What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 12

  Bull’s eyes softened. “Frankie…”

  “But I love thrillers and horror, and you have one of my old favorites.” She picked up The Watchers by Koontz, wiggled into a comfy position on the corner, and smiled up at him. “Thank you. For your rescue—and your care.”

  “My pleasure.” He brushed his hand down her hair in a caress that was as soft as the blanket around her. When she leaned into his touch, his eyes heated, but then he stepped back with an almost inaudible sigh. “Gryff, want to keep her company?”

  At the invitation, the dog jumped up and curled into a ball with his head on her feet.

  “You’re just a big softie, aren’t you?” she murmured, patting his soft fur. And so is your owner.

  Bull disappeared for a minute and returned to leave a travel cup of tea in the sectional console, then moved away again. He sat down at the dining room table and opened a laptop.

  Leaning her head back on the cushions, she took in a slow breath, feeling the low hum of desire in her veins. She shouldn’t let him kiss her, touch her, and somehow, after being almost killed, she no longer wanted to be prudent. She wanted to celebrate being alive…with the one man who tangled her emotions and wakened her lust in a way no one had in, perhaps, ever.

  No. Behave yourself, Frankie. She shouldn’t start something. Not here. Not now.

  Grumbling under her breath, she petted Gryff, let the simmering desire fade, and listened to the sounds around her. So quiet, she could hear the light clicking of his laptop keyboard. Through the open deck door came the soft lap of waves against the lake shore, and birds calling to each other. No traffic, no sirens, no neighbors talking or shouting or playing loud music.

  Slowly, her muscles loosened as she sipped the tea. After a minute, she opened the book and started to read about a dog.

  Chapter Ten

  Words are slicker’n grease, boy. Don’t listen; watch. What does the guy do? It’s actions that’ll show who he really is. ~ First Sergeant Michael “Mako” Tyne

  * * *

  Finished with work, Bull motioned Gryff off the sectional and settled in his place beside Frankie. Such a pretty sight.

  She’d fallen asleep not long after she’d started reading. Gradually, the strain had disappeared from her face.

  Damn the PZs. All the same, it could be the assholes hadn’t realized they were shooting at a woman—or even a person. Bored guards were known for taking potshots at anything that moved in the surrounding forest. Frustration simmered inside him because simply destroying the place wasn’t possible—not with innocent women and children there. There might even be new recruits who hadn’t realized what they’d signed on for. Maybe. He doubted a person would remain ignorant of their purpose for long.

  As if she’d heard his violent thoughts, she stiffened in her sleep, her hands twitching, her breathing speeding up. A crease between her brows and her whimpers indicated she wasn’t having a good dream.

  Fuck knew, he had the bad kind all too often.

  “Frankie,” he murmured. He set his hand on her leg over the blanket, letting the warmth penetrate. Slowly, he glided his palm over her thigh, up and down. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

  Her breathing halted for a second, before she wakened. Her gaze focused on him—“Bull”—and desire rose in her eyes.

  Tempting, tantalizing desire.

  Fuck. “Yeah. You’re in my home—and safe. You had a nightmare.”

  “I did, only it wasn’t all a dream.” Her voice rose with amusing indignation. “I got shot.”

  “So, you did.” He kept stroking slowly. Wishing—as he shouldn’t—that the blanket didn’t cover her bare leg. “Hell of a day, hmm?”

  “There’s an understatement.” She turned toward the front windows that faced the lake, and her eyes widened. “It’s dark.”

  “It’s after 11:00.” Night had fallen while she’d slept. Enjoying the sunset on the lake, then the moon-shimmer on the snowy mountains, he hadn’t turned on the inside lights. Only the various kitchen electronics provided any light in the house.

  When Frankie struggled to sit up, Bull pulled her to a sitting position. And enjoyed the sway of her full breasts under his T-shirt.

  Her mouth curved up…because she’d noticed the direction of his gaze.

  He shrugged. “I’d say I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be true. You have beautiful breasts.”

  Her laugh was low and husky. “Okay, yes. I do.”

  Yeah, he really did like her.

  “Thank you for insisting that I stay.” She pulled in a long breath that had him checking out those breasts again. “Knowing I could have died… Being here, somewhere safe, let me get past it.”

  “That was the plan.” It’d helped him too, knowing nothing would hurt her here. Not with him around. He’d needed that assurance as much as she had.

  She leaned forward, running her hand up his shoulder, behind his head, and gave him a straight-forward, heated look. “Thank you. For the rescue. For handling everything and giving me a quiet space to recuperate.”

  Her lips pressed against his, warm and soft, opening to him. When he put his arm around her and pulled her close, her body went boneless, letting him have all the control.

  She tasted of cinnamon-apple tea as he took the kiss deeper, exploring and teasing, before drawing back.

  In the dim light, he could see her eyes were filled with desire, and damn, but he wanted more. Shaking his head, he drew away.

  “What?” Her frown was delightful, dark brows together, mouth twisted in an adorable pout.

  “Gratitude sex…let’s not go there.” If and when they hooked up, he wanted honest emotions.

  Her eyes widened, then she grinned at him. “That kiss was your thank you. Nothing more.”

  “A kiss is good. Beats getting a card in the mail.” Cards had been forwarded to him a time or two after hostage rescues.

  Her tongue ran over her upper lip. “Um, more kisses would be good.”

  “I only rescued you once.”

  “Moving on from that…” Her skin darkened with a blush. “Maybe, as two consenting adults, we could possibly indulge in some simple sex with…um, no expectations for anything afterward. With the caveat that nothing intrudes into work.”

  “Simple sex.” Nothing about this woman was simple. He studied the sultry look in her dark eyes and admitted that the attraction between them had been there since they met.

  He rubbed his lips lightly over hers and murmured, “I could do with some indulging.”

  Her lips tipped up with her smile. Framing her face with his hands, he kissed her. Invading. Demanding.

  She had a luscious mouth.

  More.

  Rising, he snapped his fingers for Gryff and let the dog out into the grassy shared courtyard. “Go enjoy the evening, buddy.” Closing the door, he flipped the lock and glanced toward the sectional. With the lights off, nothing would be visible from outside.

  As Bull rejoined her, Frankie laughed. “Don’t want to corrupt your baby?”

  “He’s an innocent li’l pup, all hundred pounds of him.”

  “I did notice he was lacking some…equipment,” Frankie said. “Perhaps I should make sure that you haven’t suffered the same fate.”

  “We did have people shooting in the forest,” he said in a judicial tone. “It would be best if we performed an inspection for missing or damaged parts.” He pulled her shirt off, sat beside her with one hand behind her back and the other on her breast.

  He kissed her.

  Sensory overload. Her lips were full and soft. Her breast was full and soft. Both equally appealing. Jesus.

  “Mmm. This part seems functional. Let me check the other one.” He cupped her other breast, enjoying the heavy weight on his palm as he kissed down her neck, taking care to miss the scratched spots. “Yes, this one seems to be fine.”

  When he ran his thumb around her velvety nipple, she pulled in a shaky breath. Nicely sensitive. Yeah, his mouth needed to be t
here.

  Slipping off the sectional onto his knees, he flattened her on the cushions, hand in her hair. Lowering his head, he licked around one soft nipple, blew a puff of air, and tongued the heady peak.

  * * *

  Ohhhh. When Bull stretched her out on the couch, she felt like a virgin sacrifice on an altar. And as if in response, her naked breasts were throbbing and tingling. He closed his mouth over one aching nipple, and the bloom of lust made her back arch.

  He switched to the other breast, rubbing his slightly scratchy goatee against the tender underside before drawing the nipple into his mouth. His mouth was far too skilled.

  Her body was melting into a carnal pool. If this was what happened during pagan rituals, she’d volunteer to be tribute. Even though she wasn’t a virgin.

  She ran her hands over his head, enjoying the feel of the shaved scalp. Not stubbly, but ever-so-soft skin, like sun-warmed, buttery leather.

  Moving up, he kissed her again, even as he teased her nipples with his fingers. “I can report that the above-ground equipment seems to be in good order,” he murmured. When he rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, her mind hazed at the pleasure.

  “Well.” She blinked, then gripped the back of his T-shirt. “Hold still. I mustn’t slack off on the job.”

  He ducked his head, letting her pull the shirt over his head and off.

  Oh, santo cielo. Good God, she might not survive this. His body was male perfection, from the strong, corded neck, the smooth bronze expanse of his wide chest, to the hard slab of his ribbed abdomen. One shoulder had a tattoo with an eagle perched on an anchor, clutching a rifle and a trident. The other shoulder had a frog skeleton. A friend’s husband who’d been in the Navy SEALs also had one of those eerie tats. A long scar ran over his upper chest, a circular white one on his lower abdomen.

  He was a warrior.

  Unable to keep from touching, she flattened her palm against steely pectoral muscles, started to sit up—and winced as her back pulled.

  His dark brows drew together. “You’re hurt.”

  “No, not really.”

  “Frankie.” His voice was a low rumble of warning.

  “Fine, my back is a little sore. New York streets aren’t a good preparation for hiking and falling off Alaskan cliffs.”

  Even his low chuckle was sexy? “I daresay not. Roll over, sweetheart, onto your belly.”

  Ignoring her whine of complaint, he moved her. The cushions were plush against her bare breasts and abdomen, making her very aware that all she wore were her small briefs.

  “Stay right there.” He rose. When he returned, the cushion dipped as he sat beside her hip. A second later, his callused palms stroked up on each side of her spine. A sweet scent like tropical fruit wafted through the air, and a second later, heat spread over her skin.

  “That feels wonderful.”

  “Mmm, the stuff has a warming agent in it.” He pressed gently, at first, easing her muscles, then his powerful hands squeezed the knots, tightening to the point of pain, then releasing.

  She moaned as each painful spot relaxed. Slowly, he worked his way down her back, avoiding the bruises.

  “You’re great at this,” she murmured.

  His laugh was a dark rumbling sound. “When I was a sex-driven young man, Caz said giving a massage was a wonderful way to get a woman’s clothes off and please her as well, and he gave me lessons so I wouldn’t break anyone.”

  She snorted because he easily could. Yet his strength and gentleness combined was incredibly arousing. So was his generosity. Despite already being on the way to having sex, he’d put his own desires on hold to make her feel better.

  It would be easier if he were ugly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, che palle, did I say that out loud?”

  “’Fraid so.” He was laughing as his hands glided over her skin. “Do you normally have sex with ugly men?””

  There was no way to answer that.

  When she stayed silent, he rolled her to her back and massaged the front of her shoulders. His dark gaze met hers as he waited for her answer.

  “Bull, I don’t…” She sighed. “I don’t really trust good-looking men.”

  He blinked, then his eyes sharpened. “Because of your ex who’s a model and undoubtedly handsome?”

  “He’s one. There were more.” Just the thought of them made her tense. “One cheated on me. Another stole money. Another man—besides my ex—wanted my influence to get ahead in the business. I know you’re not them, but it’s difficult to fight the feeling that pretty men are all about themselves and no one else.”

  She turned her head. As the memories of the betrayals surfaced again, they hurt even more. Her emotions were already scraped raw from the day.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  Ugly emotions didn’t excuse her behavior. Bull had rescued her, and now, she’d essentially said he was untrustworthy and shallow. How rude and ungrateful could she be? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” She tried to sit up.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders, holding her in place…and he resumed gently rubbing her shoulders. “Frankie,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, staring at the back of the sectional. How could she excuse herself gracefully with one foot in her mouth?

  He chuckled and cupped her face, turning her head toward him so easily. All those muscles. So damned gorgeous. “Sweetheart, look at me,” he said firmly.

  She had no choice.

  A line had deepened between his brows, but he showed no anger. His dark eyes studied her. “If you grew up in the business, that’s where your dating pool is from, I bet. Were those gorgeous, shallow men all models or wannabe models?”

  Her ex, yes. The rest, mostly yes. “I dated students in college. That’s how I found out that the less…hot…men were nicer.”

  “Ah, got it.” He smiled at her. “Might I point out a small flaw in your hypothesis about the character of good-looking men.”

  It wasn’t fair that the man was as smart as he was attractive. “All right.”

  “Your sampling came from a subset of handsome men. You dated male models, people whose careers are dependent on their appearance. Because of that, a high percentage of models—probably both male and female—likely possess a certain kind of self-centered personality.”

  Wait a minute, now. “You mean… What you’re saying is that male models are possibly shallow and untrustworthy, but that might not apply to gorgeous men who aren’t models?”

  “It might; it might not. People are…people.” He ran light fingertips over her cheek. “I learned early on not to judge a person by outward appearance. And really, Frankie, women get pissed off when guys judge them on how they look.”

  His quiet words felt like a blow because of the accuracy. She’d done exactly what she found so appalling from men. Or even women. If someone said, I don’t date ugly men, Frankie would’ve called her small minded. Stupid, even.

  She was the stupid one. “I hate it when someone—besides me—is right. You know that, don’t you?”

  He had such a great laugh.

  She grumbled under her breath and took a moment to consider her past dating history, seeing the relationships, the men, through a new lens.

  “One other thing,” he murmured. He skated his thumb over her lips, making her realize she’d been rubbing her cheek against his wide, hard palm. “Your past is telling your head not to trust me. But you already do, don’t you?”

  Damn him. She did. How did that happen? Maybe because he’d saved her from the forest, taken care of her, and been wonderful with his dog, his niece, and the people at work. She’d come to know him better than she realized. He didn’t go for the easy slick choices, didn’t depend on his charm, but…did the work. He was sincere…and careful with people.

  “Maybe,” she said, grudgingly. “Yes, all right. I do trust you.”

  He rewarded her for her honesty with a kiss. Such a great k
iss. Firm, seductive lips turning so hungry and demanding that her senses spun.

  She curled her uninjured arm around his shoulder and felt his back muscles flex as he braced himself on one hand and covered her breast with the other. His palm was still slick with the massage oil…and as he teased her nipple, her skin began to tingle and warm.

  “What?” She wiggled. “What’s in that stuff?”

  “Just something for fun.” He rubbed his nose against hers and kissed her again. “It’s good for sore muscles—and for other areas, as well. Like lady-bits.”

  He ran his fingers around her other nipple, tugging it to a point. When he bent and blew air across the jutting peaks, the sensation of heat and the cool air made her toes curl. He cupped a breast in each hand, then squeezed, tightening the skin, so when he circled a nipple with his tongue and suckled, pleasure shocked through her.

  “Bull…”

  Never slowing, he moved back and forth between her breasts, sucking, teasing, tugging.

  Madonna, she might die of pleasure. Moaning, she ran her fingers down his back, over rippling muscles beneath velvet-smooth skin, down the deep furrow of his spine, to his tight buttocks. Mmm. Twisting slightly, she slid a hand between them and under the waistband of his jeans. He was so hard, so thick that there wasn’t any room in there at all. “That must be very uncomfortable.”

  He broke out laughing. “Woman, you have no idea.” He sat up and tucked his fingers under the waistband of her briefs and paused to give her a chance to object.

  Object? Not hardly. Her whole body wanted those skilled hands on her pussy. She lifted her hips. His smile flashed, and then her briefs were off and tossed onto the coffee table.

  He sat back, studying her body with an open appreciation that sent a flush over her skin. “You look delicious in that position.” He ran a finger from her breast, down her stomach, and…down her right thigh.

  She glared. Stronzo. Whatever happened to a man going straight for the target? For a change, it was what she really wanted and…he was going to play?