His eyes brushed over my face, my mouth, the neckline of my shirt, then back up—slow, deliberate, like a touch with no contact at all.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know what you meant.”
My body remembered him before the rest of me did. The way he’d watched me across briefing tables, the way our eyes always seemed to find each other when a door slammed or a helicopter skimmed too low overhead. The way his hand had covered mine once when I’d nearly dropped a camera during a surprise mortar test.
That first touch had been nothing. Accidental. Forgettable.
I hadn’t forgotten it.
Now, the space between us felt like it was pulsing.
“That story you want,” he murmured, stepping closer, the front of his body brushing the heat of mine. “You’ll get it.”
“You promised me access,” I shot back, even as my voice softened. “I’m not here to be … entertained.”
His fingers closed gently around my wrist, heat searing my skin. “Is that what you think this is?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the words melted when he lifted my hand and pressed it flat against his chest.
His heart was pounding.
So was mine.
“You’ve been looking at me like that for weeks,” he said softly. “I’m not the only one tempted here, Amelia.”
I hated that he was right. I hated that the tent suddenly felt like it had no air. I hated that my body leaned into his like it had been waiting for this exact second.
“It’s unprofessional,” I managed.
He huffed out a laugh. “Out here, unprofessional is letting your guard down. I’m not doing that.”
“You are right now.”
“Am I?”
He dipped his head, lips skimming my jaw, my breath catching in my throat. Every nerve in my body lit up. His hands bracketed my hips, fingers digging in just enough to remind me how strong he was.
And then he kissed me.
It was not a polite, “we shouldn’t be doing this” kiss. It wasn’t cautious. It wasn’t careful.
It was hungry.
His mouth slanted over mine, taking, testing, his stubble scraping my skin, his taste—coffee, dust, some dark thing that was all him—flooding every sense I had left.
I clutched at his uniform without meaning to, fingers knotting in rough fabric. Heat rolled over me, through me, under my skin. The world outside the tent—radio chatter, boots on gravel, the far-off thump of artillery practice—faded into a dull roar.
All I felt was him.
He pressed me back until my shoulders hit the central support pole, his body pinning mine there. Solid. Heavy. Unyielding. It should’ve made me feel trapped.
Instead, I felt anchored.
His mouth left mine to trail down my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just under my jaw. My knees went weak. His hands slid beneath my shirt, callused palms on bare skin, and a shiver streaked up my spine.
I gasped. “We can’t?—”
“We already are,” he murmured against my skin.
