Hard As It Gets

Chapter 14

After another hour of restrained arguing, they had a multipronged plan in place for tomorrow, and Becca could barely resist the dangerous tide of hope rising inside her. Finally she could see some forward progress.

But just one thought of Charlie’s severed finger took care of that. Jesus, they cut off his finger. What kind of animals . . . ? She forced herself not to think about it—not because Charlie didn’t deserve every bit of her sympathy and concern but because if she focused on it she just might dissolve into a puddle of despair.

Sitting around the living room as the hour approached midnight, weariness covered all of them like it was an element in the air they breathed. To a man, these guys were big, strong, tough—capable of doing some serious damage if necessary. But the more she got to know Nick’s former teammates, the more she noticed that they had some other interesting things in common with him—shadowed eyes, Grand Canyon-sized chips on their shoulders, and a demeanor that always seemed just shy of producing a true smile or a full laugh. Like they’d all been through something together, something that had not only marked their skin and their hearts but also touched them all the way to the depths of their souls. And not in a good way.

“All right, come to my office first thing in the morning, and we can do the forensic drawing and go through the databases,” Miguel said.

Nick shook his hand. “Will do. Thanks for everything.”

The man nodded. “We’ll figure this out,” he said.

They might’ve just been platitudes, but Miguel’s words went right to her heart. She stepped in front of him. “What you’re doing means a lot to me. I hope I can repay you some day.”

“I’m a dad. Got kids your age. I couldn’t not help. Don’t you worry about it.” He squeezed her arm. “Get some sleep.”

Before the door even shut behind Miguel, Becca asked, “Can’t we at least search Charlie’s and my place tonight? Get a jump on tomorrow’s to-do list?”

With his hand on the small of her back, Nick guided her to the grouping of chairs in the living room. “Both those locations have proven unsecure, Becca. We need to compile equipment, and the guys need intel on the locations so they’re not going in blind. This isn’t something to start at midnight, especially when we don’t know who or what we’re fighting. Except, possibly, someone on the inside of the police.”

She sighed. His words made sense. They did. But the urge to find Charlie, to save him, agitated through her all the way down to her cells, especially now that they knew he’d been kidnapped. “Okay. I get it.”

He squeezed her arm. “For sleeping arrangements,” he said to the guys, “someone can take the guest room in the back. Someone can take my bed, and the couch out here pulls out. I’ll grab some blankets.”

“Wait. Somebody else should have Katherine’s room. I generally sleep for crap and end up walking around or watching TV. So I’ll sleep out here,” Becca said. “I don’t mind.”

He frowned and shook his head. “That’s okay.”

“No, really. Besides, I’ll be more comfortable on a couch than any of you guys.” She rounded the counter. “Let me just grab my stuff.” Without waiting for his response, she made her way down the hall. Truth be told, the day had left her achy and beyond exhausted, but her brain was still going a million miles a minute. Sleep wasn’t likely.

After she threw her bag on the bed, she quickly gathered her things, rolled them up, and stuffed them inside. She grabbed her pillow and straightened the bedding, then turned to leave.

Nick stood in the doorway, muscled arms braced on each side of the molding. “You should keep your bed.”

For a moment, she was too dumbstruck by the sliver of skin that appeared between the bottom of his shirt and the top of his jeans to respond. She’d seen the full glory of his chest, of course, so why she found that strip of abdomen so alluring, she didn’t know. Maybe because it tempted her to lift the rest of the cotton away? “Um, why?” she managed. “It’s fine.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. “You’ve been through a helluva lot today, Becca. Whatever this is, it’s only just begun. You need rest to deal with it.”

His concern made her smile. She crossed the room to him, pushed up onto tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his jaw. “Thank you for wanting to take care of me. I’ll be fine on the couch, though. Promise.”

“I do.” His gaze connected with hers, warm and intense, and he lowered his arms.

“What?” she asked, hiking the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.

Nick’s brow furrowed, and for a moment he looked away, like he was grappling with the words. Finally, his eyes were back on hers. “Want to take care of you.” His jaw ticked. “When that guy had you . . . and then you were bleeding . . .” He shook his head.

Her heart squeezed with affection for him. No, not just affection, something bigger, deeper. How could she have known him for only a few days, when it felt like it had surely been so much longer? Becca cupped the hard angle of his jaw. “I don’t like seeing you hurt, either.” Her thumb stroked over his cheek, just south of the red swelling around his busted cheekbone. Tape on his face, the skin around his right eye bruising, stubble covering his jaw and chin . . . God, he was beautiful in all his rough edges, utterly appealing. Suddenly, it was too much, and she was too close. Dropping her hand, she stepped back. “Between your cheek and my forehead, we’re a pair, aren’t we?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah.” Then his expression went serious again. “If you won’t sleep here, then take my bed.”

His bed? “Uh, but I—”

“It’ll give you more privacy. I saw what you slept in the other night, remember? And I’d rather these meatheads didn’t.”

The tone of his voice might’ve sounded playful if it hadn’t been for the dark glint in his eyes. Was that jealousy? Protectiveness? Both had her heart kicking up in her chest. “Where were you planning to sleep, anyway?”

“Couch in my office.”

“Oh.” Why did that news unleash a flicker of disappointment inside her? “But I was trying to give one of the guys a bed. You know, maybe make them a little less cranky.”

His lips twitched again. “I know you were. But they could sleep standing up if they had to. They’ll be fine. I’m not worried about them.”

But he was worried about her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but instead she just shrugged. “Just tell me where you want me, then.”

“In my bed.” His eyes went molten.

So boldly stated, the words dragged over her skin and heated her blood. “I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?”

It was the closest thing to a real smile she’d seen from him. And it was lethally sexy. He just nodded.

A few moments later, she made her way to Nick’s connected office and bedroom. Curiosity flowed through her as she stepped inside. An overstuffed dark blue couch, the kind that sucked you right into its cushiness, filled one wall, and a flat-screen TV hung opposite. Magazines were stacked on top of a small bookshelf packed with titles she couldn’t make out. The desk had an organizer full of forms and files, and a laptop sat open but dark in the center. A sketchbook lay on the corner, some sort of line drawing just visible in the diffuse glow of the hall light.

Turning on the desk lamp revealed what looked to be the finished drawing of the soldier-fireman tattoo he was supposed to do tomorrow. It was . . . really freaking good, like the man was walking off the page toward her. Was he still going to be able to do this for Jeremy? God, she really had just taken over his life, hadn’t she?

A narrow hallway extended from one corner of the room, and Becca headed that way. A wall switch threw light onto a set of open sliding closet doors on the one side, the bathroom door on the other, and presumably the bedroom door at the far end. She set her bag on the floor outside the bathroom as her gaze landed on a series of black garment bags pushed flush against one wall of Nick’s closet. Her gaze dropped to the floor, where a set of shiny black dress shoes and a pair of well-abused combat boots were tucked beneath the hanging bags. Two military-issue duffels filled the shelf above. Aside from his tattoo of the Special Forces crest, these were the first things she’d seen that proved he’d once served in the U.S. military. It was like he’d packed that part of himself away.

Suddenly feeling like she was snooping, Becca grabbed her things, stepped into the bathroom, and closed the door behind her.

When she came out a few minutes later, Nick was in his bedroom chucking dirty clothes into a hamper. Well, except the lone sock the puppy was chewing on next to the bed. Other than his big bed with its plain dark green comforter dominating the center, the nightstand on one side with the only lamp, and the long dresser against the opposite wall, the room was pretty empty. There weren’t even curtains on his windows, just drawn blinds. Two stacks of cardboard boxes sat in the far corner. More parts of his life packed away, she guessed.

Was she imagining it, or was he limping? For a long moment, she studied him. Sure enough . . . Protectiveness flooded through her. “You don’t have to pick up, Nick,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “It’s been a long day for you, too.”

His gaze cut across the room toward her. “It’s no problem. I changed the sheets,” he said, raking his fingers through his dark hair.

Becca’s fingers twitched in response. His hair was soft and thick, just long enough to grab when they kissed . . . “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks. I really wouldn’t mind sleeping on the couch. I don’t want to disturb you if I can’t sleep.”

“No. Bed’s all yours.” At the door, he paused and looked down at her, his normally bright eyes dark in the low light. His nearness made her skin tingle. “G’night.”

The sudden urge to hug him, to hold him, to ask him to stay surged through her. She didn’t fight it. Stepping into him, she slid her arms around his back and laid her head against his chest. “Thank you,” she said.

When his arms finally came around her, she released a breath. God, he was warm and strong, and it felt right holding him like this.

He kissed the top of her head.

The soft, sweet touch sent her heart flying. She tilted her head back, wanting, hoping.

Eyes locked on hers, Nick leaned down slowly. Becca’s lips fell open, hungry for him. His breath caressed her skin, and his nose rubbed against hers. Anticipation of the kiss had her nearly breathless, and she fisted her hands in his shirt. His lips claimed hers gently, almost reverently. He lingered for another moment, then withdrew. “I hope you can get some sleep.” He stepped around her and pulled the door closed with a click.

NICK HEAVED A breath and forced himself to walk away from his bedroom. Because, Jesus Christ, Becca was going to be sleeping in his bed tonight, those long legs sliding between his sheets, that silky golden hair sprawled against his pillows, the sweet perfume of her skin soaking into his blankets.

But he’d been right to suggest she sleep back here, no matter how much ache settled into his balls for wanting her, because her little sleep shorts were so not fit for public consumption. At least not if he had anything to say about it.

Maybe she wasn’t his to protect and shield from other men’s eyes. Okay, she wasn’t. But that didn’t make his possessive instincts any less real or any less strong. Whatever that meant.

In the bathroom, he gulped down some ibuprofen with a few handfuls of water, then grabbed a cover from the top shelf of his closet and tossed it to the couch. Having spent more than a few nights sleeping there, he knew it was comfortable enough. Something caught his eye, and he did a double take at the desk.

Aw, shit. The tattoo he was supposed to do tomorrow morning.

In the chaos of the day, he’d forgotten to touch base with Jeremy about canceling. And once the guys had arrived, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to him. Jeremy was smart enough to know when to keep his head down and his mouth shut, and after slipping through the apartment in the midst of a tense discussion that had gone suddenly quiet, he’d holed up in his bedroom.

Which was just as well. Much as possible, Rixey wanted to keep his kid brother out of this in case the whole thing went south. No way he was letting any of Merritt’s bullshit rain down on another innocent person, especially not his own blood.

So Jeremy would have to be on a need-to-know.

A click turned off his desk light, plunging the room into darkness. He wasn’t gonna sweat the tattoo. It was the least of the problems he’d have tomorrow. Take a frickin’ number.

On a deep sigh, he sank to the edge of the couch, made quick work of removing his boots and socks, and tugged off his shirt. The action brought to mind Becca’s voice. Take your shirt off.

Her hands had been soothing against his skin, adding a dose of solace to the seizing ache of his side and lower back after Murda’s dirty kidney hit and his little run-in with the counter. Her touch had gentled as she’d examined the area around his scars, like she’d known he hurt there. And she had. She’d known he hadn’t been taking regular breaths, she’d observed his posture and understood what it had meant. They’d known each other but a few days. Either she was a damn good nurse or she could read his body and his tells already. Probably both. He didn’t know whether to be horrified or to take her into his arms and never let her go.

’Cause that thought was really fucking helpful right now.

Maybe it wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny that Becca’s hands had touched him in places that lay deeper than his skin.

On a sigh, he undid his jeans and added those to the pile of clothes, but he left the cotton boxers on so Becca didn’t find him lying bare-assed out here in the morning.

Stretching out, Rixey threw the cover over himself. No matter how he lay, his back screamed. Finally, he turned into a position in the neighborhood of tolerable and closed his eyes. And found himself looking at the picture of that jackhole jamming a knife into Becca’s ribs.

Jesus.

He blinked the image away and tried again.

And this time saw the horror on her face as she stared at Charlie’s finger. The blood had literally drained from her skin. If Beckett hadn’t hauled the garbage can in front of her . . . well, it was a good thing he had. And then the guy had held her hair out of her face—all Rixey had felt toward that touch was gratitude for the man’s compassion and help. In that moment, every bit of anger he’d been holding onto from the fight had fizzled out of him. Murda was a good man. They all were.

But the rage they felt had the power to turn them into loose cannons. He’d need to remember that. Direct it. Find a way to use it as an advantage.

The image playing against the inside of his eyelids shifted again. He saw Becca, coolly calm as she’d taken care of him after the fight. If he hadn’t found her competence and focus sexy enough, she’d had the guts to order Beckett to back off, to dress down his men, to stand up for him when it was pretty frickin’ clear a whole lot of aggression was aimed his way. When was the last time someone had stood up for him that way? He might not deserve it, but the fact that she’d done it lit him up in places that were usually deep dark.

Rixey blew out a long breath. Sleep was about as likely as stepping into a time machine, traveling back a year, and undoing the hell his life had become.

At some point, his brain miraculously and finally stopped churning, and Rixey dozed off.

Click. Click.

Rixey’s eyes popped open at the soft sounds, and his brain surfaced from the haze of sleeping. Staring into the darkness, he listened and realized what he’d heard was the bathroom door closing. A few moments later, he heard the door again just before a dark silhouette crossed the far end of his office, moving slowly and silently along the wall.

“You okay?” he said, his voice ragged in his own ears.

She gasped. “Shit, you scared me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay. What time is it?”

“About one.”

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, pushing up onto an elbow. That made the second night in a row.

“No.”

There was something in the tone of her voice . . . He needed to see her. “Shield your eyes,” he said, stretching for the lamp next to the couch. He squinted against the glow and found her standing by the door, hugging herself like she was cold. “You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m happy to report you’re a lousy liar.” He winked and eased into a sitting position, moving slowly because his back was still being a pain in the ass. Literally. Better than earlier, though that wasn’t saying much.

She shrugged with one shoulder. “Took me a long time to nod off,” she said, “and then I had a nightmare. So . . .”

The sadness in her words and the fear in her eyes drew him off the couch. A sudden need filled his chest. He wanted her to lean on him. He grimaced, his muscles not appreciating the too-quick movement. “Uh, sorry,” he said, grabbing and stepping into his jeans.

“Your back still feeling bad?” she said, eyes on the floor.

Forcing himself not to limp, he stepped in front of her and studied her face for a long moment. With her soft blond hair and her wide blue eyes and her alluring feminine curves, Becca was so very pretty. The marks on her face did nothing to detract from her appeal. Instead, they made him want to kiss her to make sure she wouldn’t feel their discomfort. But he shouldn’t. He really fucking shouldn’t. After all the ways he’d failed the men sleeping down the hall, he didn’t deserve the spot of lightness she’d bring to his life, even for just a short time.

And it was clear his men agreed. Jesus, it had been downright frosty between them most of the night. Maybe too much time had passed to try to fix all the ways he’d failed them. If so, it was his own damn fault. Again.

Becca peered up at him, those worried eyes so open and honest. That honesty appealed right to the heart of him and had him unthinkingly sliding his hands over her shoulders and under her hair to cup the slim column of her neck. She wasn’t her father, damnit. She didn’t play games. She didn’t hold back. Time and again, she’d come right out with the truth, even when it couldn’t have been easy to say. “What was your nightmare about?” he said in a low voice, ignoring the internal alarms telling him to keep his distance.

She twisted her lips and stared up at him. He felt like he was willing the words out of her, he wanted them so bad. “Charlie being tortured.” Her eyes went glassy, but she straightened her spine like she refused to let the undoubtedly terrifying images bow her.

Nick’s gut clenched and he softly squeezed her neck. Nothing he could say to make that ugly reality any better. “I’ll do everything I can.” Everything I can to make sure you don’t lose your last remaining family. But he couldn’t say that part out loud. He refused to make a promise he didn’t know he could keep.

She nodded. “I know.” She closed her eyes and rolled her head in response to his fingers. That little expression of comfort and pleasure shot straight to his cock. Eyes still shut, she said, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad’s your back?”

He couldn’t keep his lip from twitching. Apparently her sharing came with a quid pro quo requirement. And fair enough. “Three.” Her eyes flew open, filled with skepticism. “Three if I remain absolutely still and don’t breathe.” She arched an eyebrow, but he’d almost eked out a smile. “Okay, a six.”

“Does it hurt all the time?”

“Nuh uh. My turn.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were . . . Well, be my guest.” That time, she smiled.

Field was wide open. What did he want to know? If he wanted her to understand he was there for her, there was one place that made sense to start—really making the effort to get to know her. “Are you and Charlie close?”

She tilted her face and brushed her cheek against his forearm. “Yes, but in our own way. Charlie’s hard to get close to. He’s introverted and more comfortable talking to people online than in person. But he’s loyal and kind and has a hilarious, dry sense of humor.” Big eyes looked up at him. “And he’s my little brother, you know?”

Nick nodded. Sounded like Charlie was the exact opposite of Jeremy, but he got exactly what she was saying. “I do know.”

“Are you doing physical therapy for your back?” she asked. Under his fingers, the muscles in her neck and shoulders began to relax.

“I did PT for six months after I got home. Now I see a chiropractor who’s also damn good at therapeutic massage. My turn, and I’m going back to my first question again. Are you okay?”

She looked him right in the eye. “I’m scared.”

He wondered if she knew how brave it was to just admit her fear that way. She might not have her father’s size or training, but she’d clearly inherited a healthy dose of his warrior’s spirit.

“Of what?” he finally said.

“Of not finding Charlie. That they’re hurting him. That, after our fight, he doesn’t know how much I love him.” Nick drew his hands from her neck and caressed her hair, his fingers pushing through the thick layers to lightly scratch her scalp. She sighed. “I’m scared one of you will get hurt. Or all of you will get in trouble.” Releasing a shaky breath, her gaze dropped down to his chest. Lingered. “Does it hurt your back to lay on your stomach?” she asked.

He frowned at the out-of-left-fielder. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

Becca pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed the center of his palm. “Sit down facing backward.” She rolled the desk chair closer.

Rixey stared at the chair like it was speaking in a foreign language. Well, one he didn’t speak anyway.

She laughed. “Don’t be so suspicious. Just sit your butt down already.”

“Well, since you put it that way.” He straddled the chair and rested his forearms on the back. She knelt on the floor behind him, and every nerve ending in his body took note.

“Undo the button,” she said in a low voice, tugging on the waistband of his jeans, her fingers skimming the skin of his lower back.

“Uh, Becca.” Her command sent his brain to places it had no business going.

“Were you always this bad at taking orders?”

He undid the button, his zipper coming down a little in the process, and he wondered what the hell he was doing as his erection was tempted to life.

“Tell me if it hurts or if it’s too hard.” She smoothed her palms straight up his spine, out over his shoulder blades, and down his sides, her fingers almost tickling along his lats. The first few passes were soft and gentle, but soon her fingertips pressed in and her thumbs rubbed deep circles into his sore muscles.

He had to bite back more than one groan. At his shoulders, she worked out from his spine, her surprisingly strong grip working knots out of his traps. When she walked her massaging fingers up his neck, he dropped his head forward on a groan he couldn’t restrain.

“Okay?” she asked, her breath floating over his skin.

“Feels fucking phenomenal.” He felt her soft laughter puff against his back. And now he was all the way hard.

“Good.”

She continued until his upper back was purring and his cock was punching at the open fly of his jeans, begging to be released. Despite the relaxation of, well, some of his muscles, the pace of his breathing slowly but surely picked up, his libido making plans his brain hadn’t agreed to. Yet.

“This dragon is beautiful, Nick.”

“Yeah?” he said into the space between the chair’s backrest and his chest, picturing in his mind’s eye the beast wrapped around a sword spanning the length and breadth of his back.

“Must’ve taken a long time.”

“Three sittings. Jeremy did it.” He’d gotten his first tat at eighteen, a tribal on his shoulder which he’d since added to. But in the months after he’d returned home, he’d gotten quite a few new pieces. He prized them for their ability to memorialize and to temporarily replace the never-ending mental anguish with the sting of the tattoo gun on his body. The dragon had given him several days’ worth of blissful quiet in his head while the needles had run over his skin.

There was a pause, like maybe she was examining it more closely. His head conjured up all kinds of unhelpful images, like her leaning in, brushing her face against his skin, her lips . . . “He’s really good.”

“Jeremy? The best.”

“Does it have a meaning?”

The answer to that could be too damn revealing. “Dragons are protectors of valuable and sacred things. They’re fierce and powerful defenders,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

She stroked a finger straight down the blade of the sword. Nick shuddered. “What is he protecting for you?”

Hesitating for only a moment, Nick rotated the chair forty-five degrees and lifted his right arm. He knew the column of words inked there by heart:

LOYALTY

DUTY

RESPECT

SELFLESS SERVICE

HONOR

INTEGRITY

COURAGE

The core values of the United States Army. Words that defined what being a soldier was all about and words that he’d personally striven to uphold for nearly his entire adult life. To Nick, these weren’t platitudes or pretty concepts to trot out at ceremonies or in speeches. They formed the basis of a code at the heart of the brotherhood of arms. They formed the foundation upon which soldiers lived and died. Live up to them, and anything was possible.

Violate them the way Merritt had and it all went to shit. He should know. He was living the goddamned consequences.

Her hand settled over the words, just rested there, like Becca was holding the ink to his skin. Like she, too, was protecting it. A knot lodged in his throat, and he forced that fucker right on down. He’d grieved enough over everything he’d lost, especially when others had made far greater sacrifices. Enough was enough was efuckingnough.

He shifted the chair so his back faced her again. Regret at telling her about the dragon, about the words, settled into his gut. It left him feeling too exposed, like his nerves sat atop his skin.

But she said no more about it. Instead, her thumbs worked into the small of his back. Her touch was pleasure and pain all at once, the pain of working out the muscles required before the pleasure of relief could come. Slowly, she kneaded toward his left side, the massage gentling as she neared the mass of scars from his injuries and multiple surgeries. Her fingers curled around his side and swept into his pants.

He flinched and sucked in a breath, not because she’d hurt him but because her fingertips had been so damn close to his cock. Though not nearly close enough . . .

His side was sore, and even the light touch was a little uncomfortable, but the longer her warm hands brushed softly over his skin, the more his muscles eased.

“Okay?” she said, her voice soft and breathy. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking caused by the heat roaring over his body at the way she was taking care of him.

“Yeah.”

Just above his hip bone, she settled into a rhythm using both hands, her thumbs swiping low in the back, her fingers rubbing under the loose denim in the front.

“Do I want to know why you and Beckett were fighting?”

A few ins and outs of his breath passed before he decided whether to answer. “He’s pissed I haven’t been a better friend, and he’s right.”

“Well, no matter what you did, you didn’t deserve to be attacked in your own home. I meant what I said to them, Nick. You’re going so far out of your way for me. I’m not letting anyone abuse you for it.”

There she goes again. As if each massage, each squeeze, and each soothing caress weren’t ratcheting up his arousal enough, her rising to his defense had him absolutely throbbing for her. Her warmth was all over his back from her hands and her breath and her nearness. It was too much. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Goddamnit, he wanted her.

It wasn’t just her hands on his body, or the relief flooding through him, or the lateness of the hour, although all three played a role. It was more the bone-deep solace he felt in her presence as her light and her warmth seeped into him. The way she seemed to anticipate what he needed, even if he would’ve been the last one to acknowledge it for himself. How she’d given him a purpose again after all these long months, one he hadn’t realized how badly he needed. And it all made him want.

Nick wanted to claim her and possess her and climb so far inside her heat that he’d forget about all the shit in his head. He wanted her writhing under him and boneless with pleasure and crying his name out loud. He wanted her seeking safety in his arms and comfort from his hands.

He spun the chair around to face her. She reared back on her knees and her gaze flew up to his. He shook his head, competing desires warring inside him. To possess her and protect her. To be honest and shield her from hurt. To do the right thing and do what felt right.

Damnit, he needed her.

On a groan, he reached out, grasped her neck, and hauled her up to him.

Rixey consumed her with the kiss, pouring every bit of his gratitude and desire into the movement of his lips, his tongue, his hands. She moaned in surprise, and he devoured that, too. God, she smelled of warm vanilla and tasted of mint. Little needful whimpers and sighs and gasps spilled out around their lips, and he reveled in every last note of her pleasure, of her desire. He pulled her closer and penetrated her more deeply with his tongue. The damn backrest separated them, but he couldn’t let her go long enough to rectify the problem.

“God, sunshine, what are you doing to me?” he rasped around the edge of a kiss.

Her fingers dug into his hair, pulling, grasping. He loved the bites of pain against his scalp, evidence of her loss of control.

If he didn’t stop soon, he was going to lift her into his arms, lay her out on his bed, and cover her with his body. And there would be no going back.

Get a friggin’ grip, Rixey. Now.

Panting, he pulled his lips away from hers, his hands cupping her cheeks so she didn’t dive back in for more. Foreheads together, he let himself bask in a moment more of her heat, her scent, her touch. He kissed the corner of her mouth, because he was the one struggling to resist, and stroked his hands over her hair. Finally, he pulled away. “It’s late,” he said, hating the words but needing them.

Her fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I know,” she whispered, peering up at him with midnight blue eyes.

“Come on.” He pushed up from the chair and gave her a hand at the same time. Miraculously, his muscle aches were more diffuse than before her massage. As if he needed another reason to want to kiss her. “You should—”

“I don’t want to be alone, Nick.” She shook her head and ducked her chin. “Can I just . . . maybe, stay out here with you?”

“Becca—”

“Please?”

The pleading slayed him. He grasped her hand and led her to his dark bedroom.

“Get in,” he said at the side of the bed. “You need sleep, and you’re not going to get it sitting up out there.”

“But—”

“I’ll sleep here, too.”

“Really?”

The obvious relief did a number on him. It felt damned good to be needed—too damned good, so he played it off. “It’s a hardship, but for you, I’ll make the sacrifice.” He swatted her butt, and his cock rose up and took notice. “Get in.”

“Nicholas Rixey, did you just . . . smack me?” The sounds of the mattress accepting her weight and the covers shifting followed her into the bed.

He lay down on the very edge, his mind still spinning on the fact that he’d just spanked her, when a new realization hit home. Shit, I’m in bed with Becca. “Why, did you like it?” he said, forcing nonchalance into his voice when he felt anything but.

Her non-answer was a real kick in the ass, because he’d bet his right nut she was laying over there debating how to answer. And now his cock wanted back in the game. Fuck.

Yes, please.

Jesus, when your brain started talking to your cock, you were on some fucking really thin ice. “And don’t call me Nicholas,” he groused.

She chuckled and shifted positions, judging by the movement of the mattress.

“Lying on your back can’t be much better than lying on your stomach.”

He grunted, but it was true. But if he rolled on his right side, he’d be that much closer to her, and right now he swore she must be throwing off solar heat, he felt her presence so intensely.

“Nick?”

He tensed, unsure what the hell she was going to come at him with next. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Oh. The tension ebbed out of him. “You’re welcome.”

Gingerly, he turned onto his side, easing his back and restoring the relief she’d given to him with the gift of her touch.

“Nick?”

“Hmm?”

“I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer than a few days.”

So do I. But nothing good would come from making that admission. “Becca?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s time to stop talking now.”

She laughed, the sound warm and sunny in the darkness. The metaphor wasn’t lost on him.

Becca was the light to his dark.

Her honesty, her touch, her very presence settled a blanket of comfort around him like nothing else had this past year. And he wanted to wrap himself up in it and never let go. How the hell that worked without her getting hurt at his hands, without his bitterness and anger weighing her down, he didn’t know.

And he wasn’t sure it was good for either of them for him to figure it out.