Fairchild felt the dull throb of tears behind her eyes, but she held them back. A Merc wasn’t supposed to cry, and she wasn’t about to give Slayn the satisfaction of seeing her do so now.
Why had her guys allowed themselves to be captured?
Damned overprotective fools.
Slayn moved over to the side of the room and slid back a metal panel to reveal a control pad set into the wall. He started tapping buttons, and a low mechanical hum filled the air. The upright metal slabs holding Fairchild’s teammate started to tilt until they were horizontal like beds—or morgue tables.
Rook kept the muzzle of her pistol pressed to Dutton’s head, but her eyes were on Fairchild.
“Now then,” Slayn said. “I’m going to let you up from that chair, but you have to promise you’ll behave yourself. One wrong move, and Inga will put a bullet through your boyfriend’s brain. Are you going to be a good girl, Fairchild?”
Fairchild nodded. She had no other choice.
“Good.”
Slayn pressed a few more buttons, and the metal bands holding Fairchild’s arms and legs snapped open. She could move again.
“Stand up.”
Fairchild stood. Her head still felt a bit woozy from the drugs, and her legs felt wobbly beneath her. She was naked, but she was too angry to be embarrassed.
“We’ll begin with the gentleman Inga is holding at gunpoint,” Slayn said. “Dutton, I believe. Climb on top of him.”
“And remember,” Rook added. “No funny business, or Loverboy gets it. I’mnotbluffing.”
Fairchild glared.
“I know,” she said. “You obviously have no problem killing Mercs, you traitorous fucking bitch.”
“Now, now,” said Slayn. “Enough bickering. You promised me you were going to behave yourself, remember? Now climb on top of Dutton like a good girl.”
Fairchild hated to obey him—she hated it more than anything in the world—but she had no choice. She wasn’t going to let Dutton die.
She wasn’t going to let any of her men die.
Fairchild walked forward on trembling legs, and climbed onto the slab with Dutton. She straddled his hips. Even in this life or death situation, her body responded to the masculine presence beneath her, a man who had become so much more to her than a brother-in-arms. Her nipples tightened with involuntary arousal. A shameful wetness spread between her legs.
She could see that Dutton was struggling to restrain his own male arousal. His penis was half hard already, and Fairchild suspected it was only through sheer force of will that it was notfully erect. As a Merc, Dutton had a certain degree of control over his autonomic nervous system. He could alter his heart rate and blood flow.
Fairchild looked into his eyes.
He didn’t need to speak for her to know what he was thinking. The gun, his eyes told her. Go for the gun. He knew he would die if she did that, but he also knew it might give her a chance to save herself and the others. He was willing to sacrifice himself. He wasn’t afraid.
Fairchild sent back a silent message of her own:Negative.
She wasn’t going to lose anyone she loved. Not today.
She’d already lost too much.
Rook nudged the muzzle of the gun against Dutton’s head. “Quit stalling,” she said. “Make it hard.”
Dutton continued staring up at Fairchild, his eyes searching hers for any sign that she might change her mind. She gave him none, and after a moment, his cock started to rise. In the space of five heartbeats, it was as hard as the rest of his body, and the veins along his shaft were ticking with his strong pulse.
“Put it in,” Rook commanded.
Using one hand to hold it steady, Fairchild raised herself up and worked Dutton’s head between her folds. When the tip found her entrance, she carefully lowered herself onto him, letting him fill her inch by slow inch.
It felt good. Even in this terrible situation, it felt so good.
