Chapter 11
Declan
The remaining thread of Declan’s rigid self-control snapped clean in two. He
slid his large hand from the side of Sawyer’s neck into the thick, damp blond
hair at the base of his skull, gripping the strands in a firm, possessive fist.
Declan stepped forward, driving Sawyer back two paces until Sawyer’s spine
struck the edge of the aluminum electronics workbench, and took his mouth in a
hard, crushing kiss.
Sawyer parted his lips instantly, meeting Declan’s tongue with a hungry,
desperate groan that vibrated against Declan’s ribs. Sawyer’s uninjured right
arm flew around Declan’s neck, his fingers locking into Declan’s hair with
fierce strength, pulling the big man closer. The heat of Sawyer’s mouth was
sweet and scorching, tasting of hot black tea and raw, unadulterated need.
Declan broke the kiss for two seconds, his chest heaving, his dark eyes locked
onto Sawyer’s flushed face and swollen lips.
"Up on the bench," Declan ordered, his voice a low, raspy growl that brooked
zero argument.
Declan hooked his hands under Sawyer’s thighs, lifted the younger man clean off
the rubber floor in a single, effortless motion, and set him on the edge of the
metal work surface. Declan stepped directly between Sawyer’s spread knees, his
broad chest pressing Sawyer back against the vertical instrument racks.
Declan grabbed the hem of Sawyer’s black thermal shirt and pulled it up over his
head in one swift jerk, tossing the fabric to the floor.
Sawyer sat bare-chested under the amber glow of the heater. His torso was lean,
sculpted with long, dense abdominal muscles and broad lats developed from
thousands of hours on steep alpine slopes. A strip of white medical tape ran
across his left shoulder, protecting the healing joint, and a dark purple bruise
spread over his lower left ribs from the force of the avalanche.
Declan reached out, his calloused thumbs tracing the edge of the bruise with
firm, careful pressure. Sawyer’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, his hands
gripping the metal edge of the bench beside his hips.
"You took a brutal beating out on that mountain, Brand," Declan murmured,
stepping closer until his belt buckle ground against Sawyer’s pelvis. "And you
still pulled two hundred and twenty pounds of dead load over a cliff edge to
keep me breathing."
"I told you I wasn't fragile, Declan," Sawyer whispered, his hazel eyes wide and
dark with desire.
Declan pulled his own black tactical shirt over his head, throwing it aside. His
massive chest and thick, corded shoulders were etched with old scars from his
military engineering days, covered in a light dusting of dark hair across his
pectorals. Declan leaned down, pressing his bare, heated skin flush against
Sawyer’s chest, letting their heartbeats drum together in the quiet dome.
Declan brought his mouth to the hollow below Sawyer’s ear, biting down gently on
the tense muscle of his neck. Sawyer groaned aloud, arching his back off the
bench, his thighs clamping tight around Declan’s hips.
"You spent the last year running yourself ragged chasing ghosts, Sawyer," Declan
growled possessively against his skin, his hands coming down to grip Sawyer’s
waist in an iron hold. "That ends tonight. You are in my station, on my
mountain, and you are going to let me take care of you."
Sawyer reached up, his hands framing Declan’s rugged, stubbled jaw, pulling
Declan down until their lips brushed. "Take care of me, Declan. Take
everything."