Wounded Courage (Lucky Thirteen) by S.M. Butler Page B

to antagonize him, you know. He’s trying.”
    I sunk down on to the couch again. The fight was gone again. My intention hadn’t been to chase my brother out. I was just frustrated and annoyed and I didn’t know how to handle it anymore.
    “You guys don’t have to hold me here.”
    “We kinda do.” He was unapologetic. I had to give him props for honesty. “I’ll level with you, Addison. You weren’t being truthful with us before. I know it. Chris knows it. Pretty soon, LT will know it. You need to level with us. Let me help you before it gets more complicated.”
    I bit my lip and leaned back against the couch. That was interesting. Will know? Did that mean that his commanding officer didn’t know about me yet? Murphy took my now empty container from my hands and set it on the table. His arm stretched out over the back of the couch behind me, bringing him closer. His eyes searched mine, for what I didn’t know. But whatever it was, I wasn’t sure if he found it or not.
    “What do you want me to say, Murphy?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” He didn’t move back, and I didn’t want him to. “Why don’t you ever use my first name?”
    That was right out of left field Why did he want to know that all of a sudden? “I do use your first name.”
    “No, you don’t. You haven’t. Not since I met you.” He shook his head. “Why is that? Is there something wrong with my name?”
    “You’re not an Eamon to me,” I replied. “You’re Murphy. It’s who you are.”
    His brow furrowed. I wasn’t sure if it was confusion or irritation. Did he not like me using his last name? Everyone called him Murphy. And if I called him Eamon, it would make me too close to him. I needed distance, if only to maintain my sanity.
    “You could call me Hardy,” I offered.
    He laughed and shook his head. “No. I call your brother Hardy. That would just be weird.”
    “Oh.” My cheeks flushed with heat.. There was little other meaning I could take from that. The heat in his eyes cemented that hypothesis into theory. “Why would it be weird?”
    “Because there are things I’d like to do with you that I would never do with your brother.” As if punctuation, he leaned in, his breath smelling of cilantro and beef. His cologne enveloped my senses, surrounding me like a cocoon. His lips brushed my cheek. “I like your name. Addison. It’s smart. It’s sensual.”
    I liked him saying it. His voice was velvety and sexy, my inner thighs tingled with the beginnings of desire I had no business feeling. His hand, the one that wasn’t behind me, landed on my thigh furthest from him. The sharp intake of breath was involuntary. I couldn’t help it and my breath shuddered unevenly. His hand was hot, his palm leaving sparks across my skin. There was no mistaking his intentions now, as if I could have before. As if I’d wanted to at all.
    Traitors that my hands were, I found them fisting his t-shirt, and pulling him closer. But instead of kissing me, his lips made contact with my neck, soft little droplets of kisses covering my skin with each movement of his head. A tiny whimper of appreciation escaped me. I felt his smirk, even as his hand slid up my uninjured thigh and squeezed lightly. I’d have died to have this attention when I was younger. My teenage love for Murphy hadn’t ever really died. I’d buried it when I realized he hadn’t wanted me, and that was where it needed to stay.
    “Addison.” He needed to quit saying my name. I was dying here. I wasn’t thinking right. This guy made me want to spill all my secrets to him. He made me want to cling to him and never let go. I wanted him to touch me, every inch of me. The heat of his hand hyper-sensitized me, sent sharp tendrils of desire through every single nerve in my body as he stroked the flesh of my thigh. And yet, there I was, tilting my head to give him better access to my mouth, in absolute opposition to common sense.
    The