He chuckled. She giggled. After a moment, he sobered. Brynn followed suit again. "What?" she prompted, eyes narrowing.
He shook his head. Cocked another smirk. "Nothing. It just feels good to hear you laughing."
"Why?"
"Truth? I was a little worried about an elephant in the room. A big, black-haired Cajun one."
He wasn't sure how she'd react to that. The way she firmed her face, along with tucking a pillow to raise herself a little closer to him, was encouraging. "I'm a grown woman, Rhett. I harbored no illusions about what Rebel and I shared during the plane ride this morning-or what this was, between you and I." Her lips quirked. "Let's face it. You're both damn delicious heroes, and my weakness for military sugar is legendary. All circumstances considered, my willpower is zilch right now. Zoe herself would tell me I'm allowed a stress-induced cheat day, especially with two such cooperative … treats."
Though she ended it with a more pronounced giggle, he didn't miss how her lips faltered when mentioning her friend. On top of his post-sex high, she struck him with a fresh jolt of awe. She was pretty fucking astounding, having left everything behind to help save Zoe. As a soldier, it was his job to do this all the time: his life got dropped, often with just a few hours of notice, for the sake of missions. But she was a civilian, with a job, a home, and college classes, perhaps even a pet and family nearby. Damn.
Against every protest of his logic, he adored her a little deeper. Sealed the deal by leaning back over her, dipping his lips to hers in a long, wet, lingering kiss that had them both breathing hard by the time they pulled apart. "You're a pretty juicy lollipop yourself, Miss Monet," he drawled. "And damn if I don't want another lick already."
"Mmmm." She lazed back with a come-hither smile. "Don't think I wouldn't take you up on that offer, Sergeant-if we didn't have a teammate to support in another hour."
He couldn't ignore issuing the obvious comeback. "You think it would take an hour?"
Her eyebrows arched. "I wouldn't put it past you, Rhett Lange." A new giggle spilled out as soon as he puffed out his chest. "Now do you feel better about the big Cajun elephant?"
He rolled her to the side, just enough to retaliate by soundly smacking one of her delectable ass cheeks. Brynn squealed and scrambled away, making it easy to counter with a laugh-all perfect disguises for the actual answer to her charge.
He didn't feel better about the Cajun at all.
And the fresh twitches in his cock weren't about to let him forget.
Chapter Seven
‡
He's fucked her.
Rebel was certain of the fact almost the second he walked back into Dax's house, wearily plunking his pack onto the entrance foyer's terra-cotta tiles.
It had started as a tickle in his ear during the mission, niggling him in the Rhett Lange subtext he knew better than anyone else. Unlike the overplayed Brit slang that had defined their earlier comm check, Double-Oh checked in with him for the op itself with a tone that was all talk show host congeniality, even when relaying the "fun" little tidbit that the Verge complex had sprouted a pair of guard dogs for the night. Thank fuck for the animal tranq syringes they'd added to the just-in-case pocket of the mission pack. A pair of well-aimed shots ensured the pooches napped during the rest of the time it took for him to disable the three yard cameras, hotwire the loading dock security panel, and set the camera inside the main building.
He'd barely broken a sweat-until that moment.
Right after Rhett's all-clear for the camera, confirming the device was powered and working correctly, alarms honked all over the complex. Somebody inside hadn't been happy about him murdering the yard cameras, so quickly informed fifty of his dearest buddies. A smoke canister had already been at his fingertips. While setting it off provided the diversion he needed, it also sent the guards running toward the hole he'd carefully snipped in the back fence in order to get into the place. He'd groaned softly then barked at Rhett to punch the proper buttons in order to make Plan B happen.
Plan B. Fuck.
He hadn't expected it to be a shred of fun. And damn it if he hadn't learned to peg most of his life expectations just about right.
As he straightened from dropping the pack, the verification of his accuracy bled from him-literally. The second Rhett doused the power grid the Verge complex belonged to, he'd handed Reb a ticking time clock. Only thirty seconds until the backup generators revved to life. Half a minute to sprint for another section of the fence and hurl all the way over-between the lines of vertical barbed wire at the top.
"Oh, thank God. You made it!" Brynn rushed across the living room, arms stretched toward him. Like the wrung-out idiot he was, Reb stuck up both thumbs-deterring her from fully embracing him. That seemed just fine by her.
Surprise, surprise.
"Welcome back, partner." Rhett drawled it in an awful twang as he moved up behind her, though his gaze conveyed genuine affection. Could that have had anything to do with the hand he pressed to the small of Brynna's back, the dude's version of draping a letterman's jacket over her shoulders? Of course, Double-Oh hadn't worn anything other than Gucci or Burberry before he'd accepted his commission-not that Brynn wouldn't be content with those, either. She accepted his contact without a flinch, settling in with ease, as if knowing she'd be thoroughly cherished in that embrace.
Surprise fucking surprise.
The words resounded through him, their echoes stained in bitterness. He didn't like any of this-what Rhett had pulled or his reaction-and showed it with a dark scowl that matched the twelves places he was really bleeding.
He had no right to the anger. More importantly, it had no right to him. If Saul Stafford had taught him anything in life, it was the pitfalls of attachment, devotion, and caring too much. They all led to nowhere but life with a hooch bottle for a best friend, gazing at a swamp full of gators with a heart full of heartbreak. Hadn't this afternoon's misere in the kitchen proved as much? He'd tried, damn it. For the first time in a very long time, he'd ventured out on a cliff of risk and invited Rhett to join him, to fly from the ledge together. And he'd expected something other than the bastard's shut-down … why?
That answer didn't matter.
The truth was … he hadn't expected this.
Despite his fight, more frustration flew in. Anger joined it. They settled on his shoulders and camped there like a pair of cemetery crows.
Fine, assholes. You want to hang out? Be my guests.
The beady fuckers turned into his best amis, as he fixed a dismal stare on Rhett. "Good to be back, partner." He glanced lazily at Double-Oh's possessive hand, now winding around Brynn's waist. "Anything … interesting happen while I was gone?"
At least he could look forward to Rhett's squirm. Even if it was just for a few seconds, he'd revel in it like-
It never happened.
"Holy crap." Brynn lunged forward, yanking on both his arms. "That shit on the fence didn't just slice apart your clothes!"
This wasn't helping. Goddamn, no. She wasn't supposed to be affecting him like this, simply with the concern in her touch. And the anxiety in her eyes. And the frenzy of her cute little tongue, all over her berry-dark lips.
Lips significantly more swollen between this afternoon and now.
He jerked back. Clenched his hands at his sides. "It was barbed wire, Brynna. I'm fine. They're surface scratches."
"Scratches?" she retorted. "You're bleeding!"
"It happens." Or so he'd heard. Since he was the guy called to light or defuse the fireworks, he usually strutted in after perimeters had been cleared and barbed wire chopped. That didn't make him a stranger to his own blood; the shit just usually wasn't painting zig-zag doodles down his arms and legs.
"Yeah? Well, infections happen too." She snapped it while grabbing him by a wrist and hauling him around the corner, into the kitchen. He didn't-well, couldn't-say a word as she planted him in the middle of the floor, using her other hand to retrieve a bowl and fill it from the faucet. As she started rifling through cabinets, she pointed a finger, sweeping from his head to his toes, ordering, "Off. All of it. Now."
He frowned. "All of what?"
"Clothes," she clarified. "Anything that'll get in the way of my cleaning and treating those cuts-which means you probably get to keep the briefs. Unless you're commando?"