My “Yes, ma’am” had been automatic. Of course I’d keep her safe. It was what I did, keeping civilians safe.
Except not anymore. Unless I counted climbing trees to cut off dangerous branches as being for the good of the public. Which it wasn’t. It was what I did for a living. To make money. To survive.
I sank to the sofa, face in hands, and waited for all the post-battle feelings to pass. My muscles were weak with it, loose the way they’d be after a drink. Which wasn’t a bad idea.
I shoved back up to standing, went to the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the fridge. Then, after a couple seconds, I put it away and took out the hard stuff. Bourbon. It finally felt like the right time to open it.
Funny. Distracting me from a naked woman in my bed wasn’t what I’d expected to use the bottle for. Maybe not so much a distraction as a private celebration. Or a thank you. To who or whatever had made me open the door right then. It was Bear, wasn’t it? She’d barked, I’d opened the door, and then I’d heard the sound of crashing metal.
I set down the bottle and got out a couple pieces of rawhide for my girls before pouring myself a massive drink. Then I turned off the lights, let girls back in, handed them each their treat, grabbed a couple blankets from the closet, and limped back to the sofa.
I took a few deep sips, set the glass aside, toed off my slippers, and stood up again to shuck my jeans. Then, with a sigh, I removed my prosthetic left leg, a process which took a few minutes.
It was weird, sitting here with my residual limb out, and the woman on the other side of the door. She could walk into the living room any second and see me.
I forced myself to stay like that—drinking the bourbon with bare legs, daring her, in some fucked up part of my brain to come out here. Would she have let me hold her, if she knew? Would she have cried in my arms? Would she still think of me as a hero?
Jesus. Idiot.
I slugged back the rest of the drink, enjoying the smell and smoky burn, and sprawled out under the blankets on the sofa, my eyes drawn to the flickering flames behind the wood stove’s cloudy glass door.
Jesus, that had been close. Her face, when I’d first seen it…
I shut my eyes, but that was worse, because I could hear her. Those choked little whimpering sounds.
The freezing little hand in mine, as weak and fragile as a bird fallen from the nest.
My eyes flew open. I’d left my gloves down there, on the side of the road.
Whatever. Had another pair someplace.
And, fuck, what did a pair of gloves matter compared to what she’d gone through? She’d lost her damn vehicle.
I had a sudden urge to go check and make sure she hadn’t lost anything else when her car had tried to suck her down the mountain. Anything else—like a limb. As if she wouldn’t have noticed.
I turned to my side and rubbed my face, trying to clear those almost-dead, worst-case scenario images from my brain.
So, instead of those, of course, I got a flashback of her ass. Not just the sight of it, but the feel—in my hand, and in my lap.
Christ, I was getting hard just thinking about it. Which was messed up. But probably better than popping wood while she was sobbing in my arms. That would have been bad.
With a sigh, I reached down and cupped myself, let my hand squeeze my cock, halfway between trying to get it down and just enjoying it. I hadn’t gotten turned on by a woman in forever. So of course it was the traumatized one sleeping in my bed who’d do it.
How freaking messed up was that?
With another sigh, I tugged at my balls…and stilled.
My eyes opened to find both dogs alert, ears lifted, staring toward my bedroom.
I tilted my head and listened.
After a few minutes, they settled again, but I couldn’t manage it.
It was going to be a long night.
9
Christa
