And then I begin to move.
Desire roars to an inferno inside me with each slow withdrawal and then sharp plunge back into the depths of her pleasure. My God. Between the moan that falls from her lips, the way she lifts her hips up each time I thrust back in that squeezes around my cock, and the feel of her wetness at the top of my shaft that teases me… fuck. It’s like a goddamn roller coaster of sensation that’s climbing up to that inevitable drop I know is coming, but I’m trying to close my eyes and fight the release.
“Right there. Yes!” She draws out the moan in that throaty voice of hers that sounds like satisfaction.
I pick up the pace. My balls ache so damn bad and my dick swells to the point of pain. I try to hold back so that I can bring her there first. Make her writhe and moan and milk my cock to help me reach mine. But when I look down at my thumb on her swollen clit, her tits jiggling with each thrust I make, her hands at her sides gripping the sheets, and the mist of sweat on her chest reflected in the moonlight, the mixture of her beauty and the intensity of the act itself pushes me to work at this a little harder.
In order to please my partner, I usually try to hold out as long as possible. That’s just not gonna happen this time. No fucking way, because the minute I hear BJ moan out that she’s going to come, I lose sight of everything else in the room.
Usually I take pleasure in watching my companion ride that high that seems so goddamn intense for a woman, but this time I don’t have the wherewithal for that. She tenses around me and pulls me to the edge hard and fast. My vision goes white, then black, as the ball of energy churns in my gut and branches out to my limbs like the beginning of a lightning rod. The combination of her crying out and me pressing her legs back so I can get as deep as possible drives me to the point of no return.
I climax with a hard groan as the electricity bursts through me, my nerve endings singed, my muscles tensed, and my body riding that sexual high. My dick is so goddamn sensitive that her muscles’ contracting causes me to pull out quicker than usual.
As I gaze down at her lying on the bed, a blanket of hair framing her flushed cheeks, and her body still quivering, I smile shyly with awkwardness at her and get a smile in return, but it’s the look in her eyes I can’t read. She looks conflicted, guarded, like she wants to tell me something but isn’t speaking up.
I shrug away the feeling because my fingers are still gripping the flesh of her thighs and my dick’s coated from her pleasure, so does it really matter what the hell she’s thinking? Maybe she’s just uncertain what to say, because what’s considered polite conversation when we’ve just fucked after meeting for a whole twenty minutes max?
We both startle when the ring of my cell phone cuts through the uncomfortable silence. And I swear I catch my sigh of relief before I blow it out; although I’m relieved to be saved by the bell, I want to mitigate any inevitable discomfort between us.
A gentleman would ignore his cell, and normally I’m just that. But in light of the situation and the fact that I’m waiting for a call from Rafe, I’m going to take the convenient out. When I glance to the floor where my phone sits faceup, I can just make out his name on the screen.
“Sorry. I can’t not get this.” I feel like such a dick, but it doesn’t stop me, and I squeeze her inner thighs in a show of regret. “I’m sorry,” I murmur again, meeting her surprised eyes as she unwraps her legs from around my waist. I take a step back, and I quickly avert my eyes as I toe the edge of embarrassment.
She murmurs something about understanding that I’m not sure I believe as I pick up my phone and head toward the bathroom to try and get some privacy in this tiny room.
“Dude. Do you have any clue what fucking time it is?” I ask the question to save face on why I sound winded, but then I look at my watch and realize it’s two o’clock in the damn morning.
“No. No damn clue, but you picked up awfully fast, so I know you’re not sleeping.” His statement hangs on the line like a question, but I just ignore it.
“What do you need, Rafe?” I glance over my shoulder to see BJ lying on the bed but covering herself up with the sheet. Shit. Well, I guess I can look on the bright side; more sex might be in my immediate future. That’s never a bad thing.
“Got your new photographer lined up. Name’s Bo Croslyn. I set it up for you two to meet in the normal place,” he says, referring to the hotel’s one pseudo–conference room all of us correspondents have taken over as our place to do official business when we need privacy and we’re not out in the field.
I knew this phone call was coming, knew I was going to get a new photog, but for some reason having it actually happen makes me feel like I’m betraying Stella. Ridiculous.
“Experience?” I ask as I take the condom off and toss it in the trash can next to the toilet. The line fills with silence while I turn the faucet on and clean up. “Rafe? What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing abroad just —”
“Nothing abroad?” My voice escalates. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re sending me a goddamn newbie? Some fresh-faced kid that’s going to get himself killed… or better yet, get me killed. What the —”
“Calm down. That’s not what —”
“This. Is. Calm.” I grit the words out. The false calm from the whiskey and the orgasm that were like a salve to soothe the invisible wounds is now gone. “Jesus H., man. After Stella… after how that went down, you’re gonna do this to me?”
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Bo’s pictures are killer.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I catch a fleeting glimpse of BJ in the mirror, but I don’t turn to look because I’m so damn busy being pissed at Rafe.
“That’s not what I meant, Tanner.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Just wait. I think you guys will really click.”
“I don’t need you to bullshit me. I really don’t. The only click I need from Bo is the damn camera’s.”
Rafe chuckles into the line, but I know he’s just humoring me. I don’t have a damn leg to stand on since I’m the one who begged to be back here.
“Oh wow. I didn’t realize how late it was there. I’m so sorry,” he says, feigning apology to change the subject.
“Uh-huh.”
“Meet Bo at ten a.m. I’m late for a meeting.”
“Rafe —” The rest of my comment dies on my lips when the line goes dead. Fucking hell. Seriously?
I slam my fist against the cheap bathroom counter, but I haven’t even been here long enough to have any products on it to rattle. Something about the thought hits home. Why? Because I’m back and it’s all so different but the same too. I toss the phone onto the towel there, brace my hands on the Formica edge, and let my head hang down for a brief moment to rein in my frustration.
“I’m sorry about that,” I say as I walk back into the room. My steps falter when I take in the empty bed and my clothes as the sole items strewn on the floor. My immediate reaction is to stride toward the door, call her back, and apologize. Hell yes, it was a one-night stand, but my mother raised me to respect women.
Then I laugh at the thought, finding humor in the notion, considering what BJ and I just did: wham, bam, and not even a thank you, ma’am.
When I realize how stupid I am for almost chasing after her since I don’t want anything more, I take my hand off the door, turn around, and stand there naked with my hands on my hips. I glance around my room to see if anything was disturbed. People are ruthless trying to get a leg up on a story in this industry, but shit, I’ve been here for less than a day; it’s not like I have some big scoop worth stealing. Besides, I’m smart enough not to leave anything out if I did.
Look at me, paranoid already, and I’ve only been back in the game for less than twenty-four hours. Just like riding a bike. I sigh at my stupidity and make my way to the bed, but with Rafe’s words still ringing in my ears, BJ’s kiss still on my lips, and perfume on my sheets, I know sleep will be hard to find.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and lie back, scrubbing my hand over my face. What a fucking day. Back in this land I love and hate all at the same time with ghosts I need to let go. Except I fucking can’t. Add to that how goddamn good it was to see all of the guys again and the unanticipated bout of sex.
The longer I lie here, the more I think about everything. I blame jet lag for my inability to sleep, but the problem is that no matter how much I try to pull my thoughts from BJ, they keep going back to her. It has to be her damn perfume clinging to my skin and the sheets, but I don’t get up to take a shower.
Even though I need sleep to get a leg up on the wicked time difference that’s going to hit me with a sledgehammer in the coming days, it doesn’t come no matter how hard I try. So I divert my thoughts and make a mental list of sources I want to contact by week’s end, military and locals, to try and get some information on what Pauly was talking about earlier, the rumored meeting of high-level opposition. But the moment I close my eyes to will sleep to come, I see BJ and her sexy-as-hell body laid out before me on the bed. I hear that little moan she made right before she came that was a plea to both move faster and to prolong things all at the same time.
And then my mind veers to the thought that we came at the same time like in some goddamn cheesy romance novel. Why does that bug me? Why does our bodies being so in sync with each other throw me off, make me wonder if there is something more to it than incredible timing?
Shut it down, Tanner. It’s been a long ass day.
Scratch that. Try a long ass few months.
Close your eyes.
Go to sleep.
Chapter 4
“Y
es, I’m here and I’m doing fine, Ry,” I tell her for the tenth time over the course of our conversation.
“I guess I have no choice but to believe you. And don’t sound so condescending. I’m your sister – I’m allowed to worry about you. It’s just…” Her voice fades off. “With everything that happened with Stella, I’m…”
“I’m fine. I promise. I’m not taking any unnecessary risks, but I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon.” I know never to give her a date or time because if I don’t call by then, she’ll get even more worried.
“’Kay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I end the call and look at the time on the screen. It’s ten fifteen. So first day on the job and I can’t say I’m too impressed with the new photographer they’ve assigned me, considering he’s already late.
Add to that this room makes me antsy as fuck. The last time I was in here was with Stella. We’d fought. She stormed out. Goddamn ghosts.
So I pace back and forth for a few minutes, constantly checking my watch, with my irritation growing each time I change directions. Ten more minutes pass and I’m pissed. I don’t have time for an unprofessional person without courtesy. The world outside the window passes me by as I wait for Rafe to pick up the damn phone.
“So you’ve met?” There’s amusement in his tone when he answers the phone, and my chafed nerves get even more ruffled.
“Nope. Didn’t show. Glad to know you hired a real professional.” Sarcasm is thick in my voice as I lean a shoulder against the window and watch a woman struggle to carry her wares from the market on the dirt-covered street below.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. That’s what you get for hiring a goddamn rookie, Rafe. This is —”
“I told you Bo’s not a rookie. She has a great portfolio, security clearance for the base too. Just because she hasn’t been —”
“Wait, what?” There’s not a goddamn chance in hell I just heard him right. I close my eyes and shake my head. “You meant he, right? Just because he…?” Silence passes through the line. I can picture Rafe leaning his hip against his desk, lips pursed, and the furrow in his brow that he gets when he’s put on the spot. “Last night you referred to Bo as a he, so why today are you using the pronoun she?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “Last night you referred to Beaux as he. Not me.”
“What kind of name is Bo, anyway?”
“The kind that’s spelled B-E-A-U-X,” he says, amusement thick in his tone, and I’m not too thrilled about being mocked. Images of a rough-and-tumble tomboy come to mind, and I hate her out of reflex.
“Isn’t that a guy’s name?”
“I assure you, she’s all woman, all right,” he murmurs, shattering the image I’ve created in my head of her and concurrently pissing me off because he acts as if the fact she has tits and ass will ease the sting of what I feel is his deception. “And it’s on you that you assumed Beaux was a male.” His chuckle grates on my nerves.
“And what? You didn’t correct me because you knew I was going to flip my shit and tell you to go to hell?” My pulse thunders and my hands shake with anger. “What the fuck, man?”
Snapshots of Stella flip through my mind. My promise to never let anything happen to her. Her body covered in blood while chaos swirled all around us. White flowers on her black casket. Having to look her parents in the eye and explain the circumstances and that ultimately it was my fault.
“What’s your problem, Thomas? Male or female… The sex of your photographer shouldn’t affect how you do your job.”
Shouldn’t affect me? He’s crazy.
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” I shout, fist pounding once against the windowsill.
“I beg to differ.” His calm, even tone spurs my anger even further.
“A chick? I have enough of a problem keeping my own ass safe here. I mean after everything that happened with Stella… you’re going to put me back in the same goddamn boat?” My voice hitches, and I hate that it fucking does, hate that after five months I’m still affected. I take a calming breath even though it does nothing for me. At least Stella knew the ground rules, the mistakes not to make – and yet she still ended up dead.
“You wanted to return and get back in the saddle. I told you I didn’t think you were ready.”
“So that’s what this is? Some fucking proving ground?” Fire is in my veins and ice in my voice.
“Having a tough time there, are you? Been back less than forty-eight hours, and you’re just starting to realize that whether you’re there or here in your house, Stella’s still everywhere. Not as easy as you thought, right?”
Is he fucking serious? I wasn’t aware that he ever got a doctorate in psychology. I run a hand through my hair and then lean my forehead to the glass as I recognize that Rafe’s trying to prove a point on which I really don’t feel like being the test subject.
And yes, he’s absolutely right, but hell if I’m going to admit it.
“I’m perfectly fine.” I mutter the words with more conviction than I feel. Fuck if I haven’t gotten good at repeating them over the past few months. I’m so damn sick of people asking how I’m doing. I’m alive. She’s not. End of goddamn story. How do they think I feel?
He laughs loudly into the line, and the sound grates on every frayed nerve that I have. “Keep telling yourself that and maybe one day you will be. But the fact of the matter is that you’re one of my oldest colleagues and friends, and I want to make sure you’re okay. What better way to get you on your feet again than by throwing you right back in the fire you were burned by?” He pauses momentarily to let his comments sink in and burrow tiny little grappling hooks into my nerves, forcing me to see his truth through the pain.
“This is such a crock,” I grit out between my clenched teeth, trying to figure out what’s really going on here. “Since when do I have to prove shit to you, Rafe?”
“You don’t.” He sighs in exasperation. “I don’t make the decisions, Tan. I just make sure they’re carried out.”
“How do those strings feel tied to your hands and feet?” I ask, followed by a circus tune to reinforce my puppet reference.
“Dude, her portfolio is really incredible. Top notch.”
“Uh-huh… Remi
nd me of that when you bitch at me for losing the story because I’m so busy holding her goddamn hand so she doesn’t get us killed. I didn’t come here to put my jacket over puddles to make sure some fresh-out-of-college punk doesn’t get mud on her high heels.”
“Shit, and I packed my Louboutins too.”
The voice at my back has me whirling around, mouth lax, mind trying to catch up and put the pieces together. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach when I see BJ standing with her shoulder against the doorjamb: Arms folded, she’s wearing a tank top with faded blue jeans, an arrogant smirk on those expressive lips of hers, and shoes that are most definitely not of the stiletto variety.
I blame the jet lag for the momentary lapse as the situation hits me full force. Rafe’s voice is in my ear babbling, and my one-night fling stands before me, but now she’s so much more than just that.
How did I not see this coming from a mile away?
“Seriously, Rafe?” They’re the only words I can form as I stare at BJ… well Beaux, I assume. My body reacts viscerally to both the sight and memory of what she feels like, but common sense tells me I’ve been played on so many fucking ends of the field that I might as well sit on the bench and throw in the goddamn towel.
“Ah. She must be there. She’s easy on the eyes, huh?” he asks, trying to use her beauty as a way to soften the blow as I walk back toward the window, not wanting to deal with her just yet.
“No. She’s not hot,” I tell him, damn well knowing she can hear me. She’s far from fucking hot. She’s drop dead gorgeous. Elegant. Sexy. All of the goddamn above.
Pissed off, I hang up on Rafe without another word. My mind reels, I’m questioning my judgment, and I find the world outside the hotel so much easier to focus on than our personalities clashing in here.