And yet.
The thought of being without her was inconceivable. It was like trying to imagine the sky without stars, the ocean without water. She was the axis his world had started to spin on, and the thought of that axis disappearing was more terrifying than any bullet, any cartel, any mission.
He leaned down, unable to stop himself, and captured her mouth again. This kiss was a slow, deep, reverent exploration. It was a kiss of discovery, of awe. He poured more of himself into her yielding sweetness.
He felt himself starting to fall, the kiss deepening, the familiar heat beginning to build, a primal urge to lose himself in her, to reaffirm life in the most basic way. But as her hand slid down his chest, heading lower with a familiar, inviting purpose, something inside him shifted.
He caught her wrist, stilling her. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into her heavy-lidded eyes.
"Let me just hold you, babe," he whispered, his voice rough with a sincerity that felt raw and new. "Just rest in my arms and take the time you need to recharge. There's time for that later."
He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes, followed by a soft, dawning understanding. She simply nodded, a small, trusting smile touching her lips. She shifted, curling into his side, her head resting on his chest, her arm draped over his waist.
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, her body fitting against his as if it had been made to be there. He lay there in the moonlight, holding the woman he loved, and for the first time in a very long time, the broken pieces of him felt like they might just be starting to fit back together.
Iceman leaned into the TOC doorway. “Why are you still here, Petty Officer? Rack it. None of this is going away.”
Ayla’s head lifted, focused on him. “I just wanted to check?—”
Ice’s eyes narrowed. “That was an order, not a suggestion. Move.”
“Yes, Master Chief. Copy. Racking it.”
After the op, Ayla had gotten word that Superintendent Jeffrey Corrant was overseeing the remains identification and recovery out on the field tomorrow. The RCMP Forensic Identification Service would be doing the bulk of the work with the remains, then they’d be transported to the medical examiner. The two deceased Mounties had been recovered immediately by the RCMP Professional Responsibility Unit. Autopsies would be performed before the remains would be returned to their families, standard procedure in any unit, including her DEVGRU one.
She reluctantly left her ISR footage, preparing to leave TOC when she felt another presence. She turned to find Malcolm Tyler standing there. He looked kind of lost, his usual sharp focus dulled by a raw, weary grief.
“Hey,” she said, moving toward him. “Are you all right?”
He swallowed hard, the motion thick and difficult. “Not exactly. I worked with Leah often. She was…” He closed his eyes, unable to finish the sentence.
Ayla’s heart clenched. Without a second thought, she stepped right into him and pulled him into a hard hug, her arms wrapping around his solid frame. “I’m so very, very sorry,” she whispered against his shoulder.
His arms went around her, hesitant at first, then tightening, pulling her closer as if she were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted on its axis. They stood like that for a moment, the only sound the low hum of the servers. She could feel the tension thrumming through him, a coiled wire of grief and adrenaline. She meant to pull back, to give him space, but as she shifted, her cheek brushed against the rough fabric of his shirt. She felt the hard, warm line of his chest, the steady beat of his heart against her ear. The scent of him, clean sweat, gun oil, and something uniquely Malcolm, filled her senses. It was a comforting, grounding scent, but it was also doing something else to her, something unexpected and entirely inappropriate for the moment.
A slow, deep warmth bloomed in her stomach, a stark contrast to the cold grief that hung in the air. She felt his arms tighten around her almost imperceptibly, his hand shifting to rest more firmly against the small of her back. His head dipped, his lips brushing against her hair, a gesture that was part grief, part something else. She tilted her head back slightly to look up at him, to offer some final word of comfort, but the words died on her lips.
His gaze had changed. The raw pain was still there, but it was now layered with something new, something dark and intense and wholly focused on her. His eyes dropped from hers to her mouth, and the air between them crackled, thick with an unspoken question. The hug was no longer just about solace. It had become a point of contact, a live wire of sudden, startling attraction that had been building ever since she’d let herself think he might be safe.
He was the one who broke the spell, his voice a low, rough murmur. “Ayla…”
Her name on his lips was a caress. She didn't pull away. Instead, her fingers tightened, bunching the fabric of his shirt at his back. She saw him swallow again, saw the war raging in his eyes between propriety and need. Then he gave in, just a little, his gaze darkening as he leaned in, his intent unmistakable. The space between their mouths vanished, and for one breathless second, she let herself forget the grief, forget the danger, and simply feel.
God, he tasted good, and it had been a long time since she’d been with a man. Her life was so busy and dedicated to the Navy. The sting of Breakneck’s rejection was soothed under those talented lips and tongue. She worked long hours, sacrificing this kind of delicious touch to duty.
She pressed against him, and he deepened the kiss, his soft moan tightening her nipples, stabbing into her core, ramping up her heartbeat, and sizzling in her blood.
They kissed for several minutes until she realized that this wasn’t the best place for this, and she didn’t want Malcolm to be alone tonight, not when she could provide some much-needed connection. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey in my room. We can toast your friend.”
He stared down at her, his grief hidden in the layers of his desire. He nodded, whispering, “Lead the way.”
She took his hand, his fingers tightening around hers, and headed to her bunk, a room near where the SEALs were being housed. Once inside, she closed the door behind him. Without a word, their eyes met in the dim room, and the signal he was sending was so potent, she forgot about anything except getting to him again.
She crowded him against the door, her hands reaching for the buttons on his shirt, her hips pressing to his, the evidence of his arousal hard and heavy against his jeans.
She released each button with a breathless focus, and as the cotton parted, more of his muscular chest was exposed to her hungry eyes. She slipped her hands under the fabric at his shoulders and pushed it off him. His hands weren’t idle, and they roamed her body, slipping up and down her torso, cupping her breasts and squeezing. She leaned in and kissed his chest, running her mouth and tongue over each hard peak of his nipples. He gasped, his hips thrusting into hers. She reached for his waistband as she sucked on him, undoing the clasp and zipper. He pushed her back onto her bunk, stripped off the jeans, and joined her.
The next morning, when she woke up, he was gone.
