Chapter 24
Rav
I was halfway through cleaning my rifle when I heard the scream.
Brooke’s scream.
I moved before conscious thought, muscle memory taking over. Two months of working as her security detail had hard-wired her safety into my reflexes. I grabbed my pistol from the table, not bothering with a shirt as I bolted from the small, hard-sided building I shared with Eugene, the SAS.
Outside, I nearly collided with Percival, who’d emerged from his own quarters. He shared a room with another SEAL, all of us clustered in the Distinguished Visitor Quarters to keep our mission quiet.
“McAllister?” he asked, his own weapon already drawn.
“On it,” I answered, not slowing. “She’s mine.”
The scientists had their own quarters, but as the only female on our mission, Brooke was alone. I covered the distance in seconds, scanning for threats as I moved.
Brooke’s door was closed. I paused just long enough to announce myself.
“Brooke? It’s Rav.”
“Rav! Help!”
I pushed through the door, weapon raised, ready to neutralize whatever threat had made her scream like that.
Inside, Brooke McAllister, brilliant biochemist with remarkably steady hands, stood on her narrow wooden bed, pressed against the plywood wall. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“It’s over there!” She jabbed a finger toward the floor near her desk. “By my boots!”
I scanned the room, weapon still raised. Instead of the lethal threat I’d expected, I only spotted a small, light brown scorpion, its tail curved as it skittered across the floor.
“That’s what has you screaming?” I lowered my weapon, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“It’s venomous!” Her voice rose in pitch, defensive despite her apparent fear.
“It is, but it’s not a fat-tail. Those are the ones you need to worry about.” I secured my weapon and grabbed one of her field notebooks from the desk. It scrambled behind a stack of books, toward the door, which I slammed shut before it could escape. “It’s just looking for somewhere cool to hide.”
“I don’t care what it wants. Please get rid of it.” The tremor in her voice was unlike anything I’d heard from her before, even when we’d been pinned down by gunfire during our fourth week.
“The woman who handled suspected chemical weapons with steady hands is afraid of a scorpion?” I couldn’t help teasing her as I tracked the creature’s movement. Scorpions weren’t something to ignore in this landscape, but my goal was to calm her with my confidence.
“We all have our things, LaPierre.” She shifted on the bed, her bare feet carefully centered on her pillow. “I don’t mock your irrational hatred of powdered eggs.”
“Powdered eggs are an abomination,” I replied, moving toward the scorpion with deliberate steps.
I’d been in such a rush to get to her, my feet were only protected by my slide-on sandals, which had been by my door for late-night latrine trips.
A sting on one of my toes would still require medical attention.
“And there’s nothing irrational about it. ”
With a quick motion, I brought the notebook down, ending the scorpion’s intrusion with a decisive crunch.
Brooke squeaked at the sound.
“All clear, Doc.” I disposed of the remains, then turned toward her with a raised eyebrow. “You can come down now.”
She didn’t move, just stared at the spot where the scorpion had been. “There might be more.”
“There aren’t.” I moved to the bed and reached for her. “I promise.”
She hesitated, her eyes meeting mine. Something shifted in the air between us. I’d been in her quarters before to help her move things, but never after hours, never with her in sleep shorts and a tank top, never with myself shirtless and focused entirely on her.
Instead of taking her hand, I gripped her waist. Her skin was warm beneath the thin cotton of her tank top, her waist narrow under my spread fingers.
Her breath caught as I lifted her down, bringing her closer than I should have, so her body slid against mine. My fingers refused to listen to my brain, and I held her against me. Time seemed to stretch, the moment extending into something dangerous.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered as her hands smoothed up my biceps to rest on my shoulders.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.” Her eyes held mine, dark and filled with the same heat that had been dancing between us for weeks. “Holding me like this.”
“No,” I agreed. “I shouldn’t.”
But I didn’t let go.
“This breaks about a dozen regulations,” she murmured, her fingers moving slightly against my bare skin.
“At least.” I could feel her heartbeat accelerating where our chests pressed together. “We’ve been very professional.”
“For two whole months.” She fluttered her eyelashes, all the fear vanishing from her eyes. “It’s been torture.”
The admission broke something loose inside me. Two months of carefully maintained distance, of professional respect layered over growing desire, of watching her mind work and her courage unfold in dangerous situations.
“Tell me to go.”
“I don’t want you to.” She moistened her lips, all the invitation I needed.
My mouth found hers. It was tentative at first, like testing the temperature of water. But then her lips parted, offering. A quiet moan vibrated against my lips. Her hands slid up my neck, driving into my hair.
That small sound undid me.
I kissed her like I’d been starving for two months. Because I had been. I devoured her mouth, my tongue exploring hers, tasting her. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was possession. It was demand. My hands slid down her back, memorizing the curve of her spine, settling on the swell of her ass.
I squeezed hard, and she gasped into my mouth. Her hips jerked forward, pressing against the unyielding ridge of my erection. Heat lanced through me.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, holding my face to hers as she met my ferocity with her own. Nails scraped pleasantly against my scalp. Everything vanished except her heat, her taste, the urgent little sounds she made.
We’d apparently moved, because her back hit the flimsy plywood wall.
I pressed into her, pinning her, not as worried as I should have been about taking the whole building down.
My mouth moved from her lips, trailing along her jaw.
Her head fell back, exposing her throat.
I nipped the delicate skin below her ear, and she whimpered.
Her chest rose and fell against me, rapid breaths that stoked my own need higher.
“I’ve wanted this since you asked me about detection protocols,” she confessed, her breath coming faster when my lips found her ear. “That first day, when you actually cared about understanding the science.”
“I’ve wanted you since you walked into our briefing room,” I admitted, my hands exploring the curves her tactical gear usually concealed. “Day one. Organizing your equipment.”
“Didn’t take much, did it?” Her moan—pleased, surprised, vulnerable—was better than any sound I’d heard in my life. It was for me alone.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I whispered against her ear, even as my hands betrayed my words, sliding beneath her tank top to find the skin of her back.
“Then stop,” she challenged, pulling back just enough for me to see her run her tongue over her lips.
We both knew I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not with the way she was urging me on.
My hands were greedy for everything I’d denied myself. Two months of professional distance shattered in moments. My fingers traced the hem of her tank top, a silent question.
“Yes,” she breathed, lifting her arms.
I pulled the fabric over her head, revealing smooth skin and perfect breasts. I had to touch them. Taste them. I palmed her left breast, squeezing it and tweaking the nipple. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“I want you, Rav.” Her leg made its way up mine until her knee curled at my hip. “Inside me.”
Fuck, yes. But no. “I don’t have condoms.”
A slow smile spread across her face. “I do.”
“You do?”
“I worked with a woman in Syria who was rather active and ran out a few times, so I made it a practice to carry some for her, and well…” She slipped from my arms, crossing to her footlocker. “I have some.”
She bent over, wiggling her ass like a taunt. Those tiny sleep shorts were my new favorite piece of clothing. She returned with a foil packet between her fingers, triumphant. “I actually have a lot.”
I pulled her back to me, hooking my thumbs into her shorts. “Is this okay?”
She nodded, eyes never leaving mine as I slid the fabric down her legs. She stepped out of them and pulled my hand back to her breast. I took my time looking at her—all of her—committing every inch to memory.
“You’re staring,” she whispered.
“Can’t help it.” I stepped closer, skimming my fingers down to her hip. “Situational awareness is critical for an operator.”
Her hands found the waistband of my shorts. “These need to go.”
I kicked off my hastily donned sandals, letting her push my shorts and boxer briefs down. My cock sprang free, and her eyes widened slightly. I wrapped my hand around myself, stroking slowly as she watched.
She bit her lower lip, eyes fixed on my movement. “Fuck, that’s sexy.”
I pulled her against me, skin to skin, nothing between us now but heat and wanting.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked in one last moment of sanity.
Her answer was to press the condom into my palm and pull me down onto her narrow bed.
Minutes? Hours? Years later, we lay tangled together on her too-small bunk, her head on my chest, my fingers drawing lazy patterns on her back. The air smelled of sweat and sex and her vaguely flower-scented shampoo.
“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured, but the kiss she pressed against my skin said she didn’t regret it.
“Probably not.” I pulled her closer. “But it felt…”
“Amazing,” she finished for me.
I nodded. Right would have been the word I chose. “No kidding.”
She traced the tattoo on my ribs. “So what happens now?”
“Now?” That was a big question that required another question to be answered first. Were we in very active territory like her co-worker in Syria, just fooling around because we were here? Or was there more? “Depends on whether you want to do this again or not.”
She pushed up, nearly to sitting, her eyes wide. “I know this was kind of sudden and all that, but…”
I stifled a laugh. The blush climbing up her chest, neck, and cheeks was all I needed to see. “I’m not a one-night stand type of person, either.”
She chuckled and dropped her head onto my chest. “Does that mean we’re a thing?”
“Brooke McAllister,” I said, sliding my hand to her cheek and forcing her to look up at me. “It may be complicated, but yes, I think you can call us at least a thing.”
She turned her face into my palm and kissed it. “We should probably establish some ground rules.”
“Like what?”
“Like not being obvious in public?” She laced her fingers together and propped her head on my chest. “No one can know about this.”
“Percival probably already suspects something,” I admitted. “He’s accused us of flirting, saw me running here, and didn’t see me running back.”
“Then we’ll be extra careful. This can’t affect the bigger picture. We’ve got an important job to do here.”
“Agreed.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, unable to stop touching her now that I’d started. “But right now, we’re off duty.”
Her smile turned wicked. She sat up on the bed, then threw a leg over my hips. “Then we might need a few more of those condoms.”