Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
S loane paced up and down the hotel room. Where the hell were they? They’d been gone for hours.
A short time ago she’d heard police sirens race past on their way to the harbor. Something had gone down, and she had a terrible feeling she knew just what it was.
Please let them be okay .
Nausea rose in her stomach.
What if Stitch was dead? What if he wasn’t coming back? Her heart twisted painfully in her chest.
She shook her head. No, she mustn’t think like that.
Of course, he was coming back. It would take more than a few armed mercenaries to put him down—and he had Blade for backup. She didn’t know the former SEAL team leader that well, but she could tell he was a force to be reckoned with. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. And he’d protect his friend until the end.
She just prayed this wasn’t the end.
Sloane was close to wearing a path in the carpet when she finally heard the keycard in the door and the two disheveled sailors walked in.
“Oh, thank God!” She flung herself at Stitch. “I was so worried. I heard the sirens and thought something terrible had happened.”
“Something terrible did.” Blake’s eyes twinkled. “But not to us.”
Sloane realized she was still hanging onto Stitch and let go. Glancing at his face, she was relived he didn’t seem uncomfortable with the attention. If anything, he looked pleased.
“Omari?” she asked.
“He’s dead.”
Two short words. No emotion.
Stitch walked further into the room, his back to her.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He kicked off his shoes.
“Er, because you just killed a man.”
The man that murdered your wife.
“We just killed a lot of men.” His voice was stark and matter-of-fact, like he was telling her he’d just weeded the garden.
Blade cleared his throat. “I’m going to take a shower, and then call Lilly. Catch you later.” And he left through the interleading door, leaving them alone.
“I need a shower too,” Stitch said, heading for the bathroom.
She let him go, sensing his need to be alone. To process what had happened. How could they be so blasé about death? Then again, when they were operators they’d lived with it on a daily basis. The SEALs were an elite assault force. Death was what they did. It was their constant reality—maybe they’d become immune to it.
“Are you hungry?” she called after him, as he disappeared into the bathroom. “I can order room service.”
No reply. Only the sound of the door locking behind him. Seconds later, she heard the sound of running water.
Stitch took a long time in the shower. When he emerged, it was in a billow of steam, towel wrapped around his waist. For once, his mouthwatering body didn’t distract her—she was too worried about him. He seemed so detached like his head was in the clouds. She wanted to reach out and pull him back to earth. “You know, if you want to talk—” she began.
“I’m fine,” he interjected.
“Okay.” She gave a little sigh. If he didn’t want to talk, she wasn’t going to make him, but all her senses were telling her he wasn’t right. Maybe he just needed some time. After all, it had just happened.
“Look, Sloane, you don’t need to worry about me. This was just another op, at the end of the day.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she said softly. “You got the man responsible for attacking your village and murdering your wife. You’ve waited over a year for this moment. I’d say that was a little more than just another op.”
He shrugged and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I thought it was too. I thought it would feel different, but it doesn’t. After all that, it just feels like another mission. We’ve taken out a bad guy who deserved to die, along with a bunch of armed mercenaries. It doesn’t make anything better. It doesn’t bring them back. It doesn’t bring her back.”
“No,” she whispered. “It was never going to do that.”
The massive shoulders slumped. He looked up and she realized his eyes were moist. He wasn’t crying, but the emotion was spilling over.
“Oh, Stitch,” she whispered.
Without a word, he reached for her, pulling her into his warmth. Still standing, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling the solid strength of his body as he laid his head against her stomach. Her fingers instinctively moved to his hair, still damp from the shower, her touch gentle as she stroked it. She could feel the wetness soak through the shirt she was wearing, but she didn’t care. If she could offer any comfort to this brave, broken man, she would.
He held onto her for a long moment, and she could feel the tension in his muscles, as if he was drawing strength from her. A flash of vulnerability, a side of him she hadn’t seen before, like he needed her as much as she needed him.
Eventually, he looked up, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes burned with an intensity that sent heat rushing through her, igniting every nerve in her body. His gaze was filled with longing—no, desire—and it was aimed at her.
That look made her feel powerful, cherished, and wanted in a way she hadn’t known was possible.
He lay back on the bed, pulling her down with him, and she followed without hesitation, her lips meeting his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. Just the rightness of being together, like this was exactly where they both belonged.
His kiss was gentle at first, as though he was savoring the moment, learning her taste. It was different from the kiss they’d shared that night in the apartment when he’d mistaken her for Soraya. Now, there was no confusion. He knew exactly who she was.
And he wanted her.
Not Soraya.
Her.
That realization made her shiver as she tangled her fingers in his hair, feeling him groan softly against her mouth. He deepened the kiss, more demanding now, as if he liked what he’d discovered and wanted more—needed more.
His hands roamed over her back, sending ripples of pleasure down her spine. She had wanted this man from the moment he’d walked into her life, fierce and protective, with a heart as scarred as his body. And now, she had him. All of him.
Her world shrunk to the two of them, everything else fading away. It didn’t matter what happened tomorrow, or that the world outside was full of danger. Right now, it was just them.
His hands slipped beneath her shirt, fingers grazing her bare skin, and before she knew it, he was lifting the fabric over her head. She broke away from his kiss just long enough to let him pull it off, and then it was gone, discarded on the floor.
When her gaze met his, the intensity in his eyes made her heart race. He didn’t smile, but the way he looked at her—with such raw hunger—made her knees weak. Slowly, almost reverently, she traced her fingers over his abs, down to the faint line of hair that led beneath the towel. His skin was warm, the muscles beneath hard and unyielding.
He never took his eyes off her.
When her exploration stopped, he reached up, cupping her breasts in his hands. She moaned softly at the sensation, as the heat between them grew even more intense. He caressed her, savoring every second, and her body responded, a pulse of desire radiating from her core.
She lowered herself onto him again, their mouths meeting with a sense of urgency this time. His kiss was fiercer now, hungrier, and her body tingled in response. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him, her breasts crushed against his chest.
She could feel his hardness through the thin fabric of her pants, and as their kiss deepened, the desire between them became a palpable force, impossible to ignore.
He growled softly, tugging at the waistband of her pants, and she kicked them off easily. His towel loosened and fell away, leaving nothing between them but the charged air.
When their bodies met—skin on skin—she sucked in a breath, her heart pounding. He was so hot, or maybe it was her. Her skin felt like it was on fire, every nerve alive with need for this man.
In one swift move, he flipped them, pinning her beneath him, and there was no mistaking his desire now. It was in his dominant kiss, in the way his body moved against hers, in the rigid heat pressing against her thigh.
Her breath hitched as his body rubbed against her in all the right ways. She opened her legs, granting him entry, her entire body aching for him.
With a low growl, he slid inside her, filling her completely. Her head spun, stars bursting behind her eyelids. She gripped his shoulders, holding on as he slowly pushed deeper into her, their bodies melding together perfectly.
“Oh, God, Stitch,” she whispered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. Tears threatened to spill over, but she blinked them back. He had ruined her for anyone else.
She gasped as he began to move, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through her. His eyes were locked on her, filled with something deeper than desire. As he moved inside her, he brushed a tear from her cheek, then smiled softly and kissed her again.
That smile—it melted her. In that moment, he told her everything she needed to know. She could trust him. She could give herself to him completely.
So she did.
Their bodies moved together, finding a rhythm that was both urgent yet unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. She clung to him, savoring every touch, every kiss.
No one had ever made her feel like this.
His sculpted back rippled under her fingers, each thrust making his muscles tense beneath her hands. She kissed his neck, her lips brushing over the pulse that throbbed against his skin.
“Fuck, Sloane,” he groaned, his voice ragged. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him deeper. His pace quickened, and she gasped as pleasure built to an almost unbearable intensity. Her body trembled beneath him, every nerve alight with sensation, every inch of her filled with need.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, and as his weight pressed her into the mattress, she let out a cry, the sound a mix of longing, need, and pure, unrestrained pleasure.