My brain tried to stay present—tried to focus on the conversation we were supposed to be having, the fifteen minutes she'd bargained for, the questions she'd promised to ask.
But my body had other ideas.
Because I remembered.
God, I remembered.
The tent had been stifling that night. Canvas walls holding in the heat like an oven, the air thick enough to choke on. I'd told myself I was checking on her because it was my job. Babysittingthe journalist. Making sure she didn't wander into something that would get her killed.
Bullshit.
I'd gone because I couldn't stay away anymore.
She'd been sitting on the edge of her cot, field notebook open in her lap, pen moving across the page in quick, angry strokes. Her shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, damp with sweat, clinging to her in ways that made my mouth go dry.
"You shouldn't be here," she'd said without looking up.
"Neither should you."
That had made her look. Her eyes—sharp, assessing, the same eyes that were staring at me now across a breakfast table—had locked onto mine.
"I'm doing my job," she'd said.
"So am I."
"Your job is to keep me out."
"My job is to keep yousafe."
She'd set the pen down, slow and deliberate. "Those aren't the same thing."
"Close enough."
We'd stared at each other, the space between us crackling with something I'd been trying to ignore for weeks. The way she moved through the compound like she belonged there. The way she didn't flinch when mortars hit too close. The way she'd looked at me when I'd brought her ice for her water—like I'd done something decent instead of just basic.
"You should go," she'd said, but her voice had softened.
I should have.
I didn't.
I'd crossed the tent in three strides and kissed her.
She'd made this sound—half surprise, half relief—and then her hands were in my hair, her mouth opening under mine, herbody arching into me like she'd been waiting for this just as long as I had.
We'd barely made it to the cot.
Her shirt had come off first, buttons scattering. Then mine. My hands on her waist, her hips, sliding down to cup her ass and pull her against me. She'd gasped into my mouth, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Levi—"
"Tell me to stop."
She hadn't.
I remembered the taste of her—salt and something sweet, like she'd stolen one of the candy bars from the mess. I remembered the way she'd bitten my shoulder to keep quiet when I'd slid inside her, the way her thighs had locked around my hips, the way she'd whispered my name like a curse and a prayer.
Best sex of my life.
