Bound By Seduction (A Red-Hot SEALs Novella Book 2) (7 page)

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, but the pull against his split lip hurt too much to maintain the expression for long. At least he finally had an explanation for this ramped up reaction to roses. At some point in the past his subconscious must have linked his attraction to Demi to that particular scent, and boom—the smell of roses equaled an instant erection.

“Let’s get some ice on that lip,” Demi said, her voice all business. She sped up, pulling away from the hand he’d rested against the small of her back. Aiden increased his pace to keep up, but slowed again when the extension in his stride pulled at his abdomen and chest until the bruised flesh burned.

“A frozen veggie package will work,” Aiden called after her, studying her stiff back thoughtfully.

Her muscles, which had been pliant and soft against his chest in the elevator, had tensed with each step toward her condo. By the time he’d opened her door, she’d been as rigid as steel against his hand. Now she was racing down the hall like a dozen tangos with flash grenades were locked on her tail.

Sure looked like his Demi was having a serious attack of cold feet.

Oddly enough, her sudden reservations were soothing rather than frustrating, and some of the tension inside him eased. While she’d claimed the night before had been her first foray into the bar scene, he hadn’t been sure he could trust that declaration. Would she admit it if she’d been making the rounds on a regular basis? She must have sensed his rage at the thought of her picking up another man. What if she’d simply given him the answer he’d clearly wanted to hear?

Except she wasn’t acting like a woman who’d plowed her way through the barracks. Once she’d roused from that kiss, she’d launched into pure skittishness, which pointed to a certain lack of experience. Now that he had her where he needed her—alone, and inside her condo—he could afford to back off. Let her settle down. Let her get used to him being underfoot, and then seduce her into taking that first step toward him of her own volition.

No sense in pressing her and scaring her off.

So he lingered on his way down the hall to study the stark black and white photos lining the calming mint-colored walls. The pictures alternated between photos of old, dilapidated barns and the facial portraits of people in the twilight of their lives—faces that wore their years in the creases and folds etched upon their flesh. Absently working the stiff, throbbing fingers of his right hand, he wandered from photograph to photograph, admiring the artistic use of light and shadow, before stepping into the living room and stopping to stare.

The woman liked color, that was for sure. The minty green of the hallway gave way to peach in the living room, although the carpet remained a rich deep green. The color scheme was both chaotic and striking, rather like its mistress’s pink hair. The walls looked freshly painted and the carpet brand new. Both were a startling departure from the last time he’d been in here.

Which had been what? Three years ago? He’d only been in the condo once before, back when he’d toured it prior to purchasing it for her. Donnie had barely been gone a week, and he’d been desperate to make sure she was safe before he shipped out for his imminent deployment. A condo one flight down from his supportive, but bossy sister had been just the ticket.

The
gift
—as Kait called the…talent…he’d inherited from his Arapaho ancestors—showered him with more money than he’d be able to spend in his lifetime. So the money he’d shelled out for this place had been recouped within a couple of months.

Hell, it had cost almost as much in bribes to funnel the condo and bogus inheritance Demi’s way without her getting suspicious of where the sudden windfall had come from. But as far as he could tell, she’d never questioned the foundation of her inheritance, or whether Donnie had really kept their sudden good fortune quiet in order to surprise her with it on their seventh anniversary, had he lived to celebrate it with her.

Knowing that Demi was living in such close proximity to his sister and that Kait had stepped up to help her through her grief had made that first fourteen month rotation bearable. Nothing had made the next twenty months bearable. Toward the end, all he could think about was how Donnie had been gone almost three years, and at some point she was bound to wake up and realize she was still a vibrant, sexual woman capable of opening her heart to another man. He’d been determined to be that man, which was impossible when he was half way around the world.

Thank Christ he was home now, ready to stake his claim, and from the look of things, right in the nick of time, too. Now he just needed to ease into her life as quickly as possible, then into her bed, and finally into her heart.

He glanced toward the kitchen, where Demi had disappeared. The condo was one of those open concept plans where the kitchen was open to the living room. In this case, a waist-high counter which also served as a breakfast bar separated the two. He couldn’t see her from his vantage point, but the silence that had fallen between them was so thick it was almost palpable. Frowning, he followed her into the kitchen. He didn’t want to crowd her, but giving her too much space could cause problems, too—entrench her in this sudden bout of nerves.

“Demi?” he asked quietly, on catching sight of her.

She’d opened the freezer door and was just standing there, staring inside the compartment. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of his voice, and she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Reaching inside the freezer, she grabbed a white plastic bag and dragged it out.

“Take a seat and I’ll clean that lip.” Her voice was brisk as she stepped back from the fridge and closed the freezer door with calm deliberation.

Given a mirror and a sink, he could take care of the cleanup himself. But her offer carried more than simple nursing. It offered proximity. To make good on her promise, she’d have to sit close enough to touch him. And skin on skin contact was the fastest way to build intimacy. He headed for the round table tucked into the octagonal alcove next to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. Turning it until it faced left, he sat down.

She bustled to the sink with her make-shift icepack and turned on the tap. After grabbing a couple of kitchen towels from one drawer, and a square white tin with the red symbol of a first aid kit from another, she turned back to the faucet and stuck a towel under the flow of water. Turning the tap off, she wrung the towel out and collected her supplies.

“All I have is Brussels sprouts,” she said dropping the white plastic bag onto the glass table. The metal first aid tin she set down with more care.

“That’ll do.” Aiden took a deep breath, wanting to bask in the sweet scent of roses enveloping him, but the burning pain that rode his torso as his chest expanded distracted him. His cock, on the other hand, launched into a full-fledged salute once it got a whiff of that floral smell. Apparently nothing could distract it.

When she finally took her seat they were pressed knee to knee. He waited a few seconds for her to move forward. When she didn’t, he scooted his chair to the right—grimacing as the pain quadrupled in his abdomen—until his legs could slip between hers.

Her face went rosy, but she didn’t push herself back. Instead, she leaned forward and began dabbing at his chin. She started low, well below his split lip or the knot on his cheek, so the pain was minimal. He relaxed beneath the gentle brush of the warm wet cloth.

“You never told me how this happened,” she murmured, as she stroked the cloth across his chin and down his neck.

He grunted in response and tilted his head back to give her more access. But even that slight stretch pinched at his swollen, painful mouth. He swore beneath his breath. With luck, the warm, damp cloth would loosen the tight flesh, because he had plans for his mouth—and they didn’t include talking.

“So?” she prompted, scooting closer until she was perched on the edge of her chair. She braced a palm against the top of his thigh and leaned in even closer.

His head dropped, and he studied her face. Her cheeks were even rosier and she was avoiding his gaze. She knew exactly where she’d put her hand, as well as the implied intimacy of the touch.

Thank Christ. She was getting her nerves back.

Her face was still flushed as she leaned in and gently pressed the wet, warm cloth against the corner of his mouth. He trapped a hiss behind his locked jaw as a thousand wasps attacked his lip in unison. Son of a bitch that hurt—which didn’t bode well for his plans.

“I take it you’re not going to tell me?” she asked.

What the hell was she talking about? He cast his mind back over the admittedly one-sided conversation. Oh, yeah, she’d asked about his injuries. He frowned, and then shrugged. What the hell, she’d asked.

“Tag and I had a disagreement over the events of last night,” he told her in a dry voice.

The pressure against his lip eased slightly as she drew back. “Tag?”

“Brett Taggart? My roommate? The guy you let take you home last night?” There was more sharpness in the response than he’d intended.

She picked up on the tone immediately, and her eyebrows snapped together. She pressed the cloth back against his mouth with decidedly more pressure than before, but eased it back the instant he grunted and pulled away.

“I already told you, nothing happened,” she snapped, and the red flagging her cheeks this time had more to do with irritation than nerves. “And, may I remind you, it’s none of your damn business who I let take me home,” she added, pure annoyance crackling through the declaration.

He wanted to argue about that, but she was right. He had no claim to her. At least at the moment. Soon, though. Very soon. He backed off with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Slight as it was, that acknowledgement was enough to appease her. She leaned in again, but this time, instead of pressing the wet cloth to his mouth, she began dabbing at it.

Jesus Christ!

He jerked back. What the fuck? Had she swapped out the dishrag for a handful of stinging nettles? When she leaned in to press the washcloth to his lip again, he caught her hand and tried to take it away, but the swollen, stiff fingers of his right hand refused to bend, or grasp.

She got the message, though, and lowered the wash cloth to the table. Aiden twisted to grab the Brussels sprouts with his left hand, and caught his breath as pain lanced through his abdomen. Ah, damn—he regulated his breathing until the ache eased.

“Ice will help the most,” he said after a minute, not wanting her to think he didn’t appreciate her ministrations.

Carefully shifting back to face her, he eased the make-shift ice pack over his mouth. The cold went to work immediately, and the stinging vanished as numbness crept across his mouth.

“I hear kissing works too,” she announced, out of the blue. “Rumor has it that kissing makes
everything
better.”

His gaze shot to her face. That rosy flush of uncertainty had invaded her cheeks again, but her brown eyes were steady as they held his—inviting.

He wasn’t an idiot. No way in hell was he turning that offer down.

“I’ve heard the same.” He dropped the ice pack onto the table.

She tried for a sophisticated smile, but he could see the nerves returning to her eyes. Without giving her time for second thoughts, he leaned forward, only to catch his breath as pain crimped his chest and upper abdomen. Freezing, he slipped his left hand around the nape of her neck, and drew her toward him instead. She came easily, settling her lips against his.

The kiss was gentle—too damn gentle; practically non-existent. The lightest brush of lips against lips. Maybe. All he could feel was a light tingling pressure against his numb mouth. His swollen, stiff fingers slid up, tangling in her spiky hair, which was surprising soft against his palm. He pulled her closer, desperate for a taste of her.

“Aow.” She jerked back, pulling her head away from his frozen claw.

“Sorry,” he muttered, lowering his arm. He needed to get some ice on his hand, too. It was pretty much useless in its current condition.

She leaned in again, without his urging this time, and for a split second, he felt something—the softest, sweetest brush of satin against his swollen mouth. And then the hornets of the damned attached themselves to his lip and stung the hell out of him.

“Son of a bitch!” He jerked back so hard he almost toppled his chair, and then seized up for a good ten seconds while his chest and stomach screamed in pain.

Jesus Christ!

When he could move again, he picked the ice pack up and eased it back over his lip.

“Well,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I’ll try not to take that personally.” The wry tone in her voice told him she wasn’t particularly upset.

She turned her attention to his cheek, but the moment the warm, wet cloth settled over the knot on his cheekbone, his whole skull throbbed. Grunting, he jerked his head back and grabbed for the cloth, only to knock it from her hand.

It landed with a wet plop in between their spread knees. Scooting her chair back she bent forward to pick it back up.

His cock twitched, signaling its enthusiasm with a hard, urgent surge of blood as her mouth descended toward his lap. Totally oblivious to the throbbing part of his anatomy that was begging for her attention, she straightened, washcloth in hand, and eyed his chest.