“I’ve wanted you since you walked into our briefing room,” I admitted, my hands exploring the curves her tactical gear usually concealed. “Day one. Organizing your equipment.”
“Didn’t take much, did it?” Her moan—pleased, surprised, vulnerable—was better than any sound I’d heard in my life. It was for me alone.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I whispered against her ear, even as my hands betrayed my words, sliding beneath her tank top to find the skin of her back.
“Then stop,” she challenged, pulling back just enough for me to see her run her tongue over her lips.
We both knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not with the way she was urging me on.
My hands were greedy for everything I’d denied myself. Two months of professional distance shattered in moments. My fingers traced the hem of her tank top, a silent question.
“Yes,” she breathed, lifting her arms.
I pulled the fabric over her head, revealing smooth skin and perfect breasts. I had to touch them. Taste them. I palmed herleft breast, squeezing it and tweaking the nipple. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“I want you, Rav.” Her leg made its way up mine until her knee curled at my hip. “Inside me.”
Fuck, yes. But no. “I don’t have condoms.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “I do.”
“You do?”
“I worked with a woman in Syria who was rather active and ran out a few times, so I made it a practice to carry some for her, and well…” She slipped from my arms, crossing to her footlocker. “I have some.”
She bent over, wiggling her ass like a taunt. Those tiny sleep shorts were my new favorite piece of clothing. She returned with a foil packet between her fingers, triumphant. “I actually have a lot.”
I pulled her back to me, hooking my thumbs into her shorts. “Is this okay?”
She nodded, eyes never leaving mine as I slid the fabric down her legs. She stepped out of them and pulled my hand back to her breast. I took my time looking at her—all of her—committing every inch to memory.
“You’re staring,” she whispered.
“Can’t help it.” I stepped closer, skimming my fingers down to her hip. “Situational awareness is critical for an operator.”
Her hands found the waistband of my shorts. “These need to go.”
I kicked off my hastily donned sandals, letting her push my shorts and boxer briefs down. My cock sprang free, and her eyes widened slightly. I wrapped my hand around myself, stroking slowly as she watched.
She bit her lower lip, eyes fixed on my movement. “Fuck, that’s sexy.”
I pulled her against me, skin to skin, nothing between us now but heat and wanting.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked in one last moment of sanity.
Her answer was to press the condom into my palm and pull me down onto her narrow bed.
Minutes? Hours? Years later, we lay tangled together on her too-small bunk, her head on my chest, my fingers drawing lazy patterns on her back. The air smelled of sweat and sex and her vaguely flower-scented shampoo.
“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured, but the kiss she pressed against my skin said she didn’t regret it.
“Probably not.” I pulled her closer. “But it felt…”
“Amazing,” she finished for me.
I nodded.Rightwould have been the word I chose. “No kidding.”
She traced the tattoo on my ribs. “So what happens now?”
