it.
The extra exhilaration in his blood didn’t take long to find its way between his thighs.
Happened almost instantly, in fact, as soon as he pivoted to take her in once more,
making him suddenly feel like it had been eight years since last seeing her, not hours.
Per his growled command after she’d turned him into human pizza for the third time,
she was dressed for purpose, not prettiness: a khaki work shirt tucked into skinny
jeans, leading down to sturdy hiking boots with green and pink striped socks bunched
around the tops. Her hair was styled just as practically, a single side braid roped
over one shoulder. An Angels baseball cap covered the top of her head.
God damn . If anything, the attire enhanced everything that awakened him sexually to her—even
the fandom for the Halos. What woman wore attire for a trip to the wilderness but still looked like fucking Aphrodite?
This was definitely going down as his most uncomfortable op-that-wasn’t-an-op.
Screw that. Off the books or otherwise, he was damn glad this was the first and last
time he and Brynna Monet would be “working” together.
Shay strode onto the tarmac behind her, bearing her small duffel bag. He actually
looked a lot better, though half-moons of darkness still haunted the bottoms of his
eye sockets. Though Brynn had come to an abrupt halt in her tracks, Bommer kept walking,
holding out a hand to greet Sam.
“Braw Boy. Good to see you, you filthy Highlander.”
“Same to you, drizzle shit.” The weatherman was at it again. Insults that sounded
like compliments. Shay didn’t let that pineapple wither too long on the ground, though.
He lobbed back a scorcher that somehow linked Sam’s ass with nuclear fallout, but
Rebel was beyond caring about the particulars—
Not when he noticed that Brynn still looked rooted into the blacktop. And stood more
rigid than the damn light poles.
He approached her, wondering if the deer-in-the-headlights routine was just her elaborate
set-up for the verbal smack-down she’d surely been working on since last night—when
doing the real thing to him. Three times in a row to be exact, as he’d been eloquently
reminded by a very gleeful Rhett. But even as he stepped close enough to see the caramel
ribbons that swirled through the chocolate of her gaze, she barely breathed, let alone
spoke.
Correction. She breathed, all right. In harsh, tight spurts that got sucked back in
as fast as they escaped. At her sides, her fingertips trembled, in between tapping
her thighs in a Morse code solely of her translation.
A frown pushed at his brows.
If he didn’t know better, he’d peg her vibe as…afraid. Scared shitless, actually.
“Brynn?”
She jerked a glance over, though not in surprise or fear. Not at him, at least. So
what the hell had her so fugazi , she was tossing aside a perfectly good chance to rib him once more?
“Brynn?” He lightly cupped her shoulder. Her muscles were as stiff as the steel in
the poles. “ Ca vien, minette ?”
His prompt seemed to work on a little of her strange trance. She blinked fast, swallowed
hard then pointed across the tarmac. “We’re going to Texas…in that?”
“Would I have told you to meet me here otherwise?” He deliberately chose a lighter
tone—out of concern, not cruelty. His sarcasm always seemed to bring out hers. Hopefully,
she’d grab the bait.
No chance.
“You told me we were taking an airplane.”
The wobble in her voice only intensified. Hell, talk about a perfect chance for turnabout
fair play. But taking advantage of a person’s fear was what terrorists did—a truth
he knew through firsthand experience. Entirely too much of it.
He deepened his hold on her shoulder, instead. “It’s a sturdy machine, Brynna.”
“It’s an oversized child’s toy.” She yanked from his hold, hunching her shoulders
in, starting to bite a nail.
His frown dug in deeper, coinciding with his
The extra exhilaration in his blood didn’t take long to find its way between his thighs.
Happened almost instantly, in fact, as soon as he pivoted to take her in once more,
making him suddenly feel like it had been eight years since last seeing her, not hours.
Per his growled command after she’d turned him into human pizza for the third time,
she was dressed for purpose, not prettiness: a khaki work shirt tucked into skinny
jeans, leading down to sturdy hiking boots with green and pink striped socks bunched
around the tops. Her hair was styled just as practically, a single side braid roped
over one shoulder. An Angels baseball cap covered the top of her head.
God damn . If anything, the attire enhanced everything that awakened him sexually to her—even
the fandom for the Halos. What woman wore attire for a trip to the wilderness but still looked like fucking Aphrodite?
This was definitely going down as his most uncomfortable op-that-wasn’t-an-op.
Screw that. Off the books or otherwise, he was damn glad this was the first and last
time he and Brynna Monet would be “working” together.
Shay strode onto the tarmac behind her, bearing her small duffel bag. He actually
looked a lot better, though half-moons of darkness still haunted the bottoms of his
eye sockets. Though Brynn had come to an abrupt halt in her tracks, Bommer kept walking,
holding out a hand to greet Sam.
“Braw Boy. Good to see you, you filthy Highlander.”
“Same to you, drizzle shit.” The weatherman was at it again. Insults that sounded
like compliments. Shay didn’t let that pineapple wither too long on the ground, though.
He lobbed back a scorcher that somehow linked Sam’s ass with nuclear fallout, but
Rebel was beyond caring about the particulars—
Not when he noticed that Brynn still looked rooted into the blacktop. And stood more
rigid than the damn light poles.
He approached her, wondering if the deer-in-the-headlights routine was just her elaborate
set-up for the verbal smack-down she’d surely been working on since last night—when
doing the real thing to him. Three times in a row to be exact, as he’d been eloquently
reminded by a very gleeful Rhett. But even as he stepped close enough to see the caramel
ribbons that swirled through the chocolate of her gaze, she barely breathed, let alone
spoke.
Correction. She breathed, all right. In harsh, tight spurts that got sucked back in
as fast as they escaped. At her sides, her fingertips trembled, in between tapping
her thighs in a Morse code solely of her translation.
A frown pushed at his brows.
If he didn’t know better, he’d peg her vibe as…afraid. Scared shitless, actually.
“Brynn?”
She jerked a glance over, though not in surprise or fear. Not at him, at least. So
what the hell had her so fugazi , she was tossing aside a perfectly good chance to rib him once more?
“Brynn?” He lightly cupped her shoulder. Her muscles were as stiff as the steel in
the poles. “ Ca vien, minette ?”
His prompt seemed to work on a little of her strange trance. She blinked fast, swallowed
hard then pointed across the tarmac. “We’re going to Texas…in that?”
“Would I have told you to meet me here otherwise?” He deliberately chose a lighter
tone—out of concern, not cruelty. His sarcasm always seemed to bring out hers. Hopefully,
she’d grab the bait.
No chance.
“You told me we were taking an airplane.”
The wobble in her voice only intensified. Hell, talk about a perfect chance for turnabout
fair play. But taking advantage of a person’s fear was what terrorists did—a truth
he knew through firsthand experience. Entirely too much of it.
He deepened his hold on her shoulder, instead. “It’s a sturdy machine, Brynna.”
“It’s an oversized child’s toy.” She yanked from his hold, hunching her shoulders
in, starting to bite a nail.
His frown dug in deeper, coinciding with his
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