Boots on the Ground: Homefront, Book 1 by Rebecca Crowley

was no tentative exploration, no slow build. Within seconds his tongue was pursuing hers, his mouth led hers in a quickening rhythm, and the hungry pressure of her lips started a fire roaring low in his groin with the speed of a match dropped on a puddle of kerosene.
    She smelled like sunshine and cool spring mornings, and each time their mouths met and parted and met again, he sought the sweet, white-wine-tinged taste of her with renewed vigor. It was the kind of feverish, insatiable, shameless kissing he thought he’d left behind in the backseats and bleachers of his younger days, but any reservation about manners was soundly snuffed by her soft moan as their teeth clicked together in their haste to devour each other.
    His hand moved to her lower back, pulling her closer, and she slid her fingers to the nape of his neck. The material of her dress was silky against his callused fingers, sliding over his skin in a way that reminded him she was not the type of woman he usually picked up in dives like this one, the type who either left before dawn or accused him of being a coldhearted asshole before slamming the door and driving off. Everything about Laurel felt somehow freer and more confident than what he was used to. She kissed with open desire. The hand at his neck was honest in its urging, while the fingers splayed on his cheek said she was ready to follow wherever he wanted to go.
    Which, at this point, was all the way to the bold, bright moon hanging overhead.
    A loud crash resounded behind them, and Grady jerked, every nerve leaping to high alert as he instinctively gathered Laurel to his chest, turning his back to the sound and ducking his head.
    As soon as he realized shrapnel wasn’t about to rain down on them and it was just the back door slamming against the brick wall, he released Laurel and spun in time to see Ethan lurch into the parking lot. Chance followed close on the captain’s heels, and the definite lack of humor in his usually mirthful green eyes broadcast the seriousness of the situation.
    “I think you should go inside,” he murmured to Laurel, but before she could reply, the captain staggered toward them, blocking her exit. Grady held her behind his back with one hand.
    “Sergeant Reid,” Ethan declared, as if it had been years since they’d seen each other rather than minutes.
    “No need for formalities—I’m a civilian now,” he replied with forced joviality, his gaze asking Chance for a clue as to what was happening. Chance inclined his head toward Ethan’s hip, and Grady’s pulse began to pound in his temples.
    Ethan squinted at him. Grady’s jaw tensed.
    “Let me show the doctor here back inside, then I’ll come out and join y’all. Anyone need another drink?” He clamped a hand on her upper arm and tried to usher Laurel toward the door, but in the next second Ethan had drawn his sidearm from his concealed-carry holster. The Beretta gleamed dully under the lamps, and Grady gave Laurel a hard shove in the direction of the door, turning his back on her to block her from Ethan’s view.
    “You don’t need that out here, Cap.” He held up his palms, noting that Chance had moved to stand directly behind Ethan. “We’re back home now. We’re safe.”
    “Safe.” Ethan practically spat the word in disgust. “We’re no safer here than we were in Kunar. The hostiles just wear ties instead of pakols .”
    “Maybe so,” he agreed honestly. “But there’s none of them out here—only me and McKinley. And you know we’ve got your six.”
    “I do. I do know that.” He swayed on his feet. Chance took a step closer, one hand poised to take the gun. Grady held his breath, willing the officer who’d saved his life half a dozen times to drop it so they could all get out of there.
    Without warning, Ethan stiffened into a shooting stance, aimed out into the parking lot and fired.
    Laurel’s subdued shriek was his first clue that she hadn’t sneaked inside as instructed. A quick