Page 75 of Elite Metal: Warriors

Hell, he couldn’t have spoken if his life depended on it, he was too far gone. Drowned in it. Wallowing in it.

What they’d shared had been a tumult. A conflagration. A redemption.

And Michelle?

She saw him. She knew him. She took all he had to give, and more.

As a man who’d spent most of his life alone, solitary, a rock, he struggled to understand the emotions roiling in his soul.

On the one hand, there was a clawing hunger, a desire for more. The thrumming temptation to hold her close and never let her go. A riot of want.

On the other, there was a deep, welling peace, like nothing he’d ever known. A sense of rightness in his own skin. The sense of coming home—when he’d never even had a home.

Funny, how the conflicting feelings melded so perfectly.

It was a damn shame he was who he was. A dead man. A ghost. There was no place for her in his life and no place for him in hers.

It would be hell letting her go when the time came.

He feared it would be sooner than he could bear.

* * *

Michelle curled up against George, pillowing her head on his chest. His powerful arms surrounded her, making her feel safe, cosseted. Her body still hummed from the most mind-blowing orgasms she’d ever had, and her ass still burned, but it was a delicious, warm glow.

It was difficult wrapping her mind around the dynamics between them, because she’d never been what she considered a submissive woman—she was far too mouthy for that. And she probably still would not classify herself as a sub. But she’d known, at the core of her being, what he’d wanted and an answering call had risen from the well of her soul.

She was glad she had answered it.

She’d loved every second of his rough lovemaking. Reveled in it. And she loved this. She loved the way he held her, soothed her, stroked her. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it, it was that deeply ingrained in him.

She lifted her head to gaze at him and was struck once again by the beauty of his features. Hard and harsh, yet boyish, vulnerable somehow. She stroked his cheek where scars pocked his perfection. “What happened here?” she asked softly.

He captured her hand and kissed her fingers. “I don’t know.”

“You…don’t know?”

He shook his head. A shadow passed through his eyes. “Can’t remember a damn thing.”

“And this one?” She touched a scar on his shoulder.

“Same mission.”

“And this one?” On his arm.

“Yeah.”

“And this one?” She stroked a scar on his abdomen.

His lips turned up. “Appendix.”

“Oooh. Brave man.”

“I was six.”

She stilled as a vision of a six-year-old George—with no mother—alone in a hospital bed filled her mind. “Were you scared?”

“Terrified.” He chuckled at the memory. “And then, afterwards, I was pissed.”