Mastered, p.5
Mastered, page 5
“Better with age, Moonstormer. Like good Scotch and my very talented cock.”
He groaned. “Oh now, that’s a good one. You been saving that up the entire two years we haven’t seen each other?”
Sam snorted. “I really have had better things to do.”
“Like talking to Rhett on the phone?” He peered out toward all the mirrored buildings on the horizon. Sin City was oddly pretty in the late-afternoon sun. He wished he was in a better frame of mind to enjoy it. “That was him, wasn’t it?”
Sam’s back was turned as he inspected the five-seat Piper Lance they were taking to Texas, in lieu of anything available at the base. But if this “off-duty escape” was truly going to fly below the radar, so were they.
They…meaning Sam, Brynn, and him.
He still couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this.
“Well, we didn’t talk long.” Sam’s tone was suddenly matter-of-fact, lending the hope that not long was the honest-to-fuck truth and Rhett hadn’t relayed anything about the startling events in the Bommers’ backyard last night. But he didn’t trust the Scot’s nonchalance. Not for a second. “He, errrmm, just wanted you to know he’s already unloaded at the landing strip in Austin and is getting ready to drive out to the complex you secured—after he stops at Hopdoddy for a triple-patty special. Wasn’t sure if he meant that last part or if he said it just to taunt me.”
“Both,” Rebel supplied, though he allowed himself a whoosh of relief past his small smirk. “Okay, then. That all sounds good. Real good.”
“Hmm.”
Something about the guy’s hmm told him the relief had been premature.
“Yeah, well…he also wanted to know if you’d gotten all the air back in your lungs, seeing as how a sweet little lass named Brynna managed to—how’d he say it?—‘flatten you like a pizza’ three times in a row last night?”
Yeah. Really premature.
Rebel shot over a glare—only to have it smack the Scot’s massive shoulders, which shook with distinct intent. Those muscles couldn’t hide much, especially if Sam was laughing his ass off at someone.
“Damn it. She took me by surprise.”
“Right.” Sam sniffed against his mirth. “Because after four years in the Special Forces, you’re not used to that or anything.”
He spun, more than happy to show the guy what his shoulders were up to—a demeanor he was more than happy to bear out, in every coiled inch of his stance. “You want to tell me the shifty little heathen wouldn’t have duped you?”
Sam shrugged. “Way I heard it, there wasn’t a lot of shifty. She proposed her conditions, fair and clear. Three solid chances to prove she wasn’t the little wilting violet you assumed.” Sam swung out from beneath the wing, tugging at rivet points as he went. Whether the man was flying a jet, a helo, or something in between, he was famous for his personal aircraft cross-check. “And you know what happens when you assume, my dearie.”
“I’m not your goddamn dearie.”
“No. She’s meeting me in a room at Catacomb tonight.” His ginger brows waggled. “And I guarantee she’ll be calling me a lot more than dearie by the time we’re done.”
Reb chuckled. Couldn’t help it. Forget trying to stay immune to Mackenna’s charm, even as a guy. The man was like a fucking TV weatherman. One had to smile even if he brought news of raining cats and snow flurries. Worst part was trying to visualize the guy as a Dom. He’d heard tales about the guy’s legions of dripping subbies back home. Nope. The gray matter wasn’t going to cooperate with that image right now—especially as Sam’s face brightened in an even more affable smile, as he looked somewhere over Reb’s shoulder.
“Ah. This must be the ‘shifty little heathen’ now.”
The Scot was right. Their new visitor was Brynna, a fact conveyed before Reb even turned his head. More important senses drove it into him with startling surety. The energy on the air, tautening every hair at the back of his neck. The uptick of his heartbeat, prepping everything else in his body for the joyous conflict of being near her again. Yes, even after last night—maybe more so because of it.
The extra exhilaration in his blood didn’t take long to find its way between his thighs. Happened almost instantly, in fact, as soon as he pivoted to take her in once more, making him suddenly feel like it had been eight years since last seeing her, not hours. Per his growled command after she’d turned him into human pizza for the third time, she was dressed for purpose, not prettiness: a khaki work shirt tucked into skinny jeans, leading down to sturdy hiking boots with green-and-pink-striped socks bunched around the tops. Her hair was styled just as practically, a single side braid roped over one shoulder. An Angels baseball cap covered the top of her head.
Goddamn. If anything, the attire enhanced everything that awakened him sexually to her—even the fandom for the Halos. What woman wore attire for a trip to the wilderness but still looked like fucking Aphrodite?
This was definitely going down as his most uncomfortable op-that-wasn’t-an-op.
Screw that. Off the books or otherwise, he was damn glad this was the first and last time he and Brynna Monet would be “working” together.
Shay strode onto the tarmac behind her, bearing her small duffel bag. He actually looked a lot better, though half moons of darkness still haunted the bottoms of his eye sockets. Though Brynn had come to an abrupt halt in her tracks, Bommer kept walking, holding out a hand to greet Sam.
“Braw Boy. Good to see you, you filthy Highlander.”
“Same to you, drizzle shit.” The weatherman was at it again. Insults that sounded like compliments. Shay didn’t let that pineapple wither too long on the ground, though. He lobbed back a scorcher that somehow linked Sam’s ass with nuclear fallout, but Rebel was beyond caring about the particulars…
Not when he noticed that Brynn still looked rooted into the blacktop. And stood more rigid than the damn light poles.
He approached her, wondering if the deer-in-the-headlights routine was just her elaborate setup for the verbal smackdown she’d surely been working on since last night—when doing the real thing to him. Three times in a row to be exact, as he’d been eloquently reminded by a very gleeful Rhett. But even as he stepped close enough to see the caramel ribbons that swirled through the chocolate of her gaze, she barely breathed, let alone spoke.
Correction. She breathed, all right. In harsh, tight spurts that got sucked back in as fast as they escaped. At her sides, her fingertips trembled, in between tapping her thighs in a Morse code solely of her translation.
A frown pushed at his brows.
If he didn’t know better, he’d peg her vibe as…afraid. Scared shitless, actually.
“Brynn?”
She jerked a glance over, though not in surprise or fear. Not at him, at least. So what the hell had her so fugazi she was tossing aside a perfectly good chance to rib him once more?
“Brynn?” He lightly cupped her shoulder. Her muscles were as stiff as steel poles. “Ca vien, minette?”
His prompt seemed to work on a little of her strange trance. She blinked fast, swallowed hard, and then pointed across the tarmac. “We’re going to Texas…in that?”
“Would I have told you to meet me here otherwise?” He deliberately chose a lighter tone—out of concern, not cruelty. His sarcasm always seemed to bring out hers. Hopefully she’d grab the bait.
No chance.
“You told me we were taking an airplane.”
The wobble in her voice only intensified. Hell, talk about a perfect chance for turnabout being fair play. But taking advantage of a person’s fear was what terrorists did—a truth he knew through firsthand experience. Entirely too much of it.
He deepened his hold on her shoulder instead. “It’s a sturdy machine, Brynna.”
“It’s an oversized child’s toy.” She yanked from his hold, hunching her shoulders in, starting to bite a nail.
His frown dug in deeper, coinciding with his confusion. “You’ve been on tour with shows before, right? Haven’t you flown all over the country?”
“Not in glorified tin cans!”
Well, this was getting him nowhere—except, perhaps, to a clear way out of this whole situation. Sam could’ve been standing there in full uniform, a chest full of candy attesting to his expertise in the cockpit, but it wouldn’t have made a difference to Brynn. She didn’t trust anything about the Piper.
“Look. We don’t have time to run through the safety record of the plane or for you to get therapy about this.”
She pulled her hand from her face far enough to make it a fist. “Did I say I needed therapy?”
“Don’t think you had to.”
Shit. What was that, with the aw-shucks line straight from one of Franzen’s lame musicals? Worse yet, what was this electric shock through his chest when his “sweet understanding” instantly turned her eyes into huge pools?
Wrong. This was all wrong. Her horror should’ve been his triumph. Her reticence, flipped into his golden opportunity. At the very least, he needed to be blasting fate a new asshole for withholding this loophole last night, when he’d gone hand-to-hand with the women and nearly ended up in traction because of it.
Now, his goddamn brain was in the sling instead—completely useless for lending his voice any kind of authority.
Thank fuck they were standing at the center of a tarmac and not the middle of a Catacomb playroom.
And just like that, his body didn’t pay attention to any orders either. Was it expected to, when his imagination had suddenly populated Brynn Monet onto a St. Andrews cross, naked and bound and spread for him?
Goodbye, pansy musical dude.
Hello, Master Reb—the Dom who’d let entirely too much time pass since his last dungeon play session.
And now really needed to make sure this woman didn’t get on a plane with him to fly to a ranch house on twenty acres in the middle of Texas hill country.
“Okay, so this is going to be a problem for you.” Much better. Firm, decisive, final. “So no harm, no foul. Shay’s still right over there. You can just leave with him, and—”
Her glare cut him short before her retort did. “Wouldn’t that fix everything perfectly for you?” She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Plays right into your wildest dreams, doesn’t it?”
You do not want to know what my wildest dreams are made of, cher.
“My needs aren’t important right now.” He thinned his lips. “And neither are yours. We’re wasting time bickering and biting our nails”—pointedly, he dropped his gaze to the finger she’d been tearing at—“when we should be getting clearance from the tower and getting our asses out of here.”
Not a shred of Broadway Joe in that one, either. As a matter of fact, he should’ve been damn proud of every snarled syllable.
Then why did he feel like such a douche when her shoulders fell again…and her chin trembled, fighting back intense emotions? “I am extremely aware of our time constraints, Sergeant. There’s not a second that goes by when I’m not aware.”
Sam finally made himself useful by stepping over with perfect timing, saving them both from a surely awkward silence. “Greetings. You must be Brynna. You’re famous already around here, you know.”
She flashed a smile that never made it to her eyes. “Peachy. Great to meet you, errrr…”
“Sam.” He picked up her hand and then bowed over it, brushing lips along her knuckles. “Commander Sam Mackenna, of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. I’m on loan to the ruffians over at Nellis for a few weeks.”
“But right now, he should be finishing his preflight inspection.” Rebel all but broke in between them, disgruntled as hell to watch Mackenna turn on the courtly accent and the King Charles manners, a sure sign he was jockeying for some coo-coo-get-in-my-pants action. No fucking way. “Go ahead. Move along. Check the oil. Kick the tires. Lay out the peanut bags. Chop chop.” He shoulder-butted the guy, hard enough to let Sam know he meant business—only to find himself pushed aside by the woman behind him, with the eyes of fear and chin of stubbornness that wrenched at his chest all over again.
“So you’re flying this thing?” she asked—demanded—of Sam.
He bent over again, this time in gentlemanly deference. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then don’t fuck it up.”
She whirled away from them both and marched toward the plane, head high and spine straight, not a trace of her terror showing from this angle. Rebel, battling to ignore what did show well from this view, caught up with her in time to help her step up into the plane. As he did, there was no escaping the sensations that slammed him—nor did he want to. He was…proud of her. And even more. Inspired.
The feelings weren’t difficult to peg. They were part of the good stuff about being in Spec Ops, these moments where witnessing someone push past their internal walls outweighed the exhilaration of watching them scale real ones. Pride came from the honor of being part of the moment. Inspiration came from knowing that when his turn came for the wall leaping, he’d be able to use it as strength.
And God, did he want to remember Brynna Monet.
Every damn thing he could about her.
No sense in fighting that one anymore either. No matter what kind of flameout he’d suffer when this was over, there was no way to fight the searing lure of her now. Dan Colton’s loss was absolutely his gain—and he was going to savor every last possible penny of this fortune.
But right now, nothing was about him. It was about parking his ass in the leather bucket seat next to hers. Examining the white expanse of her face, the dilated terror in her eyes, the taut coil of her hands. Reaching across her to grab the strap of her shoulder belt—a detail lost to the obvious whirl of her thoughts—and clicking it into the fastening on his side. Keeping himself turned toward her, one hand on her jiggling knee, and forcing her to take deeper breaths with the steady squeeze and release of that hand.
Finally, she seemed to get the idea. Her chest began to rise and fall with longer, calmer flows. Rebel remained silent, communicating with her simply through his touch—and his gaze. The latter couldn’t be helped. Now that he had her locked in and to himself, he took greedy advantage of the chance to stare his fill. Those dark-red lashes, fanned over her cheeks with a little curl at the ends. The bright-red wisps escaping her braid, playing at the elegant slope of her neck. The contrast of her lips, the color of ripe raspberries, against her pale, pale skin.
Without notice, she blinked her eyes open. Peered at him—and then actually cracked a fast smile. It was such a surprise, Rebel burst into a laugh.
“Not funny.” Her chide had no rancor. If he pretended hard enough, he could almost imagine they were in bed together, after he’d spanked her into an orgasm and then fucked her into a couple more.
Not. Going. There.
Too late. His imagination had hammered down stakes and the tent of debauchery was on the rise.
“Of course not,” he returned, all mocking smirk and teasing eyes.
“I’m serious, Rebel.”
“So am I.” And suddenly, he was. Even through the extended moment of thick silence between them. Even through the lift of his fingers, softly stroking those errant hairs off her neck as well. Even through the seconds he took to swallow with purpose before murmuring, “So what are we talking about here? Natural heebies about flying in a…‘tin can’…or deep-seated childhood trauma I really will need to call the shrink about?”
She swallowed too. Leaned her head over a little, toward his hand, which he’d dipped just a little beneath the collar of her shirt. It was either do that or try to behave—in which case his gaze would’ve migrated toward her cleavage. Not that the work shirt showed it off well, though it was much better than her workout attire from last night. Damn sports bras. They needed to be renamed tit crushers.
“Can I pick something in between?” she replied. When he pressed his fingers to her nape in a wordless affirmation, she went on. “The last time I was in one of these, Enya and I were on vacation in Costa Rica.”
“Enya?”
“My little sister. Well, not that little. Not so little that she didn’t get a wild hair up her backside and sign us up for a ziplining adventure in the middle of nowhere. After that plane ride, I thought I’d be dying in the middle of nowhere too.”
He compressed his features, hoping they spoke his commiseration. “Wish I could say I don’t know how that feels.” Even the world’s finest pieces of military aircraft didn’t make up for RPGs or missions in shitty weather conditions.
He was glad to see his reassurance sink into her—though bewildered by the rest of her reaction. With a little turn toward him, she leaned her head sideways against the cushion, as if settling in for a warm chat over tea. “Yet here you are, ready to do it again.”
He couldn’t help the new quirk of his lips. Well, imagine that. The smooth little psych major did want a heart-to-heart, disguising her question as observation. Did she know how thoroughly he knew this drill already? How many times he’d already had his head torn open by the base shrinks, being the guy on the team most exposed to the possibility of watching his guts blown out of his body as his last mortal sight?
But if this soothed her nerves for the flight, he’d be more than happy to oblige.
She wouldn’t learn a thing he didn’t want her to.
“In my line of work, you learn to live by fear or possibility,” he offered. “If you want to keep serving your country and making a difference, you have to choose the latter.”
There. That should give the little Freuds in her head something to snack on for a few minutes. He waited for the signs of it—the slight furrow in her brow, the tentative chew on her lip—though damn it, all she did was change the angle of her smile and reach for him too.
As she lifted her fingers, Rebel tensed. Shit. She was going for his face. Not the goddamn face. It wasn’t that he hated it. He just didn’t exactly…enjoy it. It was why he’d gotten so good at all the fun of bondage. Tie them down before the naked stuff started, meaning he controlled every inch of contact. Yeah, yeah. He’d seen the explanations on paper—mommy issues, intimacy issues, fucked-up-beyond-recognition issues—like any of that happy horseshit made them easier to deal with. Only one thing helped with that. Not indulging, period. Not allowing those special little female touches that all but sucked his soul straight to his eyes—and the pain back into his heart.
