Of all the days to vie for an Olympic medal in tripping over one’s own feet, Jen Thorne had to pick this one.

To be fair, however, maybe the circumstances had picked her. Most days, the most thrilling thing that happened in and around her little accounting office at Nellis Air Force Base was a freak desert thunderstorm or a UPS delivery. Because the legs on the UPS guy…

She wasn’t thinking of the UPS guy right now, though. Or much of anything else except staying upright as she and Lola, her assistant, headed back inside from their lunch break. In the Las Vegas Valley, wind was a fickle bitch. One second, the air could be eerily still, only to switch up and gust so hard, Jen wouldn’t have been surprised to see Auntie Em pedaling by with Toto in the basket of her bicycle.

Caught by such a gust, Jen was faced with saving the leftovers of her burrito or the hem of her dress. Normally, the issue would be moot, but the burrito was a Zapatas special, meaning she’d have a decent dinner tonight while working late to close out the pilots’ logs for the month. Besides, Lola was too busy trying to see through her own hair, a frizzy mass she’d just had hennaed to a deep purple, to notice Jen was flashing a similar shade in French panty lace—

As the wind rushed in again.

And had her stumbling, one suede-heeled boot over the other, just to maintain some semblance of upright balance—

Until a pylon popped up in the middle of the parking lot to help her.

Shit.

“Shit!” Only when Lola’s echo hit the air did Jen realize she’d blurted it too—for damn good reason. The pylon wasn’t a pylon. No pylon on the planet looked like this, with commanding muscles on a six-foot-plus frame that turned even his plaid shirt and jeans into an outfit worthy of Camelot itself. The guy’s stance was worthy of nobility too, with posture that bordered on arrogant and booted feet braced to steady both himself and her. None of that was even the most gulp-worthy part of him, as she learned when jolting her sights up to his face.

Oh, God.

He was worth way more than another gulp. Full-on gawking was now in order—but could she be blamed? Those thick ginger waves. That deep-dimpled grin. Those eyes, wolf gray and just as keen, seemed to take in every detail about her…

Including her exposed underwear.

Ohhhhh. Jeez.

And yeah, that had spilled out too—in the highest, most horrifying squeak she could imagine. Not true. Nowhere, in any shoot-me-now nightmare she’d ever had, did she let out a sound as obnoxious as that.

Lola, clearly agreeing, didn’t help by barking a giggle and snapping her gum.

Neither did Major Skip Tremaine, a man who’d never matched his call sign better. “Cat Five,” with his sharp nose and flawless high-and-tight haircut, rushed forward with the subtlety of an F-18 getting catapulted off a navy carrier. “Thorne! What the hell? You having the vapors or something?”

Lola yipped with another laugh.

Jen groaned beneath her breath. Kill. Me. Now.

She meant it, and even considered begging her ginger King Arthur to do it, but the only sound that emerged when she opened her mouth was another ridiculous whine. Why that made the hunk only smile wider and hold her tighter was just as irrational, if not fully dysfunctional—which, of course, only made him more irresistible. Holy hell. A lot more…

“Och, Tremaine. The vapors, man?”

“What?” Cat Five countered. “You taking full credit, Braw Boy? What, so the ‘lasses’ are now falling at your feet before you even meet them? Cocky son of a bitch.”

“Lasses.” It screaked softly out of Jen, doubling her horror as she also rasped, “Braw Boy.” Frantically, she grabbed at the hem of her skirt, newly taunted by a fresh blast of wind. “You’re…him. The—the hotshot from Scotland.”

“Captain Sam Mackenna.” His lips, composed of bold lines that emulated the cliffs of his native land, curled up a little at one end. “Also known as the cocky son of a bitch.” He offered his hand for a handshake. “And you are…?”

“Mortified.” Jen ducked her head, attempting to yank free from his grip. Though he was in civvies and she was no longer auditioning for the Victoria’s Secret Angels, this was still a thousand kinds of inappropriate—an impropriety her whole body begged her to continue. And though Sam allowed her to step free, he remained unusually close while issuing a quiet, easy reply.

“Bah. Mortified isn’t fun at all. How about…mouse?” Though with his Highland drawl, it came out much closer to moose—which pulled a giggle out of Jen before she could help it.

“With the silly squeak to match?”

He didn’t return the laugh. Instead, with his hooded gaze dropping to her mouth, he murmured, “Silly wasn’t the first word that came to my mind, lass.” As the parking lot was hit by another whomp of wind, making it hard to hear anything more than a few inches from one’s face, he leaned over and murmured close to her ear, “But adorable, hot, and sexy sure fucking did.”

And now, the wind wasn’t the only force walloping the crap out of her.

Maybe the gust had simply made her hear him wrong…?

One quick glance over. One stare full of his blatant flirtation.

Nope. Not a thing wrong with her hearing.

Jen concentrated on taking several long, steady breaths. But still, her heartbeat galloped. Her bloodstream ran viciously hot and then ruthlessly freezing. The wind kicked up again, mighty and merciless. Dear God. All they had to do was lengthen her skirt a little and then turn his sweater and jeans into a jerkin and kilt, and this would be a reenactment from the Highlander romance she’d finished last night in the tub. Including the part about how connected she already felt to him…

Fiction, Jen. Fiction. Remember? The fun little word bringing the reminder that strapping Scottish hunks don’t come wrapped in kilts and romance and carnal promises in fluent Gaelic? And technically, this one’s not even here for pleasure—though with Sin City right out the front door, he’ll likely find his way to it soon enough. Yeah, after talking rockets and guns and blowing enemy jets out of the sky all day, he’ll want some recreation—not a night pointing at constellations from your apartment balcony.

“All right, all right.” She held up both hands, managing to insert a laugh that sounded halfway casual. “Why don’t we just try for ‘Jen’?”

He tilted his head. The wind whipped hunks of whisky-colored strands across his hewn features. She pretended to clutch her Zapatas bag harder, which helped her resist clearing the brilliant strands away herself.

You: geek sandwich.

Him: alpha male filet.

And if the two are offered on the same plate?

Grab the stomach pump.

As if she needed an even bigger reminder of that mental sticky note, Tremaine strode up and swept in at once, clapping her on the back as he would one of the mechanics in the hangar. As Jen’s teeth found their rightful places again, he declared, “Thorne here is your ace inside the office, Mackenna. She’ll keep your ass in line with the administrative song-and-dance, and since this air combat cross-training program with the RAF includes twelve of you Scottish jocks, there’s going to be an ass-load of those hoops to hop.” He interrupted himself with a hissing grimace. “Annnnd there I go, harshing the girls’ Zapatas high. Sorry, Thorne—but once you see what Braw Boy and his crew can do to redefine the High Yo-Yo move alone, you’ll be damn glad we invited these boys over for a few weeks of friendly collaboration.”

Lola, having locked and come around the car, broke in with a snarky snort. “Oh, I think she already is, Major.”

Tremaine glanced over as if she were a three-year-old shouting “pwanes!” at the F-35s lined up on the tarmac in the distance. Just as callously, he turned back to Jen and Sam. “So maybe the two of you should get together for a few minutes, after Sam gets to know his way around the hangar and shit?”

Jen clenched her bag of leftovers even tighter while plastering a completely fake smile to her lips. “Sure thing. Whatever will make things easier for Captain Mackenna.”

“That’s my girl.”

She was damn glad she’d kept her teeth clenched. One, it meant the man didn’t knock any fillings loose with his shoulder smack of “encouragement.” Two, it helped cinch back the rejoinder that never failed to percolate when Tremaine used the diminutive.

I’m not your girl.

Locked molars or not, she was sorely tempted to fling the words—and didn’t even try to disguise why. In the space of three minutes, Captain Sam Mackenna had definitely upended her axis. Flipped the freaking tables of her awareness. Slammed a cosmic can opener on the lid of her composure and made her inhale a scoop of pure, raw, chemical attraction from the inside.

In three minutes.

How the hell was she going to see him—talk with him, interact with him, work with him—nearly every day for the next month?

The answer came in a strange, swift, relieving rush.

She simply hadn’t seen this coming. Hadn’t known the superstar Scottish pilot would look—and talk, and smolder, and flirt—more like a kilt-clad warrior who’d walked out of her favorite novel and right onto her boring old blacktop. And because she was caught with her defenses down and her skirt flying up, she hadn’t been prepared for the shock. And really hadn’t anticipated what Mackenna himself would do with that vulnerability.

Decisiveness was good in a pilot.

So were ruthlessness, boldness, and confidence.

All the reasons why she stuck to fictional hunks instead of real ones.

All the reasons why her wildest dreams involved one of those heroes handling her in the same ways.

Dominating her in the same ways…

But she wasn’t a plane. And the man needed to focus on his strategies and his flying.

A realization reached too late—especially when Lola was nearby. Oh yeah, the woman was all over her Sam Mackenna scope-out like white on rice. With a wry chuckle, she twirled a couple of indigo curls around two fingers and nudged Jen in the shoulder. Joined in commiseration, they stood with the wind behind them, watching Mackenna and Tremaine striding off to the hangars.

Lola’s humor turned into a wistful sigh. “Ho. Lee. Fuuuuck. That backside belongs in a G-string downtown.”

Despite the weird curl of tension still lingering in her belly, Jen laughed. “It’s…impressive.”

“Ohhhh, girl.” Lo patted her forearm. “Something tells me he’s going to need the deluxe version of the talk.”

“Hm.” It was more commiseration than consideration. “Which one? Keep-the-ego-in-the-cockpit, or keep-the-libido-in-the-locker-room?”

“Both.”

Jen groaned. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

Jen kept true to her word and gave him the speech. All right, not a speech speech, but she managed to drop enough hints about not “flying the flyboys” and “sampling the joysticks in her own hangar” that Captain Mackenna, with his miss-nothing focus and boulder-steady command, clearly didn’t miss an iota of her subtext.

And she was secretly, giddily gratified to sense he hadn’t.

Not that she would ever change her policy. As policies went, they needed to be in place. For circumstances just like this.

For unexpected arrivals like Captain Sam Mackenna.

Because just a week into this “special” assignment of his, she already knew that as pilots went, he was something special—and as men went, she would never meet anyone like him again. And yes, she thoroughly ran both conclusions past her usual internal reality check, because any self-respecting girl with a historical-romance addiction the size of hers was used to situations just like this. The giddy rush from watching him approach, imagining a sword swinging from one of his lean hips and a flintlock from the other. Replacing his olive-green flight suit with buckskins, muddy leather boots, and a broad-brimmed hat molded low over one eye—complete with pheasant feathers angled off the back. Or better yet, pretending the jet mechanics he waved at were actually loyal servants attending his ornate carriages—if billion-dollar planes could be kind of sort of considered “carriages”—along the lane leading to the grand mansion, where she waited for him with a glass of sherry and her pantaloons conveniently “in the wash” for the day…

But then the reality check cranked into gear. Big-time.

Her world was full of straight lines and order, where variations of one-plus-one always added up to the same thing and could never change. Even in her volunteer hours at the library, Dewey and his decimal system put order to the chaos. In every book she borrowed or bought from the used-book sales, there was a happy-ever-after to make the world right.

But Sam Mackenna? Well, if he really was the god he looked like, he’d rule over fire or battle or mischief—or a combination of the three. His world consisted of changes that happened by the second and the reaction speed to match: where half the time, the earth was up and the sky was down; where he took risks that meant living very much in the moment…

A philosophy that likely extended to his love life.

Wrong. Not his love life.

His sex life.

Because guys like him were always, always reminded that the dangers they faced in the cockpit directly corresponded to the action they could get in the sack—and because guys like him usually had the perfect skills to measure up to those demands as well. Because arousing a woman was probably a lot like guiding a fighter jet to Mach Five. And if even half that assertion were true, then Sam Mackenna’s prowess between the sheets was probably—

Nothing she should even dare to consider, let alone dwell on.

It was time to move on.

As in, right now.

Despite how the man proved out every single one of her theories, in exquisitely agonizing detail, during his approach across the main hangar. Strolling like the undisputed ruler of everything he surveyed. Then smiling as if his little “inspection of the estate” was a predawn thing and she was the sun who’d just risen on his day.

Moving. On.

Right. Now.

Only…a funny thing happened on the way to the great land of her noble follow-through. The man got within touching distance again. Not that she was going there by any stretch of the imagination—though by now, that distance had been proved in colorful detail—but just one good inhalation of him was making the path a hell of a lot harder to maintain. How could a guy smell that good after several hours in a cockpit barely wider than his shoulders? And even right here, where used jet fuel, heated steel, and fried rubber competed for the discretion of her nose? His scent was the stunning opposite, reminding her of a walk through the forest after a storm, with earth and spices mixing in the most evocative, erotic way.

More urgently, why was it easier to think of the mountain of filing waiting on her desk—hell, even the mountain of laundry waiting for her at home—than keeping true to her noble policies?

No. Just keeping true to them when it came to him.

Magnificent, maddening man.

Magnificent in all the best ways. Maddening in all the most dangerous ways.

Because even as they exited the hangar and started back toward the conference room, the energy radiating off him was palpable…and intentional. She knew it from the curious looks tossed at him by the guys they passed in the hall, as well as what she could see simply observing their hazy reflection in the windows. No doubt about it… Sam Mackenna needed a classification of his own. A category she could never hope to reach—no matter how intensely his wolf grays tempted her otherwise after they rounded the corner into the conference room and sat down.

After he shoved a figurative middle finger at protocol and pulled out her chair for her.

After he followed that up by striding back and quietly closing the door—doubling the potency of his allure in a single move.

After he slid into his chair like that damn viscount beholding a virgin at some carnal castle feast.

And here she was, reacting to that scrutiny with everything but the heaving bosom in the corset, attempting to string even two coherent thoughts together. What had they come in here to do again? The symbols on the papers in front of her weren’t any help. Ohhhh shit, was she in trouble.

“All right, m’lady. Yer the one drivin’ the apple cart here. Let’s have at it, then.”

“Huh?”

No. Not trouble. She was all the way in the damn weeds—and Mackenna looked as if he had all afternoon to watch her struggle out. Did he have to quirk those full, firm lips like that? And brace his elbows on the table like that, emphasizing his shoulders in such muscled glory? And why did her imagination have to pick that second to run away on her, imagining what those shoulders would feel like beneath her spread fingers, bunching and coiling in time to his ruthless thrusts inside her?

And they would be ruthless. She had no damn doubt about that. The same way she knew she’d savor every single one of them…

“Yer the one who called the meeting,” he clarified as she tried discreetly rearranging her position. Thank God there was a corner of the conference table between them. Not that her damp panties were even visible to the man—though she wouldn’t put it past him to have X-ray vision on top of his other god-level powers. “So I’m here and…at your service.”

She wasn’t sure whether to deck him or return the smirk he got in with the statement’s purposeful pause. Holy shit, the man even smirked with purpose. She just wished that intention didn’t feel so aligned with what was happening between her thighs. She also wished he didn’t look so much like he thoroughly knew that, even as she reached for the stack of personnel files neatly positioned just a foot to her side, right where she’d left them specifically for reviewing during this meeting.

“Well, I think you have that wrong.” She actually had to smile then, to dilute the snippy verbiage. Why did it feel like she got the ratio of businesslike and flirtatious all wrong? She smiled at male colleagues all the time and had never second-guessed herself like this—though to be fair, she’d never smiled at any of them while attempting not to undress them with her gaze.

Oh, dear cripes.

“Yes, errmmm…” She opened the first file with a decisive whoosh. “Wrong. You. I mean, you’re not wrong wrong; you just—well—this is more about how I can be of service to you—”

He jogged up a tawny brow, and her guts turned into a nervousness parfait. “Is that so?”

“I—” Oh, gawd. “I mean—”

“Jen.” His soothing tone did nothing for her rampaging senses. Neither did the press of his hand atop hers and how he curled his fingertips around the outside edge of hers. “Take a breath. I don’t bite.” Then, after he squeezed in a little tighter, “Hard.”

Wasn’t he the funny one? Like she’d ever be able to “breathe” normally again, after just one tiny contact of her skin with his. And hell, his hold was just as warm and firm and confident and masculine as she’d imagined it would be. But his command wasn’t restricted there. It permeated his voice. Extended far beyond his not-so-subtle flirtation, becoming a dictate she couldn’t—nor wanted to—ignore. So she didn’t. She took one deep breath. Another. They were enough to lend her fresh composure, along with the reminder that even their handclasp was violating at least a dozen rules of conduct—not that the insolent Scot seemed to mind or care. Which sure as hell didn’t mean she couldn’t.

“All right, then.” Cursing and thanking herself for it, she pulled her hand back to rest on top of the first file she’d opened and forced herself to focus on the name at the top. Rodric Camden. “This isn’t going to take long. Just need to make sure I’ve got the basics correct for everyone on your squad, along with double-checking that they’re getting settled in okay and have everything they need for their stay here.”

“Fair enough.”

He coiled his tone back to professional coolness, even settling back into his chair and parking an ankle onto the opposite knee. For the next fifteen minutes, she succeeded in cooling her own jets long enough to get through the first third of the files in the pile. Unbelievably, her pulse evened out to a survivable rate again…

Until they landed on the M files.

More specifically, halfway through the Ms.

Macallister, Macdonnah, MacDougal, and Macgregor? All completely fine.

But once she got to Mackenna…

“Maybe we’d better save this slick skellum for the end of the show.”

Yeah, to the point that she even tried joking about it.

“I think the slick skellum has somethin’ to say about that.” And as easily as the man had eased back into his good behavior, he slipped right back out of it—into an even sexier, silkier version of his licentious lord side. Yes, doubling her pulse as soon as he slipped a hand back across hers. Yes, ensuring her throat closed to the diameter of a toothpick as he used the pressure to make her close his file. And yes, drawing her in all over again with the intensity of his gaze, those lupine grays rendering her weak in the knees no matter how solidly her backside was secured in her chair. “And how do you know what a ‘slick skellum’ is, anyway?”

His perplexity wasn’t just endearing; it was adorable. Jen held herself back from a full laugh by twisting her lips into a coquettish smirk. “A girl’s got to have her secrets.”

Annnnd forget adorable. He turned fully primal, obviously extracting all the naughtiest nuances from her quip—and with the darkness in his eyes and tension in his jaw, Jen wasn’t sure she minded. Just for this tiny second, it might be nice to think their worlds could collide. That her “secrets” weren’t things like reading three books a week, including the colorful slang of lands she longed to visit. Like his. Especially his.

“Well then…a boy’s got to the right to try unlockin’ ’em.”

She gave in to a laugh. “Not if he doesn’t want the biggest disappointment of his life.”

The corners of his eyes tightened, bringing the gold tips of his long lashes into the light. For the love of all that was good, the man turned even fluorescent lighting into a heart-stopping experience. “You know you’re just really at it now, aye?”

Jen cocked her head. “I know what that means too, Captain. And I’m in full control of my mind, thank you very much—which I’m not sure applies to everyone in the room at this mom—”

As she attempted reopening his file, Sam swiped the whole thing from beneath her grip. Like everything else he did, the move was strong but calm, force wielded by a hunk who knew he didn’t have to be an asshole about it. He was simply going to get his way, and that was that.

But at this point, what did “his way” entail?

And why was she suddenly a little scared about that?

And why did the possible answers turn her on so damned much?

“You’re here to make sure I have everything I need for my stay here, aye?”

She blinked a few times. Where was he going with this? “Affirmative.” Humoring him might be the only way to find out. And at least that answer was easy enough.

“Well, I don’t.”

Several more blinks, along with a frown—until she finally comprehended that he wasn’t blinking, though he was focusing harder on her. “Okay, Braw Boy,” she huffed. “Now that’s just enough.”

“Oh, I haven’t had nearly enough, Miss Thorne.”

“I am not a vital need for you, Captain Mackenna.” And before he could expand that into about a hundred different innuendos, she borrowed from some of her growing aggravation to snap, “And if that is a vital need for you, then ask some of the guys from our squad to show you some local places where the jet jockey fans hang out.” There was more colorful vernacular for the girls who liked regularly wrapping themselves around the pilots’ “cockpits,” but she refused to use the crass terms. Long story short, she’d never be one of them, even if she wanted to be. Genetics hadn’t given her lush mermaid locks, generous curves, or the balance necessary for five-inch designer heels. “I guarantee you, there are curvier, prettier, and way more graceful choices in Vegas.”

For a long beat, the man didn’t falter. Through the moment that followed, in which the air got thicker and his jaw clenched tighter, Jen interpreted his tension as her victory—of sorts. Clearly, he was weighing the avenues toward a graceful concession, which should’ve brought a wave of relief, right? But in the ocean of her mind, there wasn’t a ripple. Just many gallons of salty disappointment and contemplating how she was going to deal with life for the next month, working side-by-side with this Scottish god of a man while knowing he was out taking his pick of the stiletto starlets across the city.

And remembering the way he held her hand like this. Then slid his grip up to encircle her wrist instead. Then matched the grip with his other hand around her other wrist. And officially awakened so many latent needs in her body. In her psyche. In her sex…

In all the parts of herself so carefully hidden through the years…because surely no normal or decent man would want a woman who begged him to restrain her…and then take her as hard as he could…

No normal man.

But she jerked her sights up and confronted the stunning features of the man who’d tethered her body—and robbed her breath—all too easily. And clearly didn’t intend to release her anytime soon.

And clearly liking it very much.

And clearly daring her to say she didn’t like it.

But God help her, she did.

So very, very much…

“Jen?”

“Y-Yeah?”

“When are you going to stop fighting this?”

She gulped. It hurt a little. Her throat was parched, and her lips were dry. But holy shit, she even welcomed that pain too. “This…what?”

Sam stood. With noiseless steps, he moved around the portion of the table between them and then filled the space directly in front of her. But he didn’t stop there. Bracketing her legs with both of his, he only halted once his knees abutted the front of her chair, and she had nearly a straight-on view of his crotch. And the way it punched forward when she did savor that sight. And how she felt her eyes widen, knowing how flight suits were meant to be roomy down there but how the man’s shaft made use of damn near every inch of it…

Ohhhh, holy shit.

“Look at me.”

His voice only added to the spell begun by his erection. Gone was his vocal swath of velvet confidence, burned away by the peaty husk of his grate. The second she tilted her head back, she saw a matching mien across his face, his high cheekbones jutting into torrid angles that pointed the way to the noticeable parting of his lips and the pronounced flare of his nostrils. It was a look she’d not seen from him before, but right away she knew why.

He was as consumed by lust as she was.

And confirmed it—as if she really needed the affirmation—by looming an inch deeper over her. Increasing the torque of his grip by half as much. Just enough so she knew he wasn’t going to relent. Not anytime soon. Though right now, she prayed it wouldn’t be ever…

“You are just not gettin’ this, are you?” he rasped.

For a couple of seconds, Jen worked her lips up and down. Words. She knew a few of those, didn’t she? “I—I don’t… Not getting what?”

He dipped in by another inch. A treacherous one this time, since the man’s fluorescent light voodoo conspired against her, exposing new depths of his eyes to her. They weren’t just gray. Dashed into his irises, there were also shards of cobalt as rich and breathtaking as a Sicilian lagoon. “That I don’t want the girls in the bars across town. That ever since I got here, I’ve only wanted the chance to know one sweet lass a little better. And that if I’m not mistaken, that lass feels exactly the same way.”

Jen rolled her eyes, despite how the move narrowed his. “Is this the part where you hit me with the line that fate made me trip in front of you last week?”

He didn’t surrender an iota of his laser focus. “Would it be so wrong if I did?”

Jen forced herself to look away from him. But not even the coffee spatters on the floor, likely left over from the tactical training they’d had before the hops this morning, could dim the magic of his words in her system. It was true, then. The man affected her far beyond his physical glory. He was a force in her senses…

But a destiny in her life?

“There’s a huge gap between attraction and fate, okay?” She let her shoulders sag to emphasize the point, since fighting the man’s hold wasn’t something she wanted to consider. But her surprise about that was eclipsed by his quick response.

“Fair point,” he conceded, going again for his silken baritone. “I’ll rephrase. Would it be so wrong to deny our attraction from last week?” He readjusted his hold, working the rough pads of his thumbs across the pulse points in her wrists. “Christ. Our attraction from right fucking now.”

As he punched out those last three words, Jen sucked in an equally tormented breath. They were doing it again. Syncing even the cadences of their lungs to each other without trying. Because they didn’t have to. Because they just were…

“Tell me you don’t feel any of this, Jenny.” His demand, even without the heart-halting enhancement of her name, was like vocalized magma. “I dare you, woman. Look straight at me and tell me that when we so much as lay eyes on each other, your blood doesn’t turn to fire, your chest isn’t a poundin’ chaos, and your skin doesn’t feel three sizes too tight.” He enforced his hold, scraping his thumbs up to the middle of her palms. “And tell me that every inch of your senses doesn’t scream at you to come to me. To be held by me…exactly like this. To be connected to me, even tighter than this. Just tell me, damn it. Tell me just once, and I’ll be gone and leave you be for the next four weeks.”

She dragged in a shaking breath. Another. But what did she expect to happen? That the billion knots in her senses would suddenly unravel? That her brain would cease to be a soup of arousal and denial and confusion?

She couldn’t need this.

She couldn’t want him.

“Damn it. We’ve…been through this already, Sam.”

“Right,” he spit back. “Your personal ‘policy’ and all.”

“Even if we chucked that out the window, this—us—just isn’t a great idea.”

He gritted out a tight growl. “Aye, well neither is flyin’ a fighter jet into a Pugachev Cobra, but it sure as fuck feels good.”

As he finished the last of that, he bent even closer over her. Still, Jen managed to get in a thorough huff as the man lowered her arms along the chair’s rests while maintaining his grip on top of her wrists. “And if you crash that jet?”

At once, he pursed and twisted his lips at once, quelching her ability to take that huff into a full grumble. To her horror, a sound did spill from her, though it was more a mouse’s squeak than a lioness’s growl. But when the man smirked like that, she couldn’t be held responsible for any wayward sounds—especially when he followed it up with a line that was a little cocky-ass pilot and a lot bold, brash Scotsman.

“Oh, my little mouse. I don’t ever crash.”