But it’s futile.

Because the first time I look down and watch her pussy lips stretch around the thickness of my shaft as I slide out, the most delicate of flesh bringing me the most intense of pleasure, my control snaps. I press harder on her thighs to give me an unhindered view and the access to take as I please as I rear back and thrust into her until I bottom out. Then I groan out in ecstasy, balls buried so damn deep that I can feel her warm wetness coating me and turning me on something fierce. I grind against her, my dick as deep as it can possibly be, and it feels so good, I let my head loll back as I begin to really move.

The room fills with the sound of sex and pleasure, pleas and moans, passion unleashed and needs unfurled. And my God… talk about drugging a man into a coma. Everything about her forces me to concentrate so fucking hard on the moment that I’m losing so much more than a physical release to her.

Her muscles begin to pulse around me as the sounds of skin against skin heightens everything about the moment. I’m fixated on getting us both there, hips thrusting, fingers gripping her, and neck taut with my impending release.

And then the bed frame starts squeaking with each and every drive in to the point that even though I’m so pent up, so addled with need for release, it’s so damn loud that when I look down and meet Beaux’s eyes, I can see her laughing.

“We’re breaking the bed,” she pants out with a soft laugh that ends on a sharp mewl as I grind my hips into her again, sparks gathering at the base of my spine and readying for the onslaught of sensation just beyond the horizon.

But the bed’s not the only thing that seems to be breaking; I think a tiny little piece of my heart just did too. There’s no way in hell I’m telling her that, though. I hide behind the thought by flashing a devil-may-care smirk that lasts long enough to catch her eyes lighting up before I return to concentrating on getting us back in the moment, squeaky spring and all.

It doesn’t take long to propel us onto that edge where lust and desire reign, want and need merge as one. With our bodies still connected in the most primal of ways, I lean down and slant my mouth over hers, the action driving me farther into her addictive pussy when I thought I couldn’t go any deeper. And with my mouth on hers, her every breath mingling with my own exhalations, both my tongue and cock savoring and demanding all at the same time, I coax her over the precipice, swallow her moans as she falls, and enjoy the rhythm of her muscles as she contracts around me.

And then she does this little thing, this lift of her hips in a motion chock-full of greed that tells me she wants more to prolong her release as long as she can, and the action, the motion, of her gripping me in intervals pulls me into the vortex of ecstasy.

I crash over the edge, muscles tensing, dick pulsing, thoughts annihilated by the white-hot heat streaking through me and exploding in bursts of warmth. I can’t weather the pleasure with my mouth to hers, can’t handle the rush of fiery heat followed by drowsy bliss that courses on a pumped-up kick in my veins, so I rear up on my knees, eyes closed tight, and her name a broken cry in the air as I empty myself.

Our labored breathing is all I can hear when I look down at her, a half smirk on my lips at the satisfaction on her face – flushed cheeks, lips swollen from mine, eyes hazy – before pulling ever so slowly out of her, immediately wanting to do it all over again.

Well, after I recover some, because damn… all guys might need a recovery time but this, her, what just happened, have drained me in every sense of the word. And it’s a new feeling, to be drained emotionally, physically, sexually, and not want to lie back and close my eyes and succumb to the exhaustion like usual. I don’t want to at all. I want to lie down next to her, prop my head in my hand, and admire her, talk to her, and just breathe her in.

Shit. I think the paradox this time around is that, rather than my slipping down the slippery slope from lust to love, Beaux and I just experienced something unique to us. We bonded during the adrenaline-fueled action of the raid, the worrisome fear over each other’s safety, and then the agonizing wait to see each other face-to-face. Hell yeah, we bonded, so I’m allowed to be a little in awe of her right now.

Then again, I also try to justify that it’s just being with someone almost every waking hour that has me concerned with her safety, but I’m not real big on lying, so why lie to myself? That lightness in my head could be because of more than just great sex. It could be because Beaux’s starting to mean something to me despite the mere month or so we’ve known each other.

But the time isn’t right, so I push the thoughts away, shove the little pinpricks warning me to slow the fuck down away, and tell myself to enjoy the moment and the warm skin of the gorgeous woman in front of me. I settle down beside her, head propped on my hand, quiet my thoughts, and enjoy the moment.

Her hair is all over the place in stark contrast to the white sheets, but at the same time the fact that it’s falling out of her ponytail softens the sharp lines of her face. She meets my eyes, and I love that even though she’s so goddamn confident everywhere else in whatever this is between us, she appears shy right now. Her cheeks flush even more, and she averts her eyes before scooting into me so that the curves of our bodies fit perfectly into each other’s.

It’s a reflex that my arm wraps around her and pulls her tighter, our lips meeting in a soft sigh of a kiss that says the moment was so much more than solely physical, and yet neither of us wants to address it yet. Because physical attraction is acceptable, but feeling like this, the intensity with which I feel it, is extraordinary.

At least that’s what I hope she’s saying when her tongue meets mine in a soft dance of tenderness and acceptance. We cement our connection this way for a few moments, all hushed words and soft laughter. Hands smoothing over heated skin and heartbeats slowing down.

We settle into such a relaxed silence in the comfort of each other’s arms – so very different than what happened after the last time we had sex – that it kills me when I have to bring up the inevitable.

“We need to work,” I remind her softly, speaking of turning in the written reports that back up my live broadcast from earlier as well as the feeling I have that once I check my phone, there will be messages from Rafe about another live spot.

“I believe you just worked me perfectly fine.” Her laugh is muffled, and I can feel the heat of it from where her lips are pressed against my sternum. The sensation sends a pulse of desire straight to my lower belly.

“And I have no problem working you again.”

“Oh you better plan on it. Again and again,” she says, and the suggestiveness that laces her tone is such a damn turn-on because it gives me that little ego boost to know she enjoyed what just happened as much as I did.

“I do like the again part… but this squeaky bed poses a problem.”

“Squeaky wheel gets the oil.”

“Squeak all you want, because I have no problem oiling you up.” My mind goes in pure male fashion from oil to dipstick to lube jobs and the correlation to sex.

“Hmm,” she murmurs as she leans her head back to look into my eyes. “Maybe we need to change up the location. Does the bed in your room squeak?”

“I’m not sure. We can try it out… but uh, I don’t need a bed to have my way with you. There’s lots of viable real estate: shower, wall, dresser, stairwell, rooftop.” I love that damn hitch in her breath from the dark promise of my words. “I’m not picky so long as it’s with you.”

A part of me quickly realizes what I just said to her, the admission that I want there to be a with you when it comes to her, but I know she took it for what it’s worth in the moment when she says, “You know what they say… It’s all about location, location, location.”

“As long as the location is between your thighs, I’ll take it.”

Chapter 14




“Good night. This is Tanner Thomas, reporting live for Worldwide News.”

As I wait for the connection to break, my body still rides the high from the raid today and the incredible sex with Beaux. I’m antsy and invigorated for the first time in what feels like forever here, and I sigh out in relief when the feed goes black so I can close down the Skype window on my laptop. Immediately my eyes focus on the iPhoto window open to the most recent downloads page, and I’m once again transfixed by the images Beaux took today that I had asked her to download on my laptop too.

And yes she got the action shots – great panoramas of knock and talks happening at the same time on three different residences, soldiers’ backs with the muzzles of the M4 carbines visible over their shoulders – but she also got those kinds of pictures that make me stop and stare and read what’s beneath the surface. A platoon of soldiers looking weary, the lines on their faces and looks in their eyes depicting both the fear and monotony of their tasks. Villagers peeking out from windows, kids fascinated to see soldiers, and adults leery of their presence. Sergeant Jones giving instructions, the line of his posture and angle of the shot reflecting his authority without a single patch on his uniform in the image.

Then there’s me. The few shots she snuck when I wasn’t looking where the rush I feel from being part of the mission practically leaps off the page. She captured the perfect image of what that buzz Rafe and I talk about looks like, and it’s hard to look away.

Beaux’s muffled voice through the hotel room door pulls me from my fixation on the computer, and I shut it down, my thoughts now focused on her. The sex we had earlier was mind-blowing, but I’m nowhere near satisfied. When it comes to Beaux Croslyn, I have a feeling that no matter how many times she rocks my world, it’s not going to be enough.

So I close the laptop, scoot the chair back, and chuckle at my on-air attire of button-up dress shirt and the khaki shorts and bare feet that the computer camera couldn’t catch. One thing about fieldwork is I don’t have to abide by attire restrictions and wear stuffy suits like the desk anchors. Well that and I get unpredictability and sunshine on a daily basis. Can’t complain about that regardless of where that sunshine is located.

“How could this happen?” Her voice rises in a way that causes me to go and make sure she’s okay, because it doesn’t sound like she is.

The hotel room door is just barely ajar, and I can see her through the crack in the doorjamb. She paces back and forth as she listens to someone, hands gesturing, head shaking, and words being cut off every time she starts to speak by whoever is on the other end of the line. I’m intrigued and don’t mean to snoop, but the only other time I’ve seen her this agitated is with me, so I stand just inside the door and observe, curiosity getting the better of me.

“I told you… I can’t. This is… ugh… Just know I’ll take care of it somehow, okay… but please, no one else can find out…” Her voice drifts off as she turns her back from me, something else being mumbled into the phone that I can’t quite catch. Now I’m definitely all ears. “I know. I know. I call when I can – you can’t be mad at that. It’s not my fault and… Jesus!” She blows out a breath in frustration as she leans against the wall and puts her head back against it with her eyes closed. “He’s going to kick my ass.”

I can feel the tension radiating off her and am incredibly curious about what exactly is going on.

“We’ll deal with it if it becomes an issue. Regardless I’m the one who’s gonna get the blame. He’ll come after me… That’s what —” Her voice cuts off when she opens her eyes and sees me standing in the doorway, shoulder against the doorjamb and hands shoved in my pockets. “I’m sure we’ll get everything worked out,” she says, her demeanor changing, voice softening, and I’m not sure if it’s because she has an audience now or because she’s trying to soothe whoever is on the other end of the line. Regardless, something is going on – that much is evident when she hangs up the phone without breaking eye contact with me or without saying another word.

“Nice broadcast attire,” she says with a smile as she motions to my shorts and bare feet.