“Fuck me, Jake.”
A slow-forming, wicked smile curved his lips. “I love it when my woman talks dirty.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My woman. Her man.
Some kind of milestone had just passed between them and although Jake knew she wanted to hear words of love, he just couldn’t say them. That he felt them, he’d accepted. But he’d created this scenario in his mind of a special night where he romanced her and led up to telling her. This was a first for him and he didn’t want to mess it up. There would be dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Pensacola—where that was, he didn’t know but he’d find out—and there would be flowers, maybe a walk on the beach in the moonlight. An engagement ring? That one, he hadn’t decided yet.
The other thing stopping him from promising her anything was his upcoming mission. He just had a bad feeling about it, one he couldn’t shake. If something happened to him, if he was killed or, worse, maimed, he wouldn’t have her obligated to him. She was too beautiful, too special to be reduced to a life of playing nursemaid.
So he would wait.
He lowered himself over her, taking his weight on his elbows. “Hang on for the ride of your life, Chiquita,” he whispered next to her ear. Her legs immediately wrapped around his hips, and her arms circled his neck in a death grip.
With his body, Jake tried to show her that he loved her.
Weren’t women supposed to like talking after sex? Jake smiled as he memorized how sweet Maria looked asleep, tucked up under his arm. Her hand rested over his heart as if even in sleep she needed to know it still beat. Well, it did. For her.
He dozed off, his mind already on the coming days and wanting them over so he could come back and tell her how much he loved her. At three, he slid down the bed and woke her with his tongue. He didn’t have another condom so he couldn’t bury himself in her slick heat like he wanted. But he pleasured her until she screamed his name. It was the sound he would take with him.
When they got married and had kids, he’d need to build a soundproof bedroom. If they got married.
When her turn came—or was it his?—she slid down his body and teased him with her tongue before sucking him into her mouth. He came with a force that had him reeling, and the words he’d been holding back almost escaped.
Just in time, he stopped them.
Exhausted and sated, he slept a few more hours while holding her in his arms. At six, he eased out of bed and groped around in the dark until he found his jeans. Slipping them on, he quietly walked outside and pulled his cell out of his front pocket, punching in Logan’s number.
“I’ll have her at the safe house in two hours. I assume Saint’s there, waiting.” Even though Fortunada was once again in jail, he knew Kincaid wouldn’t allow her to be without a guard again until she was back home in Pensacola. Jake was damn glad she’d be in good hands. It was the only reason he’d be able to walk onto a plane that would take him almost seven thousand miles away from her.
A long pause followed before Kincaid answered. “Yes. When you get back, we need to talk.”
The boss wanted to know his intentions, but that was between him and Maria. “No, I don’t think we do.” He clicked off and went back inside to wake her.
Jake studied the weapons spread out on the rickety table, every instinct screaming at him to dump all this shit in the trash and return home with his team. Har-Shaf had managed to get everything on their list, all right. Problem was, it was all just that—shit. There wasn’t a piece on the table in decent shape, not a thing had been taken care of the way weapons should be. He picked up one of the AK-47s and slid a finger over the rusted trigger. The thing was just as likely to explode and kill one of them as it was a bad guy.
“Let’s see what we can salvage here,” he said. “Where is Har-Shaf, anyway?”
The condition of the weapons was worrisome. Har-Shaf had never let them down before. Of course, with the way things were in Egypt these days, it might have been too dangerous for Har-Shaf to put his hands on the best toys.
“Haven’t seen him since he dropped us here and said he’d go get some food. That was yesterday morning,” Stewart said as he and Bayne pulled up stools and went to work.
Har-Shaf had spooked, and the blame for that belonged to him. If he’d stepped off that plane when he was supposed to, Har-Shaf would now be sitting in this room with them. Hiding his unease, he settled down next to Bayne, picked up a handgun, and began to clean it. Bayne’s nerves were showing and that concerned him.