“Hmmm, was she? I don’t have to remind you that she’s in charge, and we’re here for support. I wouldn’t want you to get confused.”
Breakneck ignored him. “You don’t need to escort me. I’m not your wayward son.” His words were harsh because it was easier to take it out on his boss, but those words were like a double-edged sword.
“No? Too fucking bad. You’re my responsibility, and you’ve been through hell today. We got possible leads from this takedown and saved an honorable and brave man. Get your ass in the shower and rack it.”
Boomer was on his bunk as Ice delivered that last comment and stalked away. His eyes went over him, then he sat up. “Fuck me,” he said, taking in the bruises. “You didn’t act like you were this thoroughly beaten.” His mouth thinned. “Kodiak. Do something.”
The big medic stepped forward. “All ready for you…what’s that smell? Have you been cheating on me?”
Breakneck stiffened. “Blair…Voltaren. She took care of it.”
Skull smirked. “I bet she did.”
Breakneck snapped, whirled, enduring the pain as he slammed Skull up against the wall. “You ever insinuate that she’s anything other than courageous, honorable, and professional, I’ll make sure to shut your mouth.”
Skull never relented. The man was a pain-in-the-ass. “Ooh, boys, looks like I hit a nerve. I retract my insinuation.” Breakneck let him go, turning around to the rest of the guys staring.
“Wound a little tight?” Hazard asked. “I remember how that went down with my sassy Leigh.” He gave the guys a knowing look and Breakneck clenched his jaw.
Kodiak nodded, opening his mouth, but Breakneck couldn’t handle sage advice on how each of them wooed their wives. He wasn’t going to woo Blair…an evil part of him chuckled…no goddamned way. He’d make it clear to her tomorrow.
“I’ve got orders,” he growled, and walked out of the bunk area to the open shower, unsteady steps, stripped down, and got in, turned it scalding hot for the sake of his muscles. He made a soft sound as the cream had worked some magic.
His waist flared with dull heat, but it wasn’t the injury that rattled him. It was the fucking shift inside him, something tectonic and violent and completely out of his control.
He’d cupped her face. Forced her back against a wall. Kissed her in a way he’d never kissed another woman, like he was under her thrall.
Damn, she’d kissed him back.
Every muscle in him coiled tight, protesting with each breath. He didn’t trust himself, not his thoughts, not his need, not the erratic beat of something that felt too close to hope. He slammed a palm to the tile, bracing hard, forehead lowered.
Get your shit together. Get your fucking head back.
But all he could feel was her, her mouth, her breath, her voice whispering Oh my God like he was something worth wanting.
He was so hard that his dick jutted up against his stomach. If he left himself like this, if he dared to court this hard on without relief, he wouldn’t be able to be rational around her.
The scalding water did nothing to wash her away. If anything, it seared the memory of her into his skin, into the very air he was gasping for. He braced a forearm against the slick tile, the muscles in his back and shoulders screaming in protest from the day's abuse, but it was a distant, secondary pain. The real agony was centered low in his gut, a deep, hollow ache that had nothing to do with his bruised ribs and everything to do with the woman who had just unraveled him.
He was so hard it was a punishment, his cock a rigid, demanding pressure against his own stomach. He didn't want this. He didn't want this frantic, animal need for a woman who looked at him and saw not a weapon, not a broken tool, but a man. A man she wanted to know. The thought was more terrifying than any cartel gunfire.
He had to get it out. He had to purge this feeling before it consumed him, before he looked at her tomorrow and she saw the savage, needy thing he’d become. His hand, slick with soap, moved with a grim sense of duty. There was no pleasure in this, only a desperate, clawing need for release, for the sweet, empty oblivion that would follow.
He wrapped his fingers around himself, the grip almost too tight, a punishing clamp. The first stroke was a jolt of pure, unadulterated pain. It wasn't the physical friction; it was the emotional agony that came with it. He closed his eyes, and the scene behind his lids wasn't the steamy shower, but her face, her wide, unafraid eyes, her lips parted in that soft, devastating whisper.
Oh my God.
He stroked himself, fast and rough, trying to outrun the memory, but it was no use. Each pump of his fist brought the image of her closer, the feel of her hair cascading over his hands, the scent of magnolia and danger. He could feel the phantom weight of her in his arms, the impossible softness of her body pressed against the hard, unyielding wall. He’d wanted to crush her, to devour her, to lose himself so completely in her that nothing else remained.
This wasn't lust. Lust was simple, a transaction of skin and heat. This was something else. This was an ache that started in his soul and radiated outward, a longing so profound it felt like a sickness. He was jacking off to the thought of her kindness, to the memory of her calling him on his bullshit, to the terrifying promise in her eyes that she wasn't afraid of the darkness inside him. He was getting off to the one thing he’d never had and now couldn't live without, her care.
The pressure built, a tightening coil of anguish. His breath hitched, choking back a sob. He was fucking his fist to the thought of a woman who deserved gentleness, and the knowledge of his own unworthiness was a physical blow. He was a Pandora’s Box, and she had just reached inside and touched the very heart of his chaos.
He came with a silent, violent shudder, a curse caught in his throat. The release was no relief. It was a hollow, cramping emptiness, an anti-climax that left him feeling more bereft than before. His seed hit the wall and was washed away, and he watched it go, feeling like he’d just scraped out the only good part of himself and sent it down the drain.
He stayed there, slumped against the tile, the water now feeling cold against his overheated skin.
He swallowed hard and straightened, forcing motion. Turn off the water, grab his towel, wiping himself dry, gingerly around his torso. He wrapped the towel around his hips, put one foot in front of the other. The door to the barracks felt like a mile away. He shoved it open, stepped inside, and leaned both palms on the dresser, breath sawing through his lungs.
