1
TOMCAT
The tarmac stretched out in front of me, shimmering faintly under the relentless Georgia sun. The oppressive heat clung stubbornly to every surface. I stood beside a prototype jet, running my palm over its smooth composite surface, feeling for anything out of place. I’d been a consultant while the airplane was being designed. So I knew the curves and lines of this aircraft as intimately as my own hand, every panel and rivet burned into my memory.
Aviation was what I’d lived for since I was a kid. When it became clear that I was an accelerated learner and would graduate from high school at sixteen, my dad pressured me to fast-track my education and join the Navy. Rear Admiral (Ret.) James Connolly was highly decorated and very old-school. Luckily for him, it had been my plan all along.
I went to college and earned my bachelor’s in aerospace engineering before I turned eighteen. Then I joined the Navy, where I also earned my master’s and PhD.
My mind worked faster than most people’s, and the military gave me the structure to sharpen it into something lethal. Iexcelled in tactical planning and execution, high-risk operations and retrieval, and advanced weapons proficiency.
At twenty-five, I had been invited to attend the Navy Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor program, or Top Gun, as it was more commonly known.
The combination of my education and experience gave me the skills to become more than just a pilot. I was a problem solver. Eventually, I started contributing to the design and testing of multiple aircraft platforms. When I left the Navy ten years later, I didn’t leave the sky behind—because nothing else gave me the same clarity. I brought my skills somewhere I thought loyalty mattered more than rank. As a civilian contractor, I consulted on aircraft design and served as a test pilot for experimental aircraft.
This jet was a prototype for the classified defense contractor, Aegis Aerospace Systems. It was a sleek machine with cutting-edge stealth tech, custom-built for precision maneuvers and experimental weapons systems. It had become my responsibility to know her better than anyone else. But as my fingers moved along the cool metal, something tugged at the edge of my awareness, drawing my attention across the tarmac toward something far softer and far more captivating than a machine could ever be.
A woman was walking along the edge of the flight line, careful to stay out of the designated safety zone and following the rules to the letter. Her steps were measured, almost cautious, like someone who didn’t want to be noticed. But it wasn’t working.
She stood out, not just because of the way her honey-brown hair caught the light or the bright flats she wore. She looked entirely out of place in an environment built for unforgiving machinery.
My gaze tracked her automatically, cataloging details as she approached the hangar-side admin building. Her long hair was loose around her shoulders, glinting like polished amber in the sun. Her pale, pretty face was dusted with freckles across a delicate nose and cheekbones. She surveyed her surroundings with careful curiosity, and her bright green eyes widened slightly.
I’d been around women my whole adult life, seen beautiful ones more times than I could count. But none had ever made my pulse spike the way this one did. Her curves were lush, her soft hips rounded beneath a simple cardigan and jeans. She just needed a pair of glasses, and she’d put the sexy librarian cliché to shame. My body tightened involuntarily, my cock thickening and pressing uncomfortably against the front of my flight suit.
What the fuck?
I had a reputation for control and discipline that made pilots and operators uneasy in my presence. I had no other choice. One moment of distraction—a single slip-up or missed detail—could be the difference between life and death.
My mind and body obeyed me without question—until now. Here I was, watching this woman cross the airfield, and suddenly, every muscle in my body was on high alert. I had no right to feel protective of her. No reason to feel possessive over a woman I didn’t even know. Yet I did.
She paused at the edge of the marked path, clutching a folder to her chest as she stared at my plane with awe. It was ridiculous, but I felt a little burst of pride at the way she was admiring my new bird.
As she stepped forward, the toe of her bright shoe snagged on a chock line stretched across her path. My heart jumped in my chest as she pitched forward, her eyes widening, the folder flying from her hand.
I moved without thought, crossing the space faster than I realized I could. My arms came around her just before she hit the concrete, her body pressed tight against mine. A small sound left her lips, breathless and startled. The scent of her filled my senses— something soft, floral, and faintly sweet.
She looked up at me, her lips parted and breath hitching. Her green eyes widened further, startled but not afraid. My gaze dropped involuntarily to her mouth, plush and pink, just inches from mine. Heat surged through me, primal and fierce. My pulse roared in my ears, and it took every ounce of control I possessed not to dip my head and taste her right there in the middle of the fucking tarmac.
“You okay?” My voice was rougher than I intended.
“Yes. I—thank you,” she whispered, her cheeks flaming a deep shade of red. She was even prettier when she blushed, her freckles standing out like tiny constellations across her flushed skin.
For a moment, neither of us moved. My hand lingered on the small of her back longer than necessary, and she didn’t pull away. Her curves were pressed tight against me. Soft, full, and perfect.
My mind was suddenly filled with images I had no right to be picturing. Her beneath me. Her lips parting for my tongue, opening wide for my cock. Her body hot and writhing, begging for my touch.
“Sorry,” she breathed, pulling me from my fantasy. She stepped back, her eyes wide and bright, and her skin still flushed. “I was distracted.”
“You’re good.” My thumb brushed briefly along her elbow as I reluctantly released her. “What’s your name?”
“Linden.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. Her voice had a sweet timbre that tightened something deep in my chest. “Linden Holbrook.”
“Keegan Connelly.” I frowned, surprised that I had given her my real name. “People call me Tomcat.”
My road name had stuck long before the club made it official. Tomcat fit in part because I flew fighters—usually F/A-18E/F Super Hornet and F-35C Lightning II. But it was also due to my bloodline. I was related to Vice Admiral Keegan Francis Connolly Jr., a key figure in the development of the F-14 Tomcat. The nickname started as a joke during training—the legacy kid—but stayed because it just fit.
It was what most everyone called me since I patched with the Hounds of Hellfire MC right after leaving the Navy. But my first instinct had been to give her my legal name, one that only my parents and sister had permission to call me.
