Chapter Nine
“Move,” the man shouted into his headset—telling the pilot to go.
Blake moved to jump out, but the man blocked him. The other man had fifty pounds on him, as well as more nights of sleep in the past 72 hours and more food and water. But Blake had the fucking determination, the certainty that he couldn’t, wouldn’t leave his teammate behind. His last one. The only man left. If it was anyone left on this rock, in this oven, it would be him.
A shot hit the chopper—impossible to know where. It rocked the whole machine, and Blake fell off balance. The doors were still open, but tilted up, and Blake was sliding back, falling. Every second took him farther from Ricardo, every second took him one more foot in the air.
“No,” he roared, lunging for the doors. It would almost kill him to make the jump now, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t fucking be happening.
The guy caught him by the ankle just as he was almost out of the chopper.
He landed hard on the metal grate. The force of his fall swung the chopper far enough that he could see over the edge: the man sprawled on the ground, wounded. And he could see the other men, closing in now that the chopper was leaving range, surrounding him like a pack of wolves.
“No.” This time it was only a quiet sound, stricken. Too soft to hear over the roar of the bird.
Ricardo’s brother. Ricardo.
Something wasn’t right. The bullet must have struck something vital, because the engine was sputtering now. They were still in the air but shifting sideways. At this height they’d crash. They’d burn.
And then they didn’t have to wait that long. A flare of orange out of the corner of his eye was the only clue the chopper would explode in the split seconds before it did, before flames engulfed him, before the force of the blast threw him from the chopper, and then he was falling, falling out of the sky.
* * *
“Blake!”
Blake jerked awake, heart pumping, body primed to fight an enemy that no longer existed. It took him a second to orient himself, to remember that he was no longer in the jungle in full combat gear, that he wasn’t even in his house and his bed, but was instead in Erin’s childhood room.
He panted while Erin stroked his back.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
She hesitated. She knew he wanted the truth, not just some false assurance he would have to doubt every time. “You caught me on the arm while I was trying to wake you up. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, I’m just telling you so you won’t worry.”
He still worried, he couldn’t help but worry. He loved her. It had been a kind of death sentence, finishing off the man he’d been so he could rise from the ashes. And now he was this man, one who worried with every breath he took, one who spent every waking second wanting to give her what she needed.
Only in his dreams did he lose himself in his old life. In his dreams and in the moments after them, when his body still shook with the need to fight, to fuck, to claim her in a primitive way. He’d held himself back from her before. Made himself wait. He’d stood at the window to his room until he felt enough like his regular self to touch her.
There wasn’t a window to stand at here. There wasn’t anywhere to go in the cramped room and he had no intention of leaving it. And besides, he’d learned over the course of this trip that he didn’t need to hold back. He wasn’t a thoughtful, kind, gentle lover when he was like this, but she didn’t need him to be. Instead he was selfish and crude. He took what he needed from her body like a thirsty man would drink from a lake, with no thought to the lake’s comfort or whether the lake needed the water more.
When would the nightmares stop?
He knew the answer now. They wouldn’t stop, not ever, but somehow there was still hope. There was still this woman beside him, her body for solace, her heart to love.
Her eyes were wide—not with fear but acceptance. He pushed her back and shoved her nightgown up.
Bare.
She wasn’t wearing any panties. His brain seemed to short out, and any semblance of reasoning fled. He shoved his pajama bottoms down and pressed his body between her legs, forcing her legs wide.
He stroked his cock once, twice, while she lay spread for him, waiting. He didn’t say anything to her; he was beyond words. He dipped his fingers into her pussy and took the wetness there—not for her clit, but for his cock, fisting himself with her arousal.
Then he braced himself over her, fitted the head of his cock to her opening, and drove himself home.
She gasped and reached for him, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Any other time he loved for her to touch him, loved for her to be free. But this was about using her—her body, her heart. This was about taking what was his. And so he grabbed her wrists together and held them over her head. He used his other hand to hold her hips steady as he fucked her hard enough to shake the bed.
He fucked her until his body was covered in a sheen of sweat, until his muscles were wound tight—until her pussy spasmed around him three separate times. Her body was limp beneath him, wrung out, and still he kept fucking her. This was what he was: an animal, a machine. A soldier. Something that could thrust and invade and fight for hours, and that was what he did.
“Can’t,” she whispered.
But he felt her tightening around him already, felt the gush of liquid heat his cock. He had no mercy in this moment. It was why he’d never touched her like this before. She’d wanted him—the real him, even at this time. And he knew that she could take it. So he gave it to her, hips pistoning, hand on her wrists, holding her on his cock, forcing her to come again.
It brought her to life, the orgasms, making her limp body buck and rock against him, shaking her breasts loose from the lacy fabric of her nightgown. Her brown nipples were stark against her pale skin, and he reached down to lick them. Only then, only sucking her firm, pebbled skin did his balls clamp down, did his come shoot deep inside her, did a groan rip from him, helpless with relief.
Even after he had come, he remained in her, thrusting lazily, enjoying the wet slide of her around his softening cock, using her to wring the final pulses of pleasure from his body.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
“Yeah,” she answered, breathless and sleepy. “Don’t move, okay? Stay.”
He could do nothing but obey her—his woman, his salvation—and remain inside her as he drifted off to sleep, knowing he was too heavy but unable to stop the slide, shifting just enough that she’d be able to breathe.
“Forever,” he promised.
In seconds her breathing evened out, and he knew she was asleep. He followed her down, still joined, her legs cradling him, her pussy cradling him, her breasts cradling him. And he took without remorse all she had to offer, all her comfort and softness and beauty. He covered her in both possession and protection, knowing he would never let her go.