For better or worse, he wanted to feel it. Wanted to figure it out. Wanted to talk to her. Listen to her. Share pieces of himself he'd never let anyone touch. He wanted her mind, her humor, her fierce eyes when she was pissed, and her soft voice in the dark. He wanted her body, the hot, beautiful, slick heat of her wrapped around his dick. He released a hard breath. That exquisite moment he’d never let himself have, always closed his eyes or looked away. Connection as their bodies merged.
Fuck, he had to be prepared to let her…God, did he even have that control? Or was it all her?
He wanted to take all the raw, messy material inside him and lay it at her feet. The kicker was that she hadn’t demanded a damn thing from him. She deserved all of him because she wanted all of him, and fuck him, he wanted to give it, no matter how much it terrified him.
Christ.
What even was that?
He adjusted his stance, reloaded, switched hands again, scowling as he squeezed another volley. Clean, but he barely registered it.
Beside him, Ayla shifted, the faintest curve to her mouth as she lined up her own target, took her shots.
“You’re ambidextrous,” she said, loading her next round. “You hit the damn target exactly where you want with both hands. Don’t you?”
Breakneck shrugged, not looking at her. “Behind the scope, I never miss. But sidearms are a different weapon, and sometimes things go off target. Can’t be precise some of the time, but I train both hands.”
“Right.” Her smile lingered. “Downrange, up close and personal, is very different. Running and gunning really don’t have the same kind of feel as being in a sniper’s hidden nest, quiet, controlled, focused, one miss could mean catastrophic consequences for our teammates.”
That got a flick of his eyes and a quick nod.
She was spot on. “You have someone special back in Virginia Beach?”
He gave her a tight grin. “No, just family.”
Ayla looked at him. “Some friction there?”
He didn’t answer. Just dropped his gaze back to the table, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. God, she had no idea but telling her before he told Blair about what was locked up tight didn’t wash for him. She was a good friend, but Blair had him by his soul.
She stepped a little closer.
“Not about me being a SEAL,” he responded, “if that’s what you mean.”
“I did. I got some pushback from my family when I wanted to join the Navy, but that was because I was abducted when I was fifteen, and my family had just gotten me back.”
“What the fuck? Geezus. What happened?”
“Cartel human trafficking. I ended up in Bolivia, but I escaped with another girl. She was murdered, but I got away. Lived with a wonderful Tsimané tribe. They kept me safe until my brother found me.”
“Damn, Ayla, sounds like you won’t have any problem keeping calm and in control in any mission we get sent on. That’s freaking brave as hell.” He meant it as a compliment, a genuine acknowledgment of the steel he saw in her.
She beamed, lifting her face to his, and in that moment, he felt as close to her as any sister he never had. A comfortable, easy camaraderie he rarely found. But his mind was a million miles away, still full of green eyes and soft hands and the crushing realization that he wanted more than just a moment with Blair. He wanted a life that wasn’t built around fears that kept him chained and mute. He wanted to know who the hell he really was, beneath the muscle, the sarcasm, the sniper precision.
Ayla studied him, her expression softening. “I meant what I said,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. “You’re...different, you know that? Not like the others.”
Breakneck frowned, not quite following the sudden shift in tone. He was still untangling his own thoughts, his own desperate wants. “Different how?”
But Ayla just smiled again. It wasn't the bright, friendly one from a second ago. This one was smaller, more knowing. Her eyes didn’t drop away. If anything, they brightened, like she was waiting for something. He was completely clueless, his mind still a battlefield of Blair and the future he suddenly craved.
Until she started to lean.
It was a slow, deliberate movement. She leaned right into his space, and before he could process it, before his brain could catch up with the reality of what was happening, she pressed her lips against his. It wasn't a frantic kiss, but a soft, hopeful one. Her arms went around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. The contact was a jolt of pure, static wrongness. It was like touching a live wire he had no business being near. His body went rigid, every muscle screaming in protest. This wasn't the heat he craved. This wasn't the mouth he wanted.
And then, through the haze of his own shock, he saw her.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the glass partition leading to the range, Blair came into view. She stopped short, her steps faltering. He watched, helplessly, as her eyes widened, taking in the scene. The light in her eyes dimmed. Her face, which had held a tentative warmth when she entered, became a smooth, blank mask. A shutter slamming shut on a room he desperately wanted to enter. She didn't make a sound. She just turned and walked away, her back straight, her steps measured, as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.
The sight of her leaving was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that knocked the air from his lungs. He wanted to go after her, but he couldn’t just leave Ayla so abruptly.
