it,” she said, staring at him from where she sat, her expression
somber, her gaze flickering with guilt. “I wanted your kiss, Natches. I wanted you; I
wanted your touch and your voice whispering all those naughty little secrets you used to
whisper to me when I was in the hospital. I wanted it. I was married, and I ached for it.
And I paid for it.”
It took a moment, one long, disbelieving moment, for that comment to soak into his head
and light the spark of his normally rational temper.
“Son of a bitch.” He stared back at her in complete amazement. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.
You’ve let that bastard steal your soul even from the fucking grave.” His voice rose as he
spoke. “Is that how you’re blaming yourself now, Chay? That Beth was taken from you
because you wanted me?”
Anger poured from him as he watched her flinch, saw the truth in her eyes. Stubborn
pride lined every curve of her body. She actually believed what she was saying. Believed
every word of it.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“I understand this, by God. If you were my wife, Chaya—my woman—you’d never,
fucking never, be on a mission without me. You’d never face danger alone, and you’d
never know a night that I wasn’t in your damned bed. How long had that bastard been out
of your bed?”
“That’s not the point.” Her voice trembled. He could see the fear in her eyes now, a fear
that made no damned sense because she had to know he would never, never harm her.
But damn her to hell, he was so furious with her that he wanted to slam his fist into a wall
to relieve the rage burning inside him.
“The fact that he was fucking every trainee he could get his hands on didn’t matter either,
I guess,” he sneered, furious, consumed by that fury as he realized the ways she had made
herself pay for her daughter’s death. And her hunger for him. “The fact that he managed
to get your baby on a plane to Iraq without your knowledge because he was fucking your
sister before the two of you left didn’t matter either, did it?”
Her face only tightened further. Her eyes raged though. He saw her eyes; he saw the
banked fury, the agony that she tried to dim, tried to hide.
“Did it matter, Chaya?” He strode to her, his fist slamming into the top of the bar as she
flinched from the sound of his voice and the crack of his flesh against the Formica. Hell,
he cracked it again, and he didn’t even give a damn. “Answer me, damn you!”
“That was no excuse,” she screamed back, shuddering from head to toe, everything he
needed to hear, everything he wanted to know, in her voice now. She wanted. Just as he
did, she ached and she hungered for what was between them, and she was too damned
scared to take it. “That didn’t give me the right—”
“No, it gave me the right.”
Before he could stop himself, and God knew he didn’t want to stop himself, he jerked her
into his arms and slammed his lips down on hers.
He wanted to be gentle. She deserved it. She deserved sweet, liquid kisses. She deserved
gentleness and warmth, and all he had was hunger, lust, and heat.
All he had was the need to taste the passion without the grief. The woman without the
pain of loss.
And he had her. He felt the first resistance, shock and surprise. Her hands pressed against
his shoulders, then her fingers curled. A second later, she made that whispery,
whimpering little sound of surrender that he had only ever heard from her lips.
They parted beneath his kiss, opened to the stroke of his tongue, and a second later, a
firestorm of need rocked through his body.
She kissed like a wanton, like a woman whose need for pleasure had grown to the same
torturous depths his own had grown to. Satin-soft lips slanted beneath his; her tongue met
his, licked and consumed and had him strung as tight as a banjo string within seconds.
It wasn’t enough. The kiss was only the tip of
somber, her gaze flickering with guilt. “I wanted your kiss, Natches. I wanted you; I
wanted your touch and your voice whispering all those naughty little secrets you used to
whisper to me when I was in the hospital. I wanted it. I was married, and I ached for it.
And I paid for it.”
It took a moment, one long, disbelieving moment, for that comment to soak into his head
and light the spark of his normally rational temper.
“Son of a bitch.” He stared back at her in complete amazement. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.
You’ve let that bastard steal your soul even from the fucking grave.” His voice rose as he
spoke. “Is that how you’re blaming yourself now, Chay? That Beth was taken from you
because you wanted me?”
Anger poured from him as he watched her flinch, saw the truth in her eyes. Stubborn
pride lined every curve of her body. She actually believed what she was saying. Believed
every word of it.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“I understand this, by God. If you were my wife, Chaya—my woman—you’d never,
fucking never, be on a mission without me. You’d never face danger alone, and you’d
never know a night that I wasn’t in your damned bed. How long had that bastard been out
of your bed?”
“That’s not the point.” Her voice trembled. He could see the fear in her eyes now, a fear
that made no damned sense because she had to know he would never, never harm her.
But damn her to hell, he was so furious with her that he wanted to slam his fist into a wall
to relieve the rage burning inside him.
“The fact that he was fucking every trainee he could get his hands on didn’t matter either,
I guess,” he sneered, furious, consumed by that fury as he realized the ways she had made
herself pay for her daughter’s death. And her hunger for him. “The fact that he managed
to get your baby on a plane to Iraq without your knowledge because he was fucking your
sister before the two of you left didn’t matter either, did it?”
Her face only tightened further. Her eyes raged though. He saw her eyes; he saw the
banked fury, the agony that she tried to dim, tried to hide.
“Did it matter, Chaya?” He strode to her, his fist slamming into the top of the bar as she
flinched from the sound of his voice and the crack of his flesh against the Formica. Hell,
he cracked it again, and he didn’t even give a damn. “Answer me, damn you!”
“That was no excuse,” she screamed back, shuddering from head to toe, everything he
needed to hear, everything he wanted to know, in her voice now. She wanted. Just as he
did, she ached and she hungered for what was between them, and she was too damned
scared to take it. “That didn’t give me the right—”
“No, it gave me the right.”
Before he could stop himself, and God knew he didn’t want to stop himself, he jerked her
into his arms and slammed his lips down on hers.
He wanted to be gentle. She deserved it. She deserved sweet, liquid kisses. She deserved
gentleness and warmth, and all he had was hunger, lust, and heat.
All he had was the need to taste the passion without the grief. The woman without the
pain of loss.
And he had her. He felt the first resistance, shock and surprise. Her hands pressed against
his shoulders, then her fingers curled. A second later, she made that whispery,
whimpering little sound of surrender that he had only ever heard from her lips.
They parted beneath his kiss, opened to the stroke of his tongue, and a second later, a
firestorm of need rocked through his body.
She kissed like a wanton, like a woman whose need for pleasure had grown to the same
torturous depths his own had grown to. Satin-soft lips slanted beneath his; her tongue met
his, licked and consumed and had him strung as tight as a banjo string within seconds.
It wasn’t enough. The kiss was only the tip of
Similar Books
