Sleepily, eyes still closed, she reaches for my hand, winding her fingers around my wrist and pulling it down to her breast. The air whizzes through my teeth with the hiss of my want. God, how can she do this to me so easily?
She arches her back, pressing the plump mound into my palm. Reflexively I squeeze and she moans.
I want to touch her. I want to slip my fingers into the neck of her shirt. I want to feel her nipple tighten, practically begging for my mouth. I want to crush her mouth under mine. I want to drag her warm body into my lap and ram my cock into her sweet heat.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
Because this is wrong. Messed up and wrong.
I jerk my hands away, bringing Muse fully alert.
Her doe eyes blink at me once, twice, and then she looks around. “Where are we?”
My breathing is harsh and fast, and I feel like I could bite through a steel I beam. “At your dad’s.”
She glances behind her and then back at me, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong? Why are you breathing so hard?”
“I was just . . . thinking.”
“About what?” she asks, her eyes widening in alarm.
I could lie. I could spare her the discomfort of my truth. But I haven’t lied to her yet. Why start now?
“About you. About us. About how much I miss touching you, kissing you. About how much I wish I could rewind. And how much I hate that I can’t.”
Her expression is sad and wary, but not openly hostile. “You and me both,” she confesses quietly.
“Muse, if things were different . . . if I were different, I’d—”
“Don’t,” she interjects, turning away from me. “Please. Just don’t.”
It’s my turn to sigh. “Will you stay here and let me go check things out first?”
“No.”
I knew what her answer would be before she gave it. And the reason I don’t argue with her is because things will end badly enough between us without me having to restrain her in the car because I’m overly cautious where she’s concerned.
“Fine. Come on then,” I tell her, unsnapping her seatbelt before I climb out from behind the wheel. While she’s getting out, I grab her suitcase from the back seat and meet her at the rear of the car.
We walk in silence up the street. Muse is distracted, frowning as she stares off into the distance. I doubt she’d notice if an ambulance went by. I, on the other hand, am ever vigilant. I’m scanning the street and the dark spaces between houses, covertly glancing in the windows of parked cars and listening for any sounds that might seem out of place.
I notice that the license plate of a motorcycle parked along the street has a California tag. That’s when I realize that at least one of my comrades is already here. This Ducati has Rogan written all over it. Another vehicle, a black Jeep parked up the street with a cluster of grapes on the license plate, makes me think the other might be here as well. Tag, my other brother-in-arms, grew up on a vineyard, one he’s now running from what I understand. My guess is both of them are inside with the Colonel.
Muse and I mount the steps and ring the bell. There’s no answer at first, but then I hear the raised voices. I try the knob and it opens easily.
“How the hell can something like this happen? All that shit’s supposed to be classified. Which bureaucrat with a price tag has access?” I hear Rogan shout.
“I don’t know all the players, but you can damn well be sure I’m going to find out,” the Colonel replies.
I enter the kitchen with Muse trailing right behind me. All heads turn in our direction. The Colonel nods and then crosses the room to take his daughter into his arms.
“Boys, this is my daughter, Muse. Muse, this is Kiefer Rogan, goes by just Rogan, and Tag Barton. They were part of my team for a few years.”
Rogan and Tag nod their greeting to Muse. Both men are openly appreciative of her beauty, which pisses me off. I grit my teeth against the urge to lash out at them. She’s not mine. I don’t have any right to be jealous. Of course, that doesn’t make one damn bit of difference to my temper.
“Nice to meet you,” Muse says with a polite smile. I’m glad when her father leads her out of the room, leaving me alone with Rogan and Tag.
After a short pause, Rogan smiles his typical devil-may-care grin and walks over to punch me in the arm. Even though he’s horsing around, I feel the power he’s holding back. It’s no surprise that he dominates in the mixed-martial-arts championship ring.
“You dawg! Figures you’d be the first one to meet the Colonel’s daughter. Man, she’s hot as hell!”
Tag’s approach is in line with his less cowboy nature. “Good to see you, man. Sorry to hear about your mom.”