CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her words took a few moments to penetrate Russel’s skull—most of the blood quickly rerouting to his dick. He’d just come inside her. Had felt as if he’d drained himself dry. Wondered if he’d even be able to come, again, sometime in the next few months. Surely, between last night and this encounter, he’d ejaculated a year’s worth of sperm. Maybe two.
But, as her voice replayed in his head—with you, never that tired—his body reacted. Blood poured into his shaft, and his sac felt heavy. Nearly busting with need.
He didn’t understand it. They were still essentially strangers. Or were they? That first morning, she’d said she knew him, and he’d doubted it, but her observations had been spot on. As if she’d climbed inside her head, watched his memories in fast forward, then given him the abridged version of his personality.
And he definitely knew her. Not the regular stuff. He didn’t know her favorite color or if she liked Italian food. Had no idea when her real birthday was or if she wanted to travel. But he knew she was brave. Was willing to face a life on the run—a life in jail, if need be—to stop some very dangerous men from continuing their spread of evil. She’d begged him and his buddies numerous times to leave—to save themselves—because she couldn’t stomach someone getting hurt because of her. She’d isolated herself, lived in a virtual prison, all in an effort to keep trouble away from anyone she cared about.
And he knew she’d never been in love.
That’s what she’d meant when she’d said she’d never felt this way. She’d used different terminology, but it meant the same thing. She was out of her element. But so was he.
He wasn’t used to letting his emotions dictate his behavior. He controlled them, not the other way ‘round. He’d spent fifteen years alone—content. Focused. Dedicated to his job. To the service. And all it had taken was one night watching her sleep, and he’d fallen off the deep end. Had tossed out his old rule book and allowed a new one to take its place. One whose only purpose was to keep her safe. Find ways to make her smile.
He didn’t have a lot of experience with love. His mother had loved him, but she’d spent most of her time working three jobs just to put food on the table, a roof over their heads. His teammates loved him, in a brotherly way that transcended blood. But romantic love—the kind that grabbed him by something far more sensitive than his balls—that grabbed his heart… He didn’t have a clue what that was.
Was it this unrelenting need to hold her? Touch her? Feel her safe and warm in his arms? Or the cold slither of fear that curled around his spine whenever he thought about her getting hurt? Running off alone and ending up dead on the side of some two-bit country road?
Whatever it was, he had it. Bad. And he didn’t see it letting up in the near future. Maybe in fifty years. Seventy. But not now. He didn’t care that her father led a questionable life. She wasn’t her family, and not wanting to turn her father in, to put him in jail, didn’t make her guilty of sin. It made her compassionate. Loyal. Both of which he understood. He’d had his honor questioned, too. But he’d had friends who had been willing to overlook it. To have his back. Who had she had?
No one.
Well, she did, now. He wasn’t going anywhere unless she physically kicked his ass out. Until then, he’d watch over her. Be her first line of defense.
Quinn inhaled as he gathered her in his arms then spun them around, laying her down on the bed. He usually wasn’t a fan of missionary. Sure, it had its place, generally the first time. A quick one-off to take off the edge then on to more interesting positions. On their knees, against the wall. Any way that made it feel less—personal. Intimate.
But not with Quinn. He wanted to savor her. Watch her. Breathe through her. Quinn welcomed him down, sliding her arms beneath his and across his back as her legs wrapped around her thighs. She was wet. Sticky from their combined releases. But he didn’t care. He’d bathe her, again, after. But, first, he needed to make her his. Bind her to him. Make it impossible for her to see her future without him in it. At her side. Teammates.
He went to his elbows, brushing as much of his skin against hers as he nudged her sex. She smiled, and he slid home, slowly inching inside her until his sac slapped her flesh. God, it was heaven. Hot. Wet. So tight it prickled tears along his eyes. He couldn’t remember ever being inside a woman that had felt this right.
He paused, fully seated, sweat beading his skin, his breath short and rough. “See what you reduce me to? You touch me or smile, and all I can think about is holding you. Loving you. Feeling you unravel in my arms.”
Her eyes softened, her mouth lifting into a smile. The same kind as in the bar that first night. The one where a spotlight had shone down on her from above. Just like it was shining on her, now. “You’re shaking.”
He froze. He never shook. Not under fire and never with a woman. Yet, she was right. His hands rested across her collarbones, his fingers lightly brushing her skin, the slight tremble in them impossible to miss.
He should be scared at how much power she held over him. She was half his size. No match for him. And yet, she broke through his usual barriers, reducing him to bedrock.
Her small hand cupped his jaw. “It’s okay. I’m scared, too. You…” She levered up—touched her lips to his. “Love me.”
His mouth settled on hers, kissing, lifting, repositioning then settling, again. Long, wet kisses that matched the gentle way he moved inside her. Full strokes instead of the short jabs he’d made as he’d emptied inside her. She was hot. Incredibly wet, and it took his years of training to keep his pace steady. Loving. Because that’s what she needed.
He prided himself at reading women. Speaking their body language. She’d been right there with him last night. Hot. Rough. Dispelling some tension. Some fear. Even their previous encounter had been tailored to her needs. But now… Every inch of her begged to be cherished. Worshipped. The way she slid her hands over his back, kneading his muscles. How her heels pressed against his ass. The needy moans she made as he kissed her neck, tilting it to give him better access. She didn’t want him to pound her into the bed, this time.
She wanted his love. And fuck if he didn’t want to give it to her.
Time blurred into the background, nothing more than passing shadows across the floor. He didn’t rush, didn’t do anything other than feel every second of every pass inside her. Slowly building her up until her fingers dug into his skin as her legs tightened around him. Small fleeting contractions prickled his shaft, and he knew she was close.
He leaned down. “You’re not alone, anymore, sweetheart. So, let go.”
Her eyes widened, the glassy depths holding his gaze before they rolled, and she broke. He watched her climax, still slowly pumping her until her head lolled to one side as her grip loosened.
Russel gave her one more kiss then followed her lead. Thrusting into her until the fire burning just behind his balls shot forward, taking him with it. Strong pulses moved along his cock, once again, emptying his seed inside her.
He hung his head, resting it on her collarbone until he realized he was probably crushing her into the bed. He shifted, but she tightened her hold.
“Not ready, yet.” Her voice was raspy and low. As if she hadn’t been sure she’d be able to speak.
“Not going anywhere. But I’d rather not have to deal with any crushing injuries.”
She laughed. God, it sounded like heaven. “You’re not crushing me. In fact, it makes me feel…safe.”
Safe. When he knew she hadn’t felt that way since leaving her home. Escaping.
He shuffled back, braced a bit more of his weight on his elbows and waited until she was ready for him to move. He didn’t care how long it took. If his damn arms went numb in the process. He’d lie there the rest of the day if she needed. Eternity seemed reasonable.
Because she was his mission. And he wasn’t failing this one.
* * * *
“Ice.”
Russel bolted awake. After spending the afternoon in bed with Quinn, they’d gotten up, showered, again, and made dinner. Rigs had texted, informing Russel that he was doing some more recon. That something felt…off. That’s all Russel had needed to know. He’d ended the call then gathered together anything he thought they’d need for the trip to Montana and stacked it beside the door where they’d be accessible in a moment’s notice. Supplies he’d bought. Weapons from Rigs’ arsenal. The man could have fought off a small country with the amount of firepower he’d stashed away in a locked vault.
Soldiers weren’t supposed to keep their equipment. But most ended up with a smattering of what had kept them alive. And what they didn’t bring home, they usually reacquired. Which Rigs had done and then some. And that wasn’t including the charges he’d set up around his place.
So, the hard, low rasp of the man’s voice next to Russel’s ear put him on full alert. Man to PJ in half a second, flat. He glanced around, his Beretta in his hand. He’d tucked it under his pillow when it had become obvious Rigs might be spending the night out. Russel had just hoped he wouldn’t need it.
He scanned the room then focused on Rigs. “Update.”
“Men. Lots of them. Some from the road, others closing in on ATVs. Not sure how they found you, though, I’m betting that Thomas fucker has someone on the inside. Checking weather and traffic cams. Damn near impossible to avoid them. Wouldn’t take much to track you to the turnoff. And, when you didn’t show up on any cams closer to town…” Rigs sighed. “Not many places out this way. A quick scan from an overhead satellite would show your truck. Should have hidden the damn thing in the shed. I’m slipping.”
“Then, we both are. Call me crazy, but I didn’t think they’d get that information so quickly. How many?”
“Twenty. Maybe twenty-five. They’re moving slow. Waiting until all their backup is in place.” He grinned. “That’s gonna be hard when things start exploding.”
Russel nodded, rousing Quinn. He placed his finger over his mouth, smiling when her wide eyes narrowed and she nodded, quietly getting out of the bed and into her clothes.
He followed suit, motioning for Rigs to lead the way. “How much damage will your countermeasures do?”
Rigs stopped in the kitchen. “Not nearly as much as they could. I wanted it to be more of a warning system. Something to throw any intruders off. They don’t know if the next one will only toss dirt in the air or blow their legs off. I’m hoping they think the latter.”
“Where’s the vehicle?”
“Out back. There’s a small two-track just south of here. We can take that until it crosses back over the highway. I’ve already loaded your bags. Was waiting until I had a clear picture of how they were setting up before waking you. Didn’t want to miss something important.”
Russel nodded. Rigs was fastidious about intel. Didn’t compromise a second’s worth, especially when he knew Russel would be ready to leave within a couple of minutes. That Rigs wouldn’t be risking their safety by watching for a few extra minutes.
Russel kept his palm on the small of Quinn’s back as they headed for the backdoor. It opened silently. A rusty jalopy waited in shadows, the chassis raised higher than normal. “Armored?”
Rigs snorted, his sideways glance saying, of course, jackass.
Russel let it go, helping Quinn into the back. “Stay down. I don’t want you getting clipped by a stray shot.”
She opened her mouth then closed it, climbing in without questioning him.
Rigs grabbed Russel’s hand when he went to push the seat back. “You, too, Ice. And you’ll keep your head down right next to hers.”
“Fuck that. You can’t drive and see all the threats. I’m riding shotgun.”
“Not this time.” He pointed a finger at Russel. “You’re a medic. You know the score. We need you in one piece in case we end up in more than one. Besides, if you ride up front with me, they could take us both out. I don’t think this fucker has truly skilled snipers in his ranks, but I can’t swear on it. A good marksman could kill us with the same bullet. I sure as hell could. If that happens, who would protect Harlequin?”
Russel pursed his lips.
“I know you hate this. Trust me. You PJs are a rare breed. But…you also know that I’m right. So, get your ass in the back, keep both your heads down, and don’t fucking die on me.”
Russel held back his retort—fuck he hated that Rigs was right—and shuffled in beside Quinn. He didn’t ask if she wanted him to hold her, just drew her into his arms then reclined on the seat. He kept his back to the rear in case any bullets managed to pierce the vehicle. It wasn’t as good as giving her a Kevlar vest, but he was thick, and chances were a bullet wouldn’t get all the way through him then into her.
She instinctively drew in on herself, virtually disappearing within his arms, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d huddled for safety before. If her father’s colleagues had ever come after her before she’d escaped out on her own. He had a bad feeling they had.
The old SUV rumbled to life, the engine quieter than he’d expected. Count on Rigs to have a damn armored Jeep made on a moment’s notice. That, or he’d been planning for this kind of event. Either worked for Russel.
Rigs started off slow, weaving the car through an invisible slalom course. Russel didn’t need to ask to know Rigs was circumventing explosives he’d buried in his yard. Mines. Tripwires. Russel suspected the man had cast a wide net of charges across the property—a pattern guaranteed to catch even the most observant intruder.
He didn’t know how skilled these men were. Had Thomas hired ex-military men to do his bidding? Had he found veterans whose loyalties only registered in dollar amounts to come after Quinn? If he’d figured out who Russel was—and if the man had people in law enforcement or hackers of any worth, it wouldn’t be hard to puzzle it out. Russel’s face would be on the security footage from the bar. There was a chance the bastard had sought out people he thought would have what it takes to kill him, not just Quinn.
The thought soured his gut. He hated hiding. Waiting to see what came his way. He preferred to go on the offensive. As soon as they got to Montana, he was learning everything thing there was about Thomas Carlson—right down to the type of briefs the creep wore—then he was taking the fight to him. He didn’t care if Bridgette wanted to do this the legal way. Quinn was in danger as long as the bastard was alive, so, Russel would see he didn’t stay that way for long.
The vehicle surged ahead, gaining a bit of speed when a ball of light exploded behind them, filling the darkness with a blinding yellow glow that Russel was sure set the Jeep off in sharp contrast. Dirt shot into the air, raining down on the roof as Rigs hit the accelerator, still swinging the SUV right and left. Russel watched through the rearview as a line of men appeared behind them, more charges lighting up the night. Loud pops broke the silence—short, sharp bursts that tossed heavy fire their way.
Fuckers had automatic rifles—AK47s and M4s by the sound of it. The average mercenary’s pick of deadly weapons. The bullets pinged off the back of the jalopy, occasionally giving the vehicle a shove. Rigs countered, but he didn’t have enough room to properly swerve. Glass cracked then broke above the seat, showering Russel and Quinn with tiny shards.
He shifted over her. “Stay under me.”
She moved with him as he took them to the footwell, crushing her beneath him. But, if the belly was armored, she’d have less of a chance of getting hurt by stray fire.
More thumps, then a hole appeared above his shoulder—right through the passenger seat. He wanted to check on Rigs, but the man had hit the gas, all but tipping them on two wheels as he raced across the ground.
“Stay down. Just another few seconds, and we’ll be clear of the charges. Then, we can fly.” Rigs cursed when the vehicle skidded to the left. “Fuckers hit the wheel. I’ve got run flats, but damn, they’re determined. There’s another line of them closing in on the left.”
Russel chanced a quick peek. “You need another set of eyes.”
“And you need to not get shot.”
Rigs floored it, knocking Russel against the seat. His head hit the side as the SUV veered sharply to the left, then picked up more speed. Another engine roared nearby, the sound getting louder. Rigs headed right, must have hit some kind of ridge because the damn Jeep left the ground. Russel’s stomach lurched up then crashed to the floor as the SUV slammed into the ground, bouncing a few times before gaining enough traction to propel them forward, again.
Shouts rose around them, then more high-pitched pings off the back and sides of the vehicle. Russel glanced up in time to see Rigs remove his gun then shoot out the driver’s side window. Either the glass had been shattered or Rigs had lowered it because there was nothing but the loud report of the gun filling the air.
There was some screaming, several more rounds, then the world descended into an eerie quiet. The vehicle charged ahead, occasionally skidding on gravel. Rigs didn’t talk, his attention on a revolving pattern of road, mirrors, road, mirrors.
The engine droned in the background, then the tires hit something smooth, the sound of crunching gravel changing to a steady hum.
Rigs sighed, then his hand clamped around Russel’s shoulder. “Looks like we lost them. For now.”
Russel pushed off the floorboards, muscles stiff from the cramped space. He glanced out the back. Deserted blacktop stretched toward the horizon, the dull surface just visible in the hint of moonlight. Glass covered the seats, the tiny pieces fanning out in every direction. So much for staying in the back. He couldn’t guarantee he’d get rid of all the glass, and the last thing he needed was either of them slicing a leg open.
He helped Quinn up, motioning for her to stay put as he maneuvered into the front passenger seat. She could ride the rest of the way on his lap, where he’d have tangible proof she was all right.
Quinn crawled over the carnage of glass and bits of upholstery, settling between his thighs without making a sound. He wrapped his arms around her, wishing he could encase her in a bulletproof bubble before looking over at Rigs. More glass covered his lap, a collection of cuts along his left arm.
Russel leaned over then froze.
Rigs huffed, giving him a sideways glance. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s a fucking graze.”
“A graze?” Blood stained the man’s right shoulder, slowly moving downward. “I know what a fucking graze looks like, and that isn’t one. Pull over.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking you, Rigs. Pull the fucking car over. Now.”
Rigs set his jaw, then twisted to look directly at Russel. “We stop, and they catch up. Or there’s a new batch waiting ten miles ahead, and you’re still playing nursemaid on the side of the road when they show up. I’m fine. You can patch it as we drive, but I’m not pulling this damn jalopy over until we reach Montana. And don’t even worry about gas because I had an extended tank put in her. She can go for eight hours straight.”
“Or I just wait until you pass out from blood loss.”
He snorted, the fucker. “Didn’t black out when that wall collapsed on me. When you dragged my ass out of there. Not even for the two days you spent carrying me to the LZ after stitching me up. I think I can muscle through a small cut on my shoulder.”
“You are some piece of work.” He huffed. “Where’s my bag?”
“The main stuff is in the back, but I put your kit under your chair. Had a feeling you’d bust my ass if it wasn’t within reach.”
“Damn straight.”
Russel thanked Quinn when she pulled the bag out from under her legs and handed it to him. He didn’t even have to ask her to shift, she just lifted and moved toward the window, making herself as small as possible. He took a moment to look at her. He was pretty damn sure she hadn’t gotten hurt, other than maybe some cuts from the glass, but he didn’t like to make assumptions.
Her skin was pale, her eyes still overly wide. Her pulse fluttered beneath her skin at the base of her neck. Elevated. Maybe a bit erratic, but not life threatening. He narrowed his eyes, but she shook her head, motioning to Rigs.
She was trooper. Though obviously scared, she wasn’t complaining. Wasn’t freaking out. Other than the minor breakdown this afternoon, she’d held it together. Had followed his instructions flawlessly, never wasting time by asking him to explain. He knew he’d been essentially barking out orders, but this was his wheelhouse. His territory—something she understood on an intrinsic level. He admired that. Admired her.
He focused on the injury—on what he had control over right now. Right here, because the horizon was a vast expanse of unknown threats. A condition he planned on changing as soon as they rendezvoused with the rest of the team. Thomas and his men would be held accountable. He vowed it. One way or another, they’d pay.