Lauren froze as muscular arms slid around her. Something flashed deep in Shooter’s eyes as he bent his head and captured her mouth. Breathing became optional as he attacked, a brazen assault like Marines taking a beachhead, or Vikings invading England. He was taking no prisoners as he rampaged through her countryside. Any woman should be forgiven for surrendering to a conqueror as sexy as this one.
Her hands fisted in his T-shirt and one knee rubbed up his thigh. It would be so easy to cup her sexy little ass in his hands, lift her and get her pussy centered over his dick. So much for the boner he’d just spent the last half-hour walking off. Control. He needed to find some. She was just a job. And she wasn’t his type. She was smart. A real brainiac. And cute. And curvy. And sexy. And ours, his damn wolf insisted.
Just when Lauren feared the worst—whether that was ever drawing a real breath again or if they’d finally tumble onto the bed so Shooter could ravage her, he broke the kiss. He lifted his head. She followed, blindly trying to recapture his mouth. She wasn’t done yet. She felt reckless and alive and…horny. The thought sent blood flooding into her cheeks and her skin heated with the blush. It took the sound of his low growl for Lauren to open her eyes. She froze. His green eyes flashed gold as light reflected in them. He looked untamed, primal, and she could find very little humanity in his gaze.
He blinked, knowing the wolf was bleeding out through his eyes. The damn thing clawed at him, wanting out, wanting the feel of Lauren’s hands in his fur. No! The order was sharp, meant to be obeyed even as it was a plea. Ours. The wolf pushed back. Mate! Shit. There it was again, hanging in the mental spaces he’s sealed off since his last mission in Afghanistan. The M word. This was the worst possible time for him to become moonstruck. Jeez, he’d seen Wolves go apeshit crazy when the mating urge hit. He’d heard it described as getting hit by a freight train. He’d laughed then, but he wasn’t laughing now.
Tait gripped Lauren’s arms and set her back. He literally picked her up and set her down an arm’s length away. What was going on? He’d just given her the most incredibly hot kiss of her life and now he was running cold? His lips were still wet from the kiss. So were hers, and they felt swollen, raw. She reached up, touched them, then gently wiped off the taste of him. He growled again but kept his lids lowered so she couldn’t see what was going on behind his eyes.
He gestured toward the bed farthest from the door. “Get some sleep. We’ll leave out in a couple of hours.”
Feeling chastised, like a child sent to bed without her supper and not knowing why she was in trouble, Lauren avoided his gaze. She gathered up her backpack and hugged it as she settled on the far side of the bed. She didn’t get under the covers, not trusting the sheets. Instead, she grabbed the other side of the bedspread and pulled it over her. Rolling onto her side, she gave the frustrating man her back. His rejection didn’t just sting, it hurt in a visceral way that made no logical sense. Shooter was a stranger. She didn’t even know his real name. She didn’t trust him. Not at all. But. Some part of her yearned to trust him, was positive she could. He would keep her safe. He would take care of her.
She pulled the covers tighter. She was a modern woman. She didn’t need a man to keep her safe or take care of her. She could stand on her own two feet. Except she was out of her league with the thugs Black Root sent after her. She didn’t know how to get off the grid, how to hide. She’d gotten rid of her phone and her car. She’d emptied her checking and savings account so there was that. But she didn’t know how to get a new identity that would actually pass muster. Her feeble attempts would work in a pinch, but they wouldn’t give her a safe life under an assumed name. She didn’t know much of anything about starting a new life. Was it so wrong to want someone to look after her?
Tait clicked off the light between the beds and the room fell into shadowed gloom. He could hear Lauren breathing, could hear her heart beat. And he could still smell her arousal. Dammit. He dropped onto the second bed. She wasn’t asleep which meant her brain had jumped on a hamster wheel and was spinning around and around. Yeah, he knew that feeling. His brain was doing the same damn thing.
After an hour, her breathing smoothed out. She was asleep, finally. He relaxed, reaching for the combat sleep that allowed him to get rest but remain alert to danger. His fucking dick was still hard and aching. He popped the buttons, crammed his hand inside his briefs and started pumping. If he didn’t get some relief, he wouldn’t be able to walk when they headed out again. Lauren’s scent, the remembered feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth sent him over the edge in embarrassingly quick time. He jerked off his T-shirt and used it to mop up the mess he’d made on his stomach when he came. Wadding it up, he tossed it toward his duffel. Fingers laced behind his head, he stared at the ceiling and listened to the little noises Lauren made in her sleep. He drifted off, his breathing matching hers.
****
Staring at the passing scenery, Lauren sighed. Deeply. She leveled her gaze on Shooter. Time to shatter the brittle silence stretching between them. “Come on, smile.” She added a teasing tone to her voice.
Shooter scowled but didn’t speak, nor did his expression change.
“What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like your face will break or something.”
Did he just growl at her? Fine. If Mister Shooter McSterious persisted in acting like a grouchy old bear, she’d just get a big stick and poke him. Lauren considered herself a little—okay, a lot—crazy for wanting to needle him. She also wanted to figure out the meaning of his nickname. Truth be told, she burned with the need to know the story behind said name. Curiosity had always been one of her weaknesses—as was often noted on her yearly performance evaluations. For a historian and archivist, this was a good trait, usually. That same curiosity had prompted her to dig into those files before sending them to be shredded. As an archivist, it was her job to preserve information and those particular files had been scrubbed from the data base.
She drummed her fingers on her thigh, pursing her lips then pulling the bottom one between her teeth. She felt Shooter shift beside her. Cutting her eyes his direction, she studied his profile for a few minutes. His hair was brown. Which sounded boring, had she been describing the color to someone. But the brown was…more. Wavy but not too long, his thick hair shaded between sun-kissed highlights and a deeper, richer color that reminded her of the diet cola she lived on. In between, if the light was just right, she caught hints of russet. Fur, she thought. Yes, his hair was like an animal’s pelt.
Lauren didn’t care much for people. She was far more comfortable in her stacks of historic material and her computer. That didn’t mean she didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time observing them. People fascinated her, even if she didn’t want to interact with them. She was geeky. Gawky. And a total klutz. Unless she was immersed in her job. She was aces at her job. She was not aces at running for her life. How had she not remembered she could be tracked by her cell phone? Her skin pebbled as a spurt of adrenaline shot through her at the memory of bullets shattering the window of her car. She’d been lucky the next exit held a giant truck stop.
Closing her eyes, she shoved those thoughts out of her mind. She’d found her way to Iowa, where Shooter had stepped in. She almost laughed, despite the dark memories. He hadn’t stepped in. He’d stomped in wearing a pair of worn cowboy boots, faded jeans, plaid shirt, and an implacable demeanor. When she opened her eyes, her gaze drifted back to him.
Shooter had a strong profile. The fine lines at the corner of his eyes and the deeper ones on his forehead and above the bridge of his nose spoke of age and experience, so yeah, he was likely in his forties. Still, he was hard-bodied and fit. He had to be to scoop her off the floor, toss her over his shoulder and make off with her like she was some pirate’s booty. No, she decided, her fingers itching to touch the scruff covering the lower half of his face. He would have been a Viking, or a Highlander maybe. She could definitely see him ravaging and pillaging, and why did her heart rate kick up a notch with that thought?
Heat flooded her cheeks and she turned to watch out the window again. “I’m not going to hurt you. People call me Shooter,” he’d said after cornering her in that roadhouse. She had not been reassured. What sort of nickname was Shooter anyway?
She blurted out, “So…do you shoot people? Or just bore them to death with your stoic refusal to speak?” Yes, that was definitely a growl. She revised her animal comparison. Not a bear. Something more feral, and to her, far more dangerous. Wolf. And her heart stopped. He knew about Black Root. Which implied he knew what Black Root had been doing. Which meant he might be working for them. Which meant she needed to get out of this truck right this instant.
“Yeah, I’ve shot people.”
She froze in her seat, eyes widening as the cold words washed over her, leaving her terrified.
“Breathe, Lauren.” His green eyes glinted briefly in the dash light as he flicked them her way. “I was a Navy SEAL.”
Well. That certainly explained a lot of things. She managed to inhale and when she exhaled, her chest loosened enough she relaxed against the leather seat, but she was still wary. “Were you like a sniper or something? Is that why people call you Shooter?”
A smile threatened the corner of his mouth but the lines between his brows deepened. “I’m called Shooter because the guys in my BUD/S class challenged me to a drinking contest after graduation. The challenge involved shots of tequila. I won.” He glanced at her. “Aren’t you going to ask how many?” She shook her head and he turned his head to watch her. “I’m not one of the bad guys, Lauren. I will keep you safe.”
Lauren attempted to believe him. Her life depended on it.