Chapter 14 #5
He felt it first in her hand as it shook and then wildly trembled in his.
The tremors went up her arm until her whole torso shook.
She bit her lips. The words came pouring out in a flurry of agitation.
“It’s all my fault. This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been there.
If I hadn’t taken my problems with me. I can’t even think about it.
Nicole could have lost her baby and it would have been my fault. ”
She hadn’t cried waiting for the news, she’d simply huddled in on herself in misery, but now the tears started flowing.
Harry couldn’t stand it. He simply couldn’t stand seeing her like this. He lifted her up and sat down with her on his lap.
Ellen didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t crying. She turned her face into his neck, let out a high keening sound of misery that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and let go.
God.
It lasted forever.
She cried so hard he thought she might choke, so hard she had to gulp twice to pull in air.
Harry didn’t even try to stop her. As her chest heaved and she wet his shirt, he simply held her, as tightly and completely as possible, one arm around her waist, one hand covering the back of her head, trying to touch as much of her with as much of him as possible.
The comfort of his body is what she needed right now and he was more than willing to provide it.
She was curled up on his lap, arms around his neck, holding on for dear life, weeping her heart out.
Crying for Nicole and the baby she almost lost, yes, but also for the year of her life that was stolen.
For having a world-class talent she was terrified to show in public.
For the death of her agent, which she also deep down considered her fault.
For being forced to live a life always ducking, always checking her back, always fearful.
Harry would have loved to have reassured her that her troubles were over, that he was here now.
But no matter how much he wanted to protect her, no matter how close he stayed by her side, a bullet could find her at any second.
A silenced sniper rifle bullet from a mile out was something no one could protect against. The President of the United States was protected at all times by something like two hundred highly trained men and women and look how that turned out.
Every once in a while a President got popped.
So though he could promise he’d protect her, he couldn’t promise he could keep her alive. She knew that.
She’d spent the past year on red alert, adrenaline coursing through her body, probably checking her six every five minutes, jumping at unusual noises, suspicious of strangers, allowing herself only the most shallow of slumbers because the night time is when the terrors are worst.
She’d essentially spent a year in war, under fire.
Soldiers had access to shrinks, had understanding buddies if they lost it, and at least they were trained to fight back.
Fuck with a US soldier and a world of hurt came raining down on your head. She’d been alone and vulnerable, every second of every fucking day.
This was a beautiful woman with an unworldly talent the world should be celebrating and instead that fucker Montez made her scuttle around in the darkness like a cockroach.
She had every right to weep.
The crying jag was winding down, more because it had exhausted her than anything else. She finally heaved a huge sigh and settled more fully against him.
Thank God she was curled up on his lap and not over his groin, so she couldn’t feel his boner. Though it would be a miracle if she didn’t feel the heat from it. Shit, it was burning him up alive, like a hot poker some joker had stuck down the front of his pants.
If there was one trick he’d learned having nearly died twice and having twice made that long long trek back to life, it was the ability to shut off signals from parts of his body.
Last year, he’d shut out the pain of the surgeries and the shattered hip.
He’d just blanked out all sensation from his waist down.
He tried that now, because at the time it was been a neat trick to cut off the pain.
Helped along with a little alcohol and some Eve from his speakers.
So now that he wasn’t feeling any pain at all, you’d think he’d be able to pull that no-feeling-below-the-waist thing.
But no.
His dick was actually screaming at him to get going. To get inside Ellen as fast as he could, now that the crying jag was over and she might be a little amenable to some belly bumping.
No. Harry didn’t do this.
He knew men who equated sex with pain. Who loved fucking women in distress, even better if they were the ones to make them hurt. Women’s pain was like an aphrodisiac to them. He’d seen that a lot, his mom had fucked a lot of men like that.
Harry was better than that. He’d spent his whole fucking life proving that he was better than that.
Sex between consenting adults was one of the great pleasures of life. Mutually satisfying fun. Making love with someone you cared about, loved—that was holy.
And Harry loved Ellen. Maybe he’d loved her before he even met her. The instant he’d seen her—a beautiful, frightened woman in his office—it was as if something in the universe slotted into place. Something real, something necessary.
So getting a boner while she wept desperately in his arms shamed him, disgusted him. It made him no better than fuckhead Rod. It made him a monster.
He’d get Ellen a cup of tea and go and take a cold shower and see if he could jerk off, get the boner back down. Or if that didn’t work, put ice on it, hammer it down, do something.
He shifted on the couch, preparing to lift her off him when she sat up, swivelled her head and looked him in the eyes.
And—fuck—her hip landed straight on his cock. Oh, shit.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said miserably. “I just—"
She made a shushing sound, placing the palms of her hands against his cheeks, forcing him to look into her eyes.
Oh God, how could she be so beautiful after weeping for half an hour? Most women looked like shit after crying. Eyes and face red and swollen. Ellen simply looked rosier than the icy white she’d been before, her eyes lustrous with tears, a sadness on her face that cut bone deep.
Hell, even seeing her like this, why wouldn’t his fucking boner go down?
“Harry?” she whispered.
“Yeah?” he whispered back.
“Will you do something for me?”
“Anything you want, honey. Anything.”
She leaned forward, her lower belly right against his cock, lips touching his. Against his mouth she whispered, “Take me to bed and make love to me.”
She needed this like she’d needed the sunshine this morning. A celebration of life. A celebration of the fact that Nicole and her baby were okay and so was she, for the moment.
And moments were all you were guaranteed in life, weren’t they? No one could promise her that she or Harry might not die today, tomorrow. It came down to celebrating each and every moment of joy.
And being with Harry was pure joy. The more she knew him, the more she could see past that incredible tough-guy exterior. He was, yeah, really tough. He was strong and brave and could outshoot three bad guys.
But inside, inside that tough exterior, was a tender heart.
The kind of man who still mourned his murdered mother and little sister, who’d fought almost to the death for them.
The kind of man who, together with his brothers, unquestioningly put himself on the line for women and children in need of protectors.
This man made the perfect protector. And he did it with such a light touch, without smothering. If you weren’t on the lookout, you wouldn’t even know you were being protected. He was just…there.
It was a quality she’d never met in a man before. Men took—sex, love, your money, everything if you weren’t careful. It was so strange to have a man who gave instead of taking.
Maybe she could give him something back.
“Come on.” She stood up and tugged at his hands until he stood up, too.