His mouth pressed harder, instinct crowding out thought. The kiss deepened, hunger breaking through restraint. She answered him without hesitation, breath hitching, body leaning into him instead of away, and whatever careful distance he had held for years dissolved.
His hand tightened at her nape, not to restrain but to steady, as if the world had narrowed to the warmth of her mouth and the urgent exchange of breath between them. He slanted the kiss, claiming more, and the sound that left his throat was rough and unguarded, pulled from somewhere he had kept locked down for years.
He kissed her with a need that had been waiting a long time to be answered, all patience burned away, all thought reduced to sensation. Their breaths tangled, uneven and harsh, the rhythm of it swallowing the soft music from the party and the distant splash of the fountain, until there was nothing left but the press of her against him and the undeniable truth of how badly he wanted her.
He could feel every detail of her, the delicate curve of her upper lip, the fuller, softer cushion of the bottom one he’d wanted to bite for years, the slick, velvety heat of her tongue as it tangled with his. She met his ferocity with her own, her hands closing around the lapels of his tux, pulling him closer, arching against him. The movement sent a jolt straight through him. His body reacted with a force that stole his breath. His dick, already half-hard from just being near her, swelled to a painful, demanding thickness, straining against the formal silk of his pants. The need was a physical ache, a heavy, urgent pulse that demanded more, that demanded everything.
He couldn’t think. He could only feel. He pushed her back, a sudden, sharp movement that drove her the few feet until her shoulders met the solid, unyielding trunk of the old sycamore. The impact knocked a soft gasp from her, but her hands only tightened on him, her legs parting slightly as he crowded her, pinning her with his body.
The world narrowed to the feel of her against him, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her hair and skin. He was drowning in her, and he never wanted to surface. He ground his hips against hers, letting her feel the hard, thick length of his arousal, a silent, desperate testament to the depth of his wanting. He was no longer Than, the quiet, steady friend. He was a man consumed, and he was, finally, going to show her what that meant.
9
RCMP WILD Headquarters, Interrogation Room Two, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
Dylan rolled back over Blair, shielding her from the door as the sound of boots pounded down the hallway. His body pressed down on her, solid muscle radiating heat and strength, pinning her safely out of the line of fire.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Absolute.
His breath fanned the side of her neck, his body still shielding hers, the weight of him holding her safely pinned.
He lifted his head, scanning the doorway, every nerve alert. She saw the deadly focus in his eyes, the combat calm, the lethal readiness.
He looked down at her, those gray eyes, dark, charcoal, as if he was burning into ash from the inside. “You hurt?” he asked, his hand gently pushing away the hair that covered her face, his fingers gentle and warm against her skin. His touch did buzzy things to her brain, her pulse, and her equilibrium, and Blair somehow managed to control the nearly irresistible urge to run her thumb along that full, tantalizing bottom lip. “Things turned out okay, right? So forgiven?” He gave her a full, slow smile, and she swore the earth moved.
She recognized the self-reproach in his tone. Dylan, or whatever his real name was, leaned way too close, and Blair was transfixed by the intensity of his gaze. For a single charged moment, their eyes held, deepened, the rest of the room falling away. Something in her reached toward something in him, an instinctive pull she didn’t recognize, couldn’t explain. Not attraction, not exactly, something unexpected, deeper, startling in its clarity. It left her breathless.
Her throat went tight, her heart beating rapidly. Reality snapped back so hard it hurt. She had learned a hard lesson when she’d been small, that she was the only one she could depend on to take care of her. No one was ever going to take care of her, or provide for her, or keep her warm, and because of that, she had acquired a kind of internal toughness. She couldn’t allow herself to be fragile, overwhelmed, smitten. She wouldn’t have survived if she had.
Then voices.
Two men with rifles emerged from the hall and stopped dead. She went to warn him, but his tone was familiar and warm.
“Took you long enough,” he said with affectionate annoyance. “I heard your boots’ cadence all the way down the hall.”
She looked at their handsome faces beneath the helmets. They gaped, blinking. One guy’s jaw dropped, a sleek, dark-haired man who had a dog on a leash. The other man, big, imposing, and thoroughly amused, reached over and closed his jaw.
“Geezus, Break!”
Blair kicked up with her knee, catching her rescuer just under the ribs. He grunted and rolled off her. Too late, realizing with remorse that he was terribly bruised. She glared at him, then at the guys, working at getting her professional detachment back. It wasn’t easy. His charm was weaponized.
The imposing guy walked over and reached out his hand. “Ma’am,” he said.
He just got up off the floor, turned the weapon around and offered her own weapon to her.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
“Fucking Petty Officer Kelly Gatlin!” A man’s cutting voice roared down the hall. “Where the fuck is he?”
He cut those impossibly gray eyes to her and there was instant recognition, instant respect. Just as she suspected. He wasn’t a cartel murderer, or some ranch hand drifter, he was special forces. But she was spot on, he was a definite gunslinger and one badass outlaw. He was just working for his Uncle Sam. Everything inside her went hot and unsteady.
She jumped when the door hit the back wall and a man walked in. Tall, his features carved like ice, a blond Mohawk bristling like him. He took one look at Dylan…ah…Kelly. Of course, his last name would be Gatlin, a deadly automatic weapon.
The blond man clenched his jaw, taking in Kelly’s appearance, his eyes snapping at the mottled bruises. “I’m going to kill me a couple of DEA agents,” he growled. His eyes cut to her, his voice softening just a tad. “Sorry, Sergeant, for our explosive entrance, but we thought you might need an assist.” He reached out his hand. “Master Chief Christopher Snow. I will answer to Master Chief, boss and Chris, but most people call me Iceman.”
She shook his hand as she gathered her wits about her. “Sergeant Blair Brown. We appreciate your assistance very much. I’m in the dark here, so it would be fantastic to get a debrief, but…” She turned to Kelly. “What do you go by?”
