Wait for him? Forever.
11
Bear stood there. Frozen. His body hummed with the kind of fire that didn’t roar but consumed. Every instinct screamed to move, to follow, to close the distance between them. But he stayed. In this moment, he was not a SEAL.
He was a man.
He was staring into two open drawers that had just rearranged his entire bloodstream.
One filled with bras, delicate, lacy things in soft, dusky tones. Blush and cream. Midnight blue and warm terracotta. The other brimmed with panties, whispers of fabric, lace frothing like sea foam, shapes and slivers that made his breath stall.
It wasn’t just that they were beautiful.
It was that they were hers.
That she wore them beneath all that fire and discipline. That she thought to match them. That she cared about the smallest details when the world was burning. That she’d said underthings in that voice, with that look, and left him standing here with his hands fisted and his pulse pounding behind his teeth.
She hadn't meant to wreck him.
Which only made it worse.
He dragged a hand down his face, then braced it on the dresser edge, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Ancestors help me.
That dick ache he’d complained about to Zorro in Rio? It was nothing compared to this.
Harder than hell. Throbbing. Devastation.
She’d ruined him, and he wanted it.
That wrecking ball of devastation had already slammed through his chest. He had no idea where this was heading, only that he had to be here for her. He’d seen her regret in those dark eyes, raw and real, when she opened that door.
Maybe he should’ve spoken then when she’d asked him to go.
Maybe he should’ve said what she didn’t know how to ask.
But he’d buried his voice like a goddamn coward.
Now? He wanted to talk to her almost as much as he wanted to fuck her.
Almost.
He reached into the drawer like a man defusing a bomb, knowing no matter how careful he was, he was going to explode. The fabric whispered against his skin. He picked a matching set, something soft and smoky, charcoal lace trimmed in plum satin, delicate and quietly sensual.
Like her.
He set the pieces aside with reverence, then found a pair of drawstring lounge pants and a matching sleep tank, loose, worn-in, comfort in cotton form. He gathered them carefully, folding each with the kind of precision that usually preceded explosives.
Then he straightened.
Clothes in hand, desire raging but restrained, he headed for the bathroom.
She sat slowly on the wide marble lip of the oversized tub, her eyes tracking his every move. He came back to her without thought, without armor. Just him. Just hers.
She watched him. That small smile again.
“The water,” she said, tilting her head, mischief glinting in the exhaustion. “I’m not getting any cleaner here… even though you’re scouring me with those eyes.”
