better way to blow off some steam.”