Chapter 11
Bear stood there. Frozen. His body hummed with the kind of fire that didn’t roar but consumed. Every instinct screamed to move, to follow, to close the distance between them. But he stayed. In this moment, he was not a SEAL.
He was a man.
He was staring into two open drawers that had just rearranged his entire bloodstream.
One filled with bras, delicate, lacy things in soft, dusky tones. Blush and cream. Midnight blue and warm terracotta. The other brimmed with panties, whispers of fabric, lace frothing like sea foam, shapes and slivers that made his breath stall.
It wasn’t just that they were beautiful.
It was that they were hers.
That she wore them beneath all that fire and discipline.
That she thought to match them. That she cared about the smallest details when the world was burning.
That she’d said underthings in that voice, with that look, and left him standing here with his hands fisted and his pulse pounding behind his teeth.
She hadn't meant to wreck him.
Which only made it worse.
He dragged a hand down his face, then braced it on the dresser edge, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Ancestors help me.
That dick ache he’d complained about to Zorro in Rio? It was nothing compared to this.
Harder than hell. Throbbing. Devastation.
She’d ruined him, and he wanted it.
That wrecking ball of devastation had already slammed through his chest. He had no idea where this was heading, only that he had to be here for her. He’d seen her regret in those dark eyes, raw and real, when she opened that door.
Maybe he should’ve spoken then when she’d asked him to go.
Maybe he should’ve said what she didn’t know how to ask.
But he’d buried his voice like a goddamn coward.
Now? He wanted to talk to her almost as much as he wanted to fuck her.
Almost.
He reached into the drawer like a man defusing a bomb, knowing no matter how careful he was, he was going to explode. The fabric whispered against his skin. He picked a matching set, something soft and smoky, charcoal lace trimmed in plum satin, delicate and quietly sensual.
Like her.
He set the pieces aside with reverence, then found a pair of drawstring lounge pants and a matching sleep tank, loose, worn-in, comfort in cotton form. He gathered them carefully, folding each with the kind of precision that usually preceded explosives.
Then he straightened.
Clothes in hand, desire raging but restrained, he headed for the bathroom.
She sat slowly on the wide marble lip of the oversized tub, her eyes tracking his every move. He came back to her without thought, without armor. Just him. Just hers.
She watched him. That small smile again.
“The water,” she said, tilting her head, mischief glinting in the exhaustion. “I’m not getting any cleaner here… even though you’re scouring me with those eyes.”
He choked on a breath. That teasing edge in her voice made his body ache, a sharp, consuming pull that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with how long he'd missed her.
He turned toward the faucet like it was a lifeline. Let the hot water run until it steamed, then twisted in the cold until the temperature hovered just above body heat, perfect, careful, right.
He turned back, and she was so close he had to brace a hand against the tile to steady himself.
She held out a small, round package. A shimmering orb wrapped in iridescent cellophane.
He blinked.
“Bath bomb,” she explained, a soft smile curving her lips.
He raised a brow. “Bath bomb.” His voice was low, wry. “You know what kind of metaphors you’re setting off with that?”
“Can you open it for me?”
That request, simple, quiet, direct, landed harder than the word underthings. He felt it hit somewhere behind his ribs, near the part of him that had forgotten what softness was.
She was asking for his help.
Not because she couldn’t. But because she trusted him enough to let him.
His hands shook slightly as he peeled back the wrap. He almost dropped it, fumbled it like it was a live charge instead of a bath accessory.
Her gaze dropped to his hands. Traveled to his forearms. Tracked the flex of muscle like it meant something. Like he meant something. Then he saw the trail of sand.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, low. “I’m a mess. I was training those knuckleheads when Zorro called. I came straight from the beach. I’m sandy. Damp. Should’ve cleaned up—”
She moved in closer. Her breath ghosted over his skin.
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I wasn’t looking at the sand.
I was looking at you. Those strong hands that tell Flint exactly where to go and what to do, warrior hands that can kill but then are so damn gentle.
Those forearms that are sexy as hell. The dark cast to your skin that calls me home every time I look at you. ”
She reached for his free hand, lifted it, kissed the center of his palm with a softness that knocked the air from his lungs. Her eyes stayed downcast, the pads of her fingers trailing across his skin. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Dakota. I’m so very sorry.”
He swallowed hard. “It did hurt, Bailee. You said not with me. I thought you meant you didn’t want to be with me, but—”
Her head shot up. “No. Oh, Bear. That’s not what I meant.” Tears shimmered in her eyes.
Tears…for him?
His chest tightened, that gutted feeling he’d been carrying around eased. “You said it was a mistake.”
She shook her head. “I was scared of all that was happening between us. It was overwhelming to finally admit how much I wanted you. But then I felt your scar, and how can there be anything but honesty between us after what happened to you? Your blood was all over me. I thought I was losing you. I couldn’t bear it. ”
Then she looked up at him. “You can drop that into the water. It’ll melt.” A beat. Her eyes never left his. “Then you can help me get undressed.”
“Bailee,” he said, his voice fierce. He released the bomb, and it plopped into the water with a soft splash.
He grabbed her by the back of the neck, stared into those dark, depthless eyes, and then took her mouth, his hand fisting in her hair, dragging her head back, bowing her body so that she pressed against him.
She wrapped her good arm around him, a soft, sweet groan slipping out of her.
Her hand slid to the hem of his shirt.
“Please,” she whispered against his lips. “Take it off.”
He covered her hand with his, just for a moment, steady, grounding, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
Then he let go, grabbed the fabric, and pulled the shirt over his head in one clean motion.
She drew her hand across his chest, slowly, reverently. Fingers sweeping down the solid planes of muscle, across his ribcage, until they found the scar near his hip, a faded line over vulnerable flesh, half-hidden beneath hardened skin.
She pressed her palm over it.
He closed his eyes, the breath hitching in his throat.
It was more sensitive than his nipples, which had already drawn tight in the cool air and the heat of her touch. But that scar? That was where she branded him…again.
Then her hand dipped lower, to the waistband of his shorts.
He caught her wrist gently, fingers curling around her like a tether. A slow grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.
“I thought you wanted me to undress you,” he murmured. “Did I get that wrong?”
She laughed, soft and sultry, the sound wrapping around him like warm silk. His dick jumped against the cotton of his briefs when her lips brushed across his pectoral, trailing fire in their wake.
“You’re coming in with me, aren’t you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
Her mouth found his nipple. She sucked, slow, then firm, and the sensation lanced straight through his spine, lighting him up from the inside.
He arched, a rough cry breaking free. “That’s an invitation I can’t refuse,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Stop distracting me. I’m here for you.”
“Then you should do what I want,” she said, brushing her mouth against his skin again, as if she couldn’t help herself.
“How about we get you clean,” he breathed, “and then we negotiate the rest.”
Her eyes snapped up, hot obsidian, molten with challenge.
“Are you bargaining with me?”
“I think that’s all I’ve got going here right now, hellion.” His voice dropped. “You know you have me.”
She did.
Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every aching, wrecked, willing piece of him.
“You’ve had me,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, pouring from a place deeper than thought, “since the moment I laid eyes on you in the Philippines.”
Her words tumbled out, unfiltered. A rush. A reckoning.
“Eighteen months of torture, every deployment. Every mission. Wanting you. Not just your body, Dakota…” Her smile ghosted.
“Though I’ve had dreams…damn, I’ve had dreams. But it wasn’t just that.
It was you. All that stillness. All that grounding.
You know who you are, and I craved it. Like I was airless without you. ”
Her hand trembled as it flattened against his chest.
“I fought it. Professionalism. Fear. Stupid ideas that you’d judge me. That I couldn’t want you and do my job. All excuses. All lies I told myself to keep from falling.”
Her voice cracked.
“For what? To almost lose you in Rio? After you killed for me? After you bled all over my hands and still found the strength to save me?” Her face was soft and tender, a look he’d craved forever.
“You’ve been saving me since before I even knew you could.
” She set her hand firmly over his heart.
“More than life, Dakota. I want this.” Her palm pressed harder.
Heat to heat. Soul to soul. “What you have here.”
Then she rose, mouth brushing up the long line of his throat, to the stubble along his jaw, to the edge of his lips, but she paused, her gaze meeting his with something ancient and fragile and unshakably strong.
“May I touch your hair?” she whispered.
He couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t move.
Her words had burned through every defense, every barrier, until there was nothing left but truth.