Page 76 of Her Wicked Hero

Marcia felt his possession all the way to her soul.

“It was your team protecting me,” she protested.

Zed’s hands gripped her tighter, pulling closer, then he rocked forward, so his lips were next to her ear.

“You’re mine. It killed me not to be there with you.”

She clung to him, peppering kisses along his jaw.

“I was safe because of you,” she insisted.

His heart was racing, she could feel it against her breasts. She knew he was barely keeping control, but this man of hers would always keep her safe, and right now she didn’t need his control. She dug her fingernails into his back.

“More.”

He continued with those same strong, steady strokes that were driving her to the brink of insanity, but she could tell it wasn’t what he needed,.

Marcia pulled back and grabbed fistfuls of Zed’s hair, glaring at him.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I’ll never hurt you,” he promised. He was worried.

“Of course not. I know that. But I need all of you.” She shoved her hips up, trying to bring him deeper. Trying to show him she was his safe spot.

“Marcia,” he begged. “Have a care.”

“I need all of you,” she whispered the words staring up into his eyes. “Give me all of you.”

For a moment she’d thought she’d lost, then he moaned. His lips settled on hers, taking, giving, pleasing, coaxing. He pushed her higher, and she met him, lights skittering across her vision as she reached heights she’d never imagined, up and up until she screamed his name. His real name.

“My Zed. You’re mine.”

He rolled them over and she sprawled on top of him like she had been through a hurricane.

“I’ve been yours since the moment I saw your photo,” he said solemnly. “We belong to each other.”

Marcia needed to understand what he was saying, but Zed started to stroke his hand down her back, and she couldn’t stay awake. What photo was he talking about?

He sat in the chair in the bedroom, watching her sleep. Marcia was beautiful. Had it only been six-and-a-half weeks ago he’d read about her while on the USS Ronald Reagan? Just that short amount of time since he’d first seen her picture?

His gaze flitted over to the picture of his grandmother on the bedroom dresser, and he smiled. He shook his head, thinking back to a time when he hated the idea of having the ‘sight’ like his abuela. Instead, it had brought him the two most important people to him.

“She’s in a better place, Zed,” his grandmother said.

She gripped his hand so hard, he almost cried out in pain. Abuelita needed him to be strong for her as they stood at this freshly turned pile of dirt. He was hot, the suit she had bought him for the occasion itchy.

Zed looked up at all of the people who were at the gravesite. Mr. Fuentes from across the street. He was fat. Mrs. Robinson from the seamstress shop. She made really good chocolate chip cookies. Amy, a seamstress who worked for his grandmother. There were more people from the neighborhood.

Nobody said anything about his mom even though it was her funeral. Delores Zaragoza was unknown to most people. They came to support him and his grandmother. Even though he was only in third grade, he understood that.

“Now you throw your flower, Zed,” his grandmother told him.

He looked down into the yawning black hole and threw the pretty yellow rose. It made him feel better, maybe it would make Mama happier.

He heard a baby cry. He looked over and saw a woman holding a baby, standing away from the others, staring at Zed. She walked around the grave and came to stand in front of them. Zed strained to look at the toddler’s eyes.

“Mr. Fuentes, please take Zed to my car,” his grandmother requested.