Page 102 of Bared

In the memories held by each of her tears.

In the connection they refueled every time she blinked those lush lashes.

In the myriad ways she could touch him without laying a finger on him.

It all started with her eyes. And despite his vow to conclude it there, his self-control was dust as soon as he was near enough to haul her close. Within seconds, he embraced her as tightly as he dared. Her soft, spiky locks tickled his nose. Her honey-and-amber scent suffused his senses. Her lithe curves filled his grip.

She felt so damn good.

She felt so damn right.

And for the next wordless minute, she was.

The last minute he’d ever embrace her like this.

So selfishly, he took another. And, despite the way Oz pointedly cleared his throat, another.

From over Jayd’s head, he speared a glare at Demos. While his friend was coming from a decent place, the guy would have to exercise a little Aussie-style chill. It wasn’t like Brick planned on holding her forever.

Christ, how he wished they had forever.

He braced himself for the mental alarms that’d be clanging any second. Then the flinches in all his limbs, spurring the gentle step back that he needed. That they both needed.

Didn’t happen.

Not even as Oz gave a hand signal to the pilot, and the officer moved inside to start his flight precheck.

Especially not as Jayd moved against him—but only to wriggle herself closer. Tighter. Warmer.

“Brickham.” Her rasp on his neck was thick with emotion. “Sir…” Her lips were dotted with tears. She still dragged in a shaky breath, as if battling for more syllables but not finding them. Her exhalation was a slice of frustration, thickening the lump in Brick’s throat.

“I know, Pixie,” he grated. “I know.”

Holy shit. That was it? That was all he could muster for her?

But summoning anything more to his mind… Again, not happening. But also not fucking acceptable. He’d talked children across war zones. Watched six on ordnance specialists as they’d worked on fields of live lego devices. Even delivered a few babies in hovels beneath skies lit up like Satan’s birthday party. Never, through all those crazy fuck fests, had he been at a loss for the right words. Only one mission had rendered him that pathetically useless, and he’d completely bowed out of the game because of it.

He didn’t want to bow out now.

God help him, he wanted to stay all-in on this one. But once more, not happening. Not now. Not ever. The classic eighties song was right. God did have a sick sense of humor.

And the next moment, he swore he heard the bastard laughing.

As the rest of the world decided it was Satan’s birthday again.

One moment, he was stroking Jayd’s back as her soft tears fell with the silver mist. The next, a flash charge turned the tarmac into blinding gold. Then another. Behind them, like Imperial stormtroopers with wasps up their asses, a dozen new visitors charged the soggy pavement.

“Maximillian Brickham! Stop where you are, by the authority of the Gendarmerie Nationale.”

And there was D’artagnan Vader, right on cue.

“Brickham?” Jayd burrowed closer while throwing her arms all the way around his neck. Damn good thing, because she saved him from commanding her to do it. “Wh-What is happening?”

“It’s all right, Pixie.” It was good to know he could still pull off the I’m-terrified-but-you-don’t-know-it trick. Because nothing about this was all right. A new glance to Oz proved as much. His friend, blinking to fight the effects of the flash bangs, was still reeling but fuming.

“Bugger me to Christmas. Our juice is spilled, mate!”

At least that was what the words sounded like. For all Brick knew, they could’ve been bugs are shitless; our poop is swill, mate. His ears were ringing like Quasimodo was riffing a solo between them. His balance was off. His vision was distorted. But it was inconsequential to the main object of his focus.