21. Why Didn’t You Tell Me?
Chapter 21
Why Didn’t You Tell Me?
Griff
“Heath Carlin.” The name tasted like poison in my mouth. Like something that had been in the back of the cupboard and soured with rot. “H-E-A-T-H C-A-R-L-I-N.”
I spelled out his name, just to make sure I got it right.
“What’s his birth date and social security number?” I clenched and unclenched a fist while my other hand held her wrist, needing to feel her. I needed to know she was here. I had to touch her.
She laughed. It bubbled out of her mouth so quickly that she covered her lips with hand to stop it.
“You’re not going to kill him,” she said with a smile.
I smiled too. I smiled because she was smiling. When she laughed, I laughed. That was the effect Taz Guerro had on me.
“Yes, I will.”
She didn’t believe me but that was alright. But if this man was alive, I would bury him.
“Quit kidding around!” She leaned forward, her hands almost swatting my chest, but she thought better of it, pulling back at the last minute before her hand could land on me.
I grabbed her hands in retreat, and placed them on my chest, digging her palms into my pecs. I needed contact. I wanted it so badly, I didn’t think I’d survive if she stayed away.
“Don’t pull away, baby,” I begged. “We’re not in the Army. We’re not married to anyone else. There’s no reason for us not to touch.”
She blushed. “You can’t throw out over five years of habit in a couple nights.”
“Try,” I dared, leaning in to kiss her forehead. She let me. She didn’t flinch away or push me off. That was progress. “What’s his date of birth?” I asked again.
“Stop joking.” She laughed, slipping one hand away and wiping a tear, before she returned her hand to my chest.
“Just because I’m laughing doesn’t mean I’m joking.” I chuckled, pushing a bit of hair off her face.
I didn’t need his social security number. I would find him. Or, more accurately, Agent Sierra would help me find him. Hell, she’d join in.
“It’s creepy when you say things like that,” she said, her body relaxing.
I tugged at her arms, pulling them around my side until she was back in my embrace.
So much for a little cat and mouse in the woods.
I had always, in my head, thought of taking her roughly against the bark of the tree, growling and screaming like a feral animal. Two intense athletes, rough, and predatory, vying for dominance. It was a lust I had built up over the years and suppressed when I was married. Then later, suppressed because she wasn’t interested… or so I thought. Resentment built, when she was within reach, but untouchable. I harbored fantasies of forcing her to enjoy my cock and screwing her to within an inch of her life, weeping my name.
It had been a taste I’d developed with one night stands across the globe.
But I didn’t need it now. All I needed was her.
I wanted to erase the scars on her naked torso, and never, ever see them again.
With her face against my chest, and my arms around her, she felt perfect, and I would create a world around her. I would fix the world to make her life better.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I needed an answer to this.
I needed to know why, in our years of friendship and trust, she kept this from me.
I should have taken a note out of Sierra’s playbook and violated the fuck out of her privacy. What else didn’t I know? Why did it take so long for her to give me this bit of herself.
“I could have helped. I could have listened, at least.” I twisted my fingers into her hair, pulling back on it until her face tilted up towards me. In a small way, I wanted to cause her a little pain. Just a bit, so she understood the devastation that not knowing this detail about her caused inside me. “We were friends, Taz. Close friends. You were my best friend. You are my best friend. That’s something you should have told your friend.”
She pulled away, tilting her head down, but keeping her cheek against my shirt. I unbound my fingers from her hair, and let my hand trace up and down her back.
“Because I didn’t want you to think of me that way.”
“What way?”
She shifted uncomfortably in my arms and was about to pull away again. I could feel it. But I held her tighter, making sure she had no means of escape. Not from this. Not from this conversation, and not from me.
She let out a sigh.
“Like the kind of woman who would let a man hit her.” She slumped, her shoulders sagging, as she went limp. Like that confession had drained it all from her. “You wouldn’t tolerate that kind of weakness. I didn’t want you to treat me like… like that kind of girl.”
“What kind of girl is that?” I had no fucking clue why she’d ever think I’d judge her for this.
“The weak kind,” She whispered. “You hate weakness.”
“I do,” I said, tracing my fingers around what was apparently a stab wound from her ex-husband. I noted its location, vowing to place a wound there on him… but with a serrated knife. “I don’t think you’re weak.”
“I let a man beat me. I never stood up to him. I didn’t…”
“Being hurt by the person you love is not your fault. Being harmed by someone who was meant to take care of you isn’t your fault.”
I had a million things to say. But for another time.
“Being hurt doesn’t make you weak,” I said, tightening my arms because I needed it. I needed to feel her. “Not killing him… well, that’s just a level of character I don’t think I have.”
She laughed. It was small, and sad, but genuine. Just like the rest of her.
I wasn’t joking though. Heath Carlin was a dead man. If he was already dead, then I’d destroy his legacy, and then piss on his grave.
I had to stop my mental check list of all the ways I was going to destroy a man I hadn’t known about until today.
Her head tilted up, and she planted her mouth on mine. Her kiss was deep, aggressive, and oh-so -Taz. Her hands fisted into the collar of my shirt, as she scrambled to pull it up and over my head.
She looked at me, moving to straddle my waist, and I fisted my cock, still half hard between us.
“Are you hard because of the thought of murder, or because you're happy to see me?” Her hands roamed my pecs, her little smile sending another jolt of lust through me.
“Could be both,” I chuckled, thrusting up my hips until my cock rubbed against the rough seam of her jeans.
I wasn’t sure how honest my answer actually was. The idea of killing for Taz was, indeed, a little arousing. Like I was a big dog ready to bring back dead critters as gifts for my owner.
She came up on her knees and undid her jeans. She fumbled, laughing as she fell on her ass trying to get them off her legs. I tried to steady her, but I was… overwhelmed. The sight of her bare skin – her naked body – made me dizzy with desire.
We had fucked only two nights now, and each time, clothes had been half-on. Hers, and mine. But without her shirt, and her jeans, with her full, taut body on display… well, there wasn’t enough blood in me to handle what happened in my head, heart, and cock all at the same time.
With her clothes discarded, she came back to me, her hands on my chest, straddling so that my tip slid between her wet folds.
“Will you let me ride you, Griff?” her earnest eyes gazed at me with sweet longing. “I’m not ready to face this. To face my life… being in a safe house. I don’t know what’s happening… I…”
She was about to panic. A lesser person would have already lost their shit.
“I'm going to get us answers, okay? I promise. We’re going to figure this out. I’m here with you on this.”
I’d fix everything for her.
She shook her head. “Please, help me forget. I’ll face… everything… after. But for now…”
“Use me however you want,” I swallowed the thickness in my throat, immediately haunted by the image of her riding me with reckless abandon, her beautiful, brown nipples bouncing as I pinched, sucked and massaged them.
I had never been on the “ridden” end of things. I did the riding. In the typical dimensions of a relationship where there was a top or bottom, I was unequivocally a top. I was the dom. After my divorce, the preference became even clearer, and stronger because I craved control.
But for her? I’d do anything.
Taz fisted my cock in her hand, her fingers barely touching, as she directed my over-eager little buddy to the entrance he was looking for. With a few purposeful swipes, she let her wetness coat my tip, her brows furrowed as she positioned herself.
She slowly lowered her body, her hips canted back, going down inch by agonizing inch. We both moaned. The first thrust was always special. The first entrance was always sexy as fuck. Hell, I’d even venture to guess that the moment of first entering a woman was better than the moment of release.
But a wicked thought seeded itself in my head as her bare nipples pebbled into little points, her skin flushed pink under the orange setting sun.
Release would be so much better if I was in her to make life. To make a child with my almond eyes, and her cheekbones. A small person, that would have her attitude, and my diligence. A Guerro-Griffith that would become the best Soldier-Spy that the world had ever known.
I opened my eyes and looked up to my woman. Her bare, beautiful breasts were the perfect handful, her shoulders and thighs thick, corded, like the true image of a conquering warrior. She was conquering me. And I would gladly surrender.
She rotated her hips like a fucking dance. My tip pushed against her walls, choking in the feel of her small movements.
“Fuck,” I groaned, as she kept going. Slow, purposeful. Like she was exploring each feeling.
My hands went to my hair, tugging them at the root as I resisted the urge to push her over, and pin her down. To ride her with the reckless, animalistic abandon that I was known for. My fingers flexed, my entire body shook with need as I held myself back.
“Taz…” I groaned, pleading for something.
For what? I wasn’t sure.
“Griff,” she whispered, shutting her eyes so tight they wrinkled in the corner.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I said, my hands coming from my hair, reaching for her face. “Baby?”
“Nothing,” she shook her head, shaking my hands off her in the process. “It’s… it’s too much. This is all too much.”
“What’s too much, baby?” My cock is big. I knew that. I’d be an idiot not to. But if that was the issue, she wouldn’t ride me so deep. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
“I can’t…”
“Baby…” I put my hand snack on her cheeks. “Talk to me.”
The gentle rocking of her hips stilled, and my cock pulsed inside her, begging for more movement and friction, wanting her to give me more. But I wasn’t a prick. If I had to stop, I would… even if it killed me.
When a graceful, gorgeous tear went down her cheek, my heart broke. It fell from her chin, down, to my lips, and I tasted the salt and bitterness of them.
I wiped the next tears away with my thumb, holding her face in mine, staying silent, even as I ached to scream for her to give me whatever the fuck was weighing her down. What was keeping my beautiful Firefly from giving in to me?
“It’s not fair,” her hand left my chest, and I felt cold at the loss of contact. If we were fused together by the skin, it still wouldn’t be enough. “You’ll break me.”
“Baby…” I grabbed her hair, quite done with whatever thoughts swirled inside her mind. Whatever bullshit was making her say these things. “Look. At. Me.”
She shut her eyes harder.
“Stubborn as always,” I growled, sitting up, my cock moving inside her with the movement, eliciting a gasp that made me want to push her against the nearest tree and scrape her skin raw against the bark as I thrust in, deep, fast, and violent.
She would give me no more of her. Not until I figured out exactly what was wrong.
So I thought. I thought deep, and hard about what she needed in this moment.
“I’m not Heath,” I said, my nostrils flaring at the repressed anger of having to say his name while I was still inside her. The fact that this was the thing that kept her from releasing and taking her pleasure. Her pleasure was the only thing I needed at that moment. I could hold my breath. I could not drink, eat, or go blind… it would be fine, if I could just feel her pleasure.
I’d do anything for her.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I love you so much, it hurts.”
Her eyes blinked open, glassy and tired, but also bewildered.
“I’ve loved you a long time,” I confessed, as I took my hands from her face. I tore open my shirt, the buttons breaking away, flying off into the dirt and woods.
“You can’t,” she whispered.
Can’t what? Can’t fuck her? Can’t have her? Can’t love her?
I wasn’t sure.
I didn’t care.
I took her hand, and placed it on my bare chest, moving her hand until the fingers landed on my tattoo.
“You see this?” I asked, as she blinked away her tears. Her eyes refocusing. “What do you see?”
“A firefly,” she gasped.
“Do you know who it’s for?”
She shook her head.
“Yes, you do,” I said, trying to calm my brewing anger, only marginally tempered by the fact that I was still inside her. If all couples had arguments while they were connected this way, there’d be fewer divorces in America. “ Who is it for?”
She shook her head, going to the place she liked best. Denial.
I thrust my hips up, she groaned as my pelvis rubbed her sensitive clit. But I wasn’t doing it for that… not yet at least.
I pulled my jeans down until my right thigh was fully exposed. I grabbed her hand, and placed it over the thickened skin of the scar from the gunshot wound. The one I had earned for her.
“Look,” I demanded. “Look at my scar, and tell me what you see.”
She shook her head, not wanting to look, but I wound my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, and moved her head until she had to look down at it, her body twisting to look at the view.
She blinked, her eyes slowly registering.
“What do you see?” I asked
But she shook her head again.
“Tell me what you see!”
She kept on shaking, trying to pull away from my grasp. Fat fucking chance. She wasn’t getting away easily this time. I wouldn’t let her go, and just stand around like an asshole, hoping she’d pay attention to me. I wasn’t going to pine and crumble under the pressure of what I thought was unrequited.
“What. Do. You. See?” I asked, slowly, letting her know that I would not back away from what I needed her to see.
“Your scar.”
“That’s right, baby.” I ran a hand from her hip, up her lean, flat stomach, to a beautiful round breast, up that elegant clavicle, to her long neck. My palm itched so badly that I couldn't resist. I placed my hand against her throat, my fingers at that lovely pulse, feeling the fast thumping of her heart. “Tell me why I got those.”
She shook her head again, and I was done. I was at the end of my rope, and I was not patient enough to let her come to her own conclusions.
“I got it for you, you stubborn woman!” I tightened my hand on her throat, and far from trying to pull my hand away, her hands wrapped around my forearm, anchoring herself to that connection. “The scar on my thigh is because I took a bullet for you, and I’d do it again, and again, and again. The one on my chest, is because I was shot three months ago, and I realized that I needed you.”
She gasped, her eyes widening.
“You didn’t tell me you got shot again,” her eyes looked sad, as her fingers traced the tattoo. Not the scar. But the mark of her over my heart.
“You’re not the only one who can keep a secret.”
The only people who knew I had been shot in the chest were Sierra, Oscar, and possibly my father.
“It matches the firefly birthmark, right here,” I placed my finger on her shoulder blade, where that same shape resided. The first time I had caught a glimpse of it was at a company pool party. I became obsessed with the little wine stain, and forever associated Taz with the bright insect. A little flicker of light in the darkness.
“I almost fucking died, and do you know what I dreamt of when I was in a medically induced coma?”
She didn’t shake her head that time. She just swallowed, a tear welling up in her eyes.
I hated to see her in pain. I hated to see her cry. But in a lot of ways, saying this, even if it caused her pain, was something I needed. I was sick of her not knowing what she meant to me. I was sick and tired of her fucking Miss Independent attitude that pushed people away, and made it seem like she didn’t need anyone.
She didn’t need anyone. But I did.
I craved her so much that I would die without her. And maybe that made my love for her selfish, and needy. But I wasn’t in the mood for a lesson in semantics.
“Who do you think I dreamt of? Who do you think got me through it?” I demanded, and she clamped her mouth shut, as if to keep the words from spilling out. I ran my thumb over the ticking muscle of her jaw and chuckled. “You’re not a dumb woman, Taz. But do you need me to spell it out?”
I already knew she would, but I’d give her a chance to change her pattern, even if my hopes weren’t high.
She shook her head, but said nothing.
So I continued.
“I dreamt about you. My dreams stitched together a thousand memories all at once.” I ran the backs of my fingers over her tight jawline. “I dreamt of a thousand conversations we’d had but imagined them across a pillow in the early morning light. I dreamt about what we would have talked about if you hadn’t disappeared in the morning.”
“Stop,” she said in a quiet whisper that I chose to ignore.
“I thought about what you’d do when I woke up, and how you’d be at my bedside,” I said, remembering the clear and terrible disappointment of just seeing Sierra’s sullen face at the hospital. “How you’d hold me, and give me whatever I wanted, because you’d spend days so worried that I’d die…”
“Please, stop.”
“I dreamt about dressing you, too. Is that weird?” Yes, it was. “Helping you put a necklace on, as you hold up your hair. The way I could help you zip up your dress–”
“I don’t own any dresses.”
“– and hold your hand as you slipped on your high heels when we went out for dinner–”
“I don’t own high heels either.”
“– And how I would help you up the stairs if you had one too many Belgian Whites.” I was done with her stubbornness. I really was. But at the same time, I loved it. I placed a kiss over the place where her heart was. “I dreamt about waking up beside you in the morning. A quiet, normal morning.”
My desire for her grew, stiffening my cock as the intimacy of my fantasies were given shape. I put it to words, so it became true. It gave it power.
“That’s what I want at the end of all the insanity we’ve lived through, Taz.” I placed my forehead on her chest. “I want to see you with your hair messed up with sleep. I want to wake up, sweaty from cuddling too tight. I want to…”
“Stop,” she whispered, her fingers pressed to my lips. “I believe you. But please… no more.”
“Is it too much to hear right now? Or is it because you don’t feel the same?”
No matter what she said, it would break my heart.