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  She looked down, overpowered by the sight of the big man on his knees in front of her. With a single movement, she reached out, her hands resting on his shoulders.

  He looked up, concern etched onto his features. His eyes were dark, his mouth hard. His tongue slid over his bottom lip, his throat tense as he swallowed. “You’re okay,” he whispered.

  Emily was glad for two things at that moment: one, that she hadn’t actually peed her pants and two, that she’d worn sensible cotton panties that morning. He didn’t seem interested in her underwear, though, as he let out a low whistle.

  She felt his fingers slide over the sensitive skin near her hipbone. She shivered beneath the hard echo of the pain. His fingers were rough on her skin. Gentle. “This is going to hurt like a son of a bitch tomorrow,” he said quietly.

  “How bad is it?”

  “You’ve got a bruise the size of an apple on your hip bone. It probably bruised the bone. We need to get some ice on that before long or you’re going to be walking funny tomorrow.”

  He brushed his thumb along the edge of the bruise and she felt the echo of pain next to the gentle stroke of his touch. He tugged her pants closed, his knuckles brushing over her hips as he buttoned them. “But you’re not bleeding,” he said quietly. His voice was thick.

  Her hands shook as she tried to take over and button her own pants. His fingers brushed hers as he helped her, deftly flicking the buttons closed and fastening her belt.

  “It’s the adrenaline wearing off,” he said, motioning toward her hands. “It’s normal.”

  “It feels like I’m never going to stop shaking,” she confessed.

  “You will. Ready to head back?” He glanced at his watch. “If we stall long enough, you won’t have to go back to the office.”

  She smiled, and felt shaky and weak and alive, her blood humming with latent energy that she didn’t know how to process. “I don’t think I can go back to the office like this, anyway.” She looked up at him, afraid to put into words the question she wanted to ask.

  “Why not?” His voice was dark. Deep. Sensual. She couldn’t reconcile the sound of his voice now over the rough commands he’d barked in the shoot house.

  “I’ve never felt this keyed up. I don’t think I can type with my hands shaking like this. Do you have to go back?”

  His nostrils flared as she looked up at him. She hoped he wouldn’t make her say it out loud. She had too much energy, too much something running through her veins and all of this centered on the man standing in front of her.

  “What are you asking me, Emily?” His voice rang heavy with echoes of war.

  Her own felt heavy with a neediness she’d never felt before. She opened her mouth but there were no words for what she needed. At least not words she normally used. They were unfamiliar. Raw and hungry.

  His gaze locked on hers. Powerful emotions radiated from his dark eyes. Turmoil and chaos and dark promises she didn’t have the words for.

  She wanted this man. This man who’d gone to war with her over one of his soldiers, this man who’d taken her to training because she’d wanted to understand his world.

  This man, who stood, rough and ready in front of her, power radiating off him and feeding the need that vibrated inside her.

  His throat moved. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his fists clench. This was not an easy decision for him. She wanted to ask why but was afraid he’d come to his senses and say no.

  Finally, he spoke. “Get in the truck,” he said roughly.

  Chapter Eight

  The ride back to the clinic was quiet. At least, as quiet as a ride in a tactical vehicle could be. Reza’s thoughts were filled with heady, slow images. Fantasies involving a prim and proper doc who’d frozen in the hallway today and gotten herself shot.

  She didn’t realize that the place she’d been shot had been near an artery. He hadn’t been joking or flirting when he’d directed her to drop trou and show him her wounds. She’d been bruised, badly, but nothing had broken the skin.

  And now she was riding the adrenaline high that Reza had long ago developed an addiction for. He could see it in her eyes, watch it in the shaking of her hands. He was used to it.

  She was not.

  She wanted to go home with him. He saw it in her eyes, the swollen oh of her lips as she’d looked at him. He wanted her. There was no denying he’d been unable to get her out of his head since the first time he’d met her. But he didn’t want her when she wasn’t thinking clearly.

  He didn’t want any regrets the next morning after the adrenaline had worn off and her blood had settled back into normal. They changed vehicles at the headquarters parking lot and she sat in silence as he drove her back to her clinic in his personal truck.

  She twisted her hands in her lap as she sat quietly. He deliberately parked in an empty parking lot behind the clinic and killed the engine.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, twisting in his seat to look at her.

  “I’m good.” Her voice was throaty and thick. Husky.

  Then she looked at him. Her eyes were pale, pale blue and heavy-lidded. Her lips were swollen, slightly parted. She looked ready for a nap and he had the strangest urge to pull her into his lap.

  “Emily,” he whispered.

  He lifted his hand then, and slid his palm over her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth. He rubbed his thumb over a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her lips parted a little more and he was dying to taste the sweetness of her mouth.

  Their breath mingled as he hesitated, unsure of himself with a woman for the first time in a long, long time.

  In the end, it was Emily who spanned that final distance between them. She brushed her lips against his, a faint, hesitant kiss like a butterfly against his mouth. He groaned low in his throat, fisting her hair in a tight grip and pulling her toward him.

  His blood boiled from that hesitant touch. An urgency burned through him as he angled his mouth over hers. He wanted to consume her, to draw her into his lap and feel her thighs spread across his hips.

  Instead, he savored that first brush of his lips against hers. He nudged her top lip open with his, felt her breath on his mouth. Her tongue retreated against the gentle touch of his and he followed her, wanting to feel the glide of her tongue against his. Hesitant, her tongue touched his and he was lost.

  He groaned deep in his throat as her tongue slipped into his mouth. He resisted the urge to consume her and let her explore, until he could capture her tongue and suck gently.

  Her surprised gasp burst against his mouth and he felt the slow burn of satisfaction unfurl in his chest. He tightened his grip on her bun and angled her mouth until he could taste all of her. He deepened the kiss, unable to resist the urge to take. He surrendered to the need, releasing all the unspent adrenaline and passion from the firefight into that single moment.

  Emily was lost, drowning in a sea of sensation and touch and taste. He was power and rage—caged energy. He vibrated beneath her touch where her fingers curled into his upper arms. Raw strength held her close, encircling her. Protecting her even as he plundered her mouth.

  Arousal like she’d never felt throbbed between her legs. Nothing she’d ever experienced could describe the pure sensation of the mixture of lingering fear from the range with the raw passion of his kiss. He kissed like he lived. Unhinged. On the edge. He consumed her like he owned her and the power and confidence in his every move poured into her with that kiss.

  He couldn’t say who came up for air first. At some point, he’d captured her face with both hands and cradled her now, his touch gentle and restrained. He licked her bottom lip, sucking gently as she caught her breath, pouring every ounce of restraint into gentling the ferocity he felt.

  “Reza.” His name was a prayer. He smiled against her lips.

  “Hmmm.”

  “You really know how to kiss,” she whispered.

  He laughed deep in his chest, brushing his lips against hers again.

&nb
sp; “Thanks. I think.”

  “Oh no, thank you,” she said, opening her eyes. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

  Her words were a purr, a caress against his cheek.

  “It’s adrenaline,” he said, pulling her against his chest.

  “Still?”

  “You’ll crash soon,” he said. “When it wears off, you’ll need to sleep.”

  “How do you do that in combat?”

  “We manage,” was all he said, not wanting to talk about war with her kiss still warm on his lips. “You should get home before you fall asleep,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the top of her head.

  She lifted her gaze until she met his and her eyes were filled with dark promise and a need that flattered him. “Will you follow me home?” she whispered.

  Reza’s throat went dry. “Is this really what you want?” He wanted her to be sure. Because he wasn’t. He didn’t know if he could do this, was terrified of screwing it up.

  She nodded, remaining silent. The only other movement was a slight flex of her fingers on his arms.

  He kissed her like the world was ending, then urged her gently from his truck, watching her to make sure she was steady on her feet. And his blood tightened in his veins as he followed her off post.

  This was a mistake but it was one he couldn’t stop himself from making.

  * * *

  She could feel him behind her. He radiated energy and heat as she fumbled getting her key in the lock. Sweat slicked her body and she felt his gaze on her back.

  She wanted this. She wanted him. This had nothing to do with her past, nothing to do with a revolt against her family.

  This was something just for her. Just him. A man who was big and powerful and strong and used everything he was, everything he had to protect those he deemed worthy of protection.

  She turned as he closed the door behind him. Her space looked tiny with him in it. She felt tiny next to him and tipped her chin up to glance at him. She licked her lips, trying to banish the sudden dryness and find something to say that wouldn’t embarrass her entirely.

  “So we’re here,” she whispered. A tremor in her voice.

  “Hmm.” There was a warm, rich laugh in his. He lifted one hand, brushing his fingers gently over her cheek.

  “Okay. I’ve never done this.”

  He leaned back, his dark eyes pinned to her face. “Sex or…”

  She laughed at the question, at the shock in his voice. “I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Her throat tightened as he stuffed his hands into his back pockets. The movement stretched the tight t-shirt against his chest and she could see the carved outline of muscle against thin fabric.

  “Well, that’s reassuring. It would be a hell of a lot of pressure to be your first.”

  Emily coughed and choked on a laugh. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that.” Her gaze drifted down his body, her blood warming from his nearness. “Do you want to shower or something?”

  A vein pulsed in his neck. “Do you want to wash my back?”

  “I could.” Light, teasing words in a space heavy with sensual heat.

  He stepped toward her then, cupping her cheeks in his palms. “Careful, Emily. That’s a hell of a lot of temptation.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m tempting you?”

  “You have no idea.” A strange note in his voice. One she would have to ask him about.

  Some other time.

  “I like that I’m tempting you,” she whispered, her skin absorbing the heat from his body. She shivered and his fingers flexed against her cheeks.

  “How long has it been for you?” he whispered as he pressed his lips to the edge of her mouth. His tongue flicked out to touch her skin and she shuddered as he traced the line of her jaw.

  “Well, it’s been almost two years since I found my best friend giving my fiancé oral sex, so you can probably figure it’s been at least that long.”

  “Cheating sucks,” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear. He nipped at her earlobe. “But did you just say ‘giving him oral sex’?” There it was again, the laughter in his question.

  “So?”

  “Can you say ‘blow job’?” His tongue traced over her ear. She gasped and arched her neck.

  “I’m sweaty,” she said, dodging his request

  “I think that’s okay.” He tugged her earlobe gently with his teeth. “If we do this right, we’ll be sweaty again.” He bit down. “Say ‘blow job.’”

  “Why is that important to you?” Her words were a gasp.

  “Because I want to hear you say something dirty.”

  “I’m sweaty and I want to take a shower. Is that dirty enough?”

  He hugged her close then, his laughter shaking through his body and into hers. “Shower it is, then,” he whispered. He released her and stepped back. “After you.”

  He followed her into the bedroom, wanting badly to strip her naked and feast on her body. Her hands shook as she reached for the light. Nerves. Adrenaline wearing off. And sexual need burning over it all.

  There was strength in this woman. A strength that appealed to him even as her teasing laughter eased him out of that dark space where he’d spent so long.

  But there in the dark, for once, he didn’t feel alone. And it terrified him, having another person there. A kindred spirit with the soul of a warrior. Her body wasn’t marked with scars like his but there were scars there nonetheless.

  She turned to face him, her expression tense, her eyes dark and aroused.

  He wanted to watch her peel off her clothing. Wanted the lights out so that he could keep the scars on his body hidden a bit more. He wasn’t ashamed of them nor of the art he’d covered them with but he didn’t want to bring the war into the bedroom with them.

  She took a step closer to him. Tugged at the hem of his combat t-shirt. His breath caught in his throat and it took everything he had to simply stand there and allow her to lift the shirt over his chest.

  She’d said she trusted him earlier that day at the range.

  It was his turn to trust her.

  There was nothing in her life that prepared her to see a man of Reza’s size and strength unclothed. Beneath the black t-shirt, his body was a prize. But when he took a step back and pulled the cotton over his head, her breath caught in her throat.

  His body was not perfection. It was scarred and damaged, and laced across those scars he’d carved his own flesh with pitch black ink. Death’s sickle cut across one pec and twisted in the robes draped down his left shoulder were names. She counted quickly. Twelve names and ranks on one bicep, each with a date carefully in line with it. On the other, places she recognized from the news. Fallujah. Najaf. Tal Afar. Mosul.

  “What’s BIAP?” she whispered, curling her fingers into her palms to keep from tracing the mournful letters.

  He didn’t want to answer. He closed his eyes as her fingers skimmed the names. Women had seen him naked before. But they’d never asked about the names or the places. Never asked about the reaper over his heart.

  He wouldn’t have answered them if they had.

  But Emily. Emily asked.

  And he had to answer her. Had to trust that she would take him as he was.

  It was the greatest leap of faith he’d ever taken.

  “Baghdad International Airport,” he said, his voice thick. “It’s the place I lost the first piece of my soul.”

  She’d seen war memorials carved into skin before. Many of the combat veterans she saw in her office had permanently inked their memories into their flesh. But none had ever struck her so viscerally. There was violence in those names carved into his flesh, an echo of the war carried close to his heart.

  And over his heart, beneath the blade of the sickle, a single name. “Maliheh,” she whispered.

  “My mother.” His throat moved. “I lost her when I was fifteen.”

  “Reza.” His name on her lips was a prayer. For his soul. For hers. She
no longer knew. But there was pain etched into his skin. More than the war had made him what he was.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me.” He moved then, cradling her face in his palms, his big hands inexplicably gentle. “I wear their names to honor them. To remember.”

  “So much pain,” she whispered.

  “Don’t pity me.” Harsh judgment of his own actions. A warrior resigned to his fate.

  She met his gaze then, closing her fingers over his. “I don’t pity you, Reza.” She brushed her lips against his. “I admire you.”

  His smile was cold, his eyes an abyss stretching into eternity. “Don’t think you can crawl inside my head just because we’re getting naked.”

  She stepped close to him then, because to do anything less would be an admission of defeat. Instantly, she was surrounded by the heat from his body. The black ink of the tattoo seemed to writhe against his skin, urging her to touch. She lifted her index finger, sliding it along the edge of Death’s Sickle. She was almost surprised when her finger did not bleed.

  “It’s not your head I’m interested in,” she whispered, threading her arms around his neck.

  A smile, this time genuine, on those full lips as he kissed her deeply, his fingers tugging at her bun until her hair fell free down her back.

  “I’m going to get you to say it,” he said as he tugged at the zipper on her uniform jacket.

  “Is that a dare?”

  He made a noise as he captured her lips as he pushed her jacket off her shoulders, then tugged her t-shirt free from her pants. “Beautiful,” he murmured, tracing one finger near the edge of her bra.

  She kissed him as he tugged her toward him, lifting her until she could wrap her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. The bruise on her hip screamed at the pressure but the pleasure of his lips drowned out the echo of any pain.

  “Where’s the shower?”

  She nibbled on his lower lip and pointed toward the door on the other side of the bed. He strode through the bedroom and each movement brought his erection in close, intimate contact with her aching sex. Never in her life had she been so aware of her own wetness, her own arousal.