Mastered By The Mavericks(20)

"Holy shit." Her grip slipped from his elbow. She curled in her fingers  again, trying to reestablish the hold, but the uniform's slick fabric  was made for escaping much more determined attackers than her.

For a second, Rebel stared like she'd blurted that his dog died. But  only a second. He erased the expression as fast as he'd brandished it,  making her wonder if she'd imagined everything, until his vicious rasp  cut down at her.

"I'm taking off."

He spun and headed for the car, his steps eating up the front walk. Only  then did she notice the duffel bag in his hand-and the mouse cam's  hard-sided case in the other.

"I'll get dinner in the city. Tell Double-Oh I'll patch in for a comm check as soon as I'm on the road."

"From the-" She scurried to keep pace though it took three of her steps to one of his. "But that's not how you're supposed to-"

He halted her by whipping back around. "Do you think I give a fuck about the supposed-tos right now?"

A glower took over his face. His shoulders rose, hulking him up. Brynn  glared right back, hating him for every breath that shook her rib cage.  What was this? Where had the bold wonder woman of last night gone? Why  wasn't she stepping forward to knock him on his ass now-at the moment it  really mattered? What the hell had he done to her today, that all she  could focus on was the tightness around his eyes, the sharp twists of  his mouth, and the breaths that made his chest lurch in rhythm with  hers?                       
       
           



       

"Yeah," she finally murmured, "I think you do." She edged a step toward  him while digging her gaze deeper into his. "You care deeply about the  supposed-tos, Rebel-the right kind of them. If you didn't, you'd be back  in Tacoma right now, enjoying a beer, having wished Shay the best with  finding his wife. No, not even that. You'd be in Louisiana, wouldn't  you? Running a bar or a jazz joint, or maybe even a fishing boat-" She  halted, caught off guard by the sudden spike of his tension. "Okay, not a  boat. But something other than this, getting ready to risk your own  hide because of your loyalty to the brother of a brother."

She lifted a hand to his face. Tenderly combed back a bunch of his inky  waves, teased against his forehead by the approaching night wind. "Yet  you're ready to walk out on the guy who's closer to you than anybody  else."

He flinched from her. Everything but his eyes. Those he kept fixed and  steady, not even blinking, as if she'd become some harpy and laid a hex  on him. It freaked her, too. Her arm froze, hand still upright, fingers  trembling.

Something passed over his face.

Heat. And determination.

Frantically, she dropped her arm.

Too late.

He caught it, snapping fingers around her wrist. Hauled her against him so hard, she winced from the brutal surprise-

For a second.

Until he submerged the sound with the crush of his lips. The invasion of  his tongue. The heat between his thighs … spreading through the space  between hers.

Brynn struggled. Then didn't. First, there was the whole issue about  futility. He wasn't accepting supposed-tos from her in this, either. But  more extremely, why? What use would it be to fight him, when her senses  had craved this all day? What good would it be to struggle, when she'd  wondered if he'd feel this good without seatbelts in the way … when she  questioned her memories of his sinful mouth, his dominant grip, his  commanding body? And now, even his bold growls as she molded tighter  against him, twining her hands around his neck … all the things that made  him a collection of Cajun hotness she wanted igniting her blood again  and again and again …

But as swiftly as he'd started the clinch, he cut it short.

Set her away from him, letting her stumble back with balance swaying, hormones careening.

Before he slashed a hand across his lips.

Never in her life had words completely evaded her-until now. In  hindsight, the asshole probably should have been grateful for that.  Instead, he repeated with even deeper clarity, "I'll radio in from the  road." Then over his shoulder, while turning from her for the final  time, "Tell Double-Oh to be ready. We have to run this thing true as  scripture."

* * *

True as scripture.

A little under an hour later, she still wasn't sure she'd heard that  little tidbit correctly-from the mouth of the asshole who'd given her  mixed signals of-it really did apply-biblical proportion. The kisses of  an archangel, followed by the stare of a demon. A heaven of arousal,  ruined by one motion that dipped her into hell.

Excuse the hell out of me for tainting your mouth with my taste, Monsieur Jerkwad.

She barely tamed a grimace as the moment filled her mind again. If he'd  been testing out his version of the ice bucket challenge, she'd vouch  for him. It worked. His disdain had turned her from fire to ice in no  more than three seconds. She'd have said that to the bastard's beautiful  face, too-had he not sprinted for the car like a rocket was jammed up  his ass. There was another item for her pile of pissed-off.

Which, as Karma would oh-so-poetically dictate, fired back at her with vengeance now.

She could barely believe what she witnessed, looking on from the doorway  of the office, as the guys ran through their comm check. It wasn't what  they said-the alpha-soldier protocol and crazy acronyms were actually  as hot as foreplay to her-but how they said it, that ratcheted her  tension. Their exchanges were smooth and easy, sometimes bordering on  banter, reminding her of the buddies who'd been synched with each other  last night instead of the adversaries who'd slunk and snarled around  here all afternoon.

By the time they ran the final diagnostic on the mouse cam and agreed  Rebel would click back in two hours for intel support on getting the  device inside the Verge building, her composure approached prickly  status-discernibly so, if Rhett's narrowed gaze was a clear alert  system. The Viking didn't waste any words addressing the issue, either.  Damn it.

"Well, peaches, I'd cut to the compliments about your mission gear  choice,"-he waved at the shorts and Dance Your Ass Off sweatshirt she'd  changed into-"if you didn't already look like we'd failed the damn  thing."                       
       
           



       

Her face flamed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that. I'm just wondering  how the hell-" She averted her gaze and pursed her lips, acknowledging  what she was about to say and feeling three inches high for it. "Forget  it."

Rhett spun the chair around and rose from it. He didn't stop there,  flowing right into the three steps it took to get closer to her. When  only a foot separated them, he folded his arms and charged, "You're  kidding, right? You really want to ‘forget it', knowing how a guy like  me will respond to shit like that?"

She shifted a little. Shifted? Who was she kidding? He made her  completely squirm, edging closer with those hard ropes of forearm,  slicing her deeper with his steel-toned stare. She vacillated between  backing up or simply bowing her head.

Idiot.

You don't do submissive, Brynn Monet-not even for a chest that broad, a  focus that sexy, a stance that daunting. Your heart isn't a play toy for  any man, anymore. Not even "a guy like him".

The thought did the trick. Flipped the switch on her fortitude, yanking  her chin up. "I'm not asking you to ‘respond' at all. That's the point."

Tiny creases cinched the corners of his eyes. He hadn't expected her  lip, that much was clear. But the follow-up she expected-the  disappointment, the disgruntlement, perhaps both-never arrived. Instead,  a slow, knowing smile took over his lips.

Damn it.

"Got it." He murmured it softly but reinforced his posture sharply. Like  he needed the extra inch of height? "And now that it's clear, you'll  have no trouble spilling."

He dipped the end of it in enough of a growl for her to squirm again-in  much different ways. Now it was really time to move back. She did so by a  step. Another. Neither diluted the force of what he did to her now … of  the deep place inside that his snarl reached.

The place that was afraid of him.

The exact same spot that had been afraid of Rebel.

The corner of her psyche that liked it.

God. Good thing she wanted to be a shrink, because she was going to need the peer discount.

Mask the mess, Brynna. Now.

Regrettably, the fastest way to do that was divulging the truth he'd  demanded. "I was just wondering about your whole buddy-buddy on the  radio with Sergeant Sasquatch."

He spurted a chuckle. "Sasquatch? That's new. And damn good. Mind if I borrow it sometime?"

Now close enough to do so, Brynn leaned against the wall. "Sure-though I  don't imagine it'll be soon, now that you two have kissed and made up."