Breaking Danger (27 page)

“And me?” Jon helped himself to seconds of everything. “I meet this stunning geek. A scientist who looks like a movie star only better, and I get turned on by the thought of her in a white lab coat.”

Sophie laughed. “There is nothing sexy about lab coats, Jon. Trust me on this.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “A lab coat and nothing else?”

She thought about it, grinned. “Okay. That would work. So—we meet. We're both attracted. What happens? And I warn you, I'm not tremendously smooth in social situations.”

“Well.” Jon took her hand. “I take your hand and look deeply in your eyes and ask you some incredibly intelligent questions about viruses.”

“And am I expected to ask you some incredibly intelligent questions about computer code?”

“No. Just standing there and breathing would do the trick. That would've worked for me. And I would've asked you out to dinner the next evening. And the evening after that, and the one after that.”

“No coy games?”

“Man, no. Coy's not my thing. I want something, I go after it.” Jon couldn't think of something he'd wanted and hadn't made a beeline for. It had just never been a woman before.

“Well, frankly, I don't think I would have said no. A year ago, though, I was working pretty long hours. I don't know if I would have been free for dinner all the time.”

“I'd have come down and invited you out to lunch. You have a lunch place?”

“You'd drive down from Palo Alto every day to take me out to lunch?” At Jon's decisive nod, she shook her head at his looniness. “Okay, yes. I do have a lunch place, around the corner from the Arka building. This really nice Asian fusion fast-food eatery. Buffet-style. Not chic but good.”

“I don't need chic and even marginally good is fine. Considering how much crap I've eaten in the field. So—I'd drive down to have lunch with you. As often as I could.”

“That would have been so nice,” Sophie said softly, curling her hand around his.

Would have, could have . . . all of this belonged to a world long gone. A world that actually never was, because Jon wasn't a successful entrepreneur, a man with a good job and a bright future. Before the shit came down, he'd been a warrior turned outlaw with no ability to offer any woman, let alone a woman as bright and desirable as Sophie, any kind of future. So this little fantasy was doubly impossible.

But . . . shit. It was enticing. He could see it, feel it, he could almost taste it, this alternate universe. The one where he got to meet Sophie, woo her, wed her even, because—why the fuck not? Why should he be the only one incapable of having a wife, a family? The Ghost Ops team had been chosen precisely because they didn't have families, and were very unlikely to create any. If you'd held his feet to the fire, he'd have sworn Mac and Nick were like him—completely incapable of love and bonding. And just look at them now. They were head over heels in love with their mates, and Mac was going to become a father, as weird as that sounded. So why should he be different?

His drive to become a soldier just as soon as humanly possible came straight from the horrors of his childhood. From his visceral understanding, learned well before he had the words to express it, of how dangerous and violent the world was. Particularly to the small and weak.

He hadn't even formulated to himself his desire to sign up. It had seemed as natural a next step as breathing. The military, with its emphasis on teamwork and structure, had seemed God-given at the time. Not to mention the fact that he
relished
the training. The harder, the tougher he became, the better.

His every waking thought had been to make himself strong and never be a helpless victim again. And to make sure there were as few people like his parents and Popper as possible in the world.

But—just supposing that hadn't been his obsession because he'd been safe and loved as a child. It was hard to fathom, but just suppose. It might very well be that without all that darkness in his childhood he'd have gone to MIT or Stanford, become a computer expert, founded a company. Met a lovely woman like Sophie, marry her, even. Why not? Have kids. Other people had kids. Just because he panicked at the thought of children of his in this world didn't mean the other Jon, AltJon, would panic.

He'd love and protect his wife and their children, who would grow up in turn happy and healthy. Maybe in a house just like this one, which emanated love and happiness in every corner.

The images bloomed bright for a moment, then faded. Because the real Jon, and the real world, were right there in front of his eyes. There was no rosy future for him with Sophie as his wife. He'd been cut off from that practically at birth. How the fuck was he supposed to know anything about creating a happy marriage, a happy family?

His parents had been so damaged, they could barely stand upright. Their blood flowed in his veins. No, he was genetically unsuited for a happy family life. This was a brief moment in time in which he indulged in a flash fantasy, but the truth was, Jon wasn't mate material. He was damaged inside, broken. It wasn't his fault, but there it was. He lacked everything, every instinct, that would allow him to marry and stay married. He was too used to lying, to being undercover, to knowing he was moving on. To the next op, the next mission.

And what the hell was he thinking anyway?

Monsters were running around the streets. Civilization had fallen. Mac and Catherine were going to bring a child into a world that might be reverting right back to the Stone Age at the speed of light.

The future was dark, as bleak as it had ever been in the history of humanity . . .

His hand in Sophie's was suddenly warm, the warmth creeping up his arm. He lost his train of thought, trying to put it all back together again, but he couldn't. All he could think about was how warm his hand in Sophie's was and—

“That's a fabulous song!” Sophie exclaimed and stood up, pulling him up with her. “Let's dance.”

The song was familiar. He couldn't have named it, though his cell phone could. But his cell was in his backpack next to one of the sofas. Never mind, what difference did it make that he didn't know the name of the song? He never paid attention to music, knew nothing about it, but you couldn't avoid it. It was everywhere—in restaurants and shops, elevators and airports. He'd never paid the slightest attention to the song, but he could actually hum along if he had a voice, which he didn't.

“I warned you, didn't I, that I can't dance?” He looked uneasily down at their feet. Her pretty feet were bare. He'd put his boots back on. “I really don't want to step on your toes, so maybe this isn't such a good idea.”

She was humming the tune, moving smoothly into his arms. “Tut-tut, Jon. Big bad warrior, scared of a woman's feet. Scared of a little music.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I can't believe this. You, a coward.”

He opened his mouth to answer her, a little shocked. No one had ever called him a coward before. He was just about to shoot off a response when he realized . . . he was dancing! She'd just moved them into the rhythm while he wasn't paying attention. He was
dancing!
The real thing, too, not the miserable two-step that was basically shifting his weight from one foot to the other, which was the best he'd ever achieved before. He was moving, doing real steps. And it was all Sophie. She wasn't exactly leading, but every move she made was so natural, fit the music so well, and left a little opening where his body naturally fit, that they were dancing with some real moves.

“I'm dancing,” he said. He sounded as stunned as he felt.

“Good going, slick. Now let's kick it up a notch and make a turn.” And by God they did, together. Totally naturally and gracefully. They turned again. It felt like flying. Her legs moved easily against his and they were thigh to thigh, hip to hip, breast to chest. She had to feel his hard-on, but she just kept on dancing and he kept on following her.

It was magic. Unlike anything he'd ever felt or done before. He and Sophie were like one person, led by the music. Moving together, breathing together. He'd swear their heartbeats were synchronized. She moved closer because the closer they were, the better they danced. It was one of the very few moments in his life in which Jon simply let go and let someone else take over. But it was okay because this was Sophie.

The beat was seductive, fast enough to be lively, slow enough to allow him to keep the beat, the music so familiar it was in his head already before it reached his ears. Sophie's entire body was alive under his hands. She danced with her shoulders and her breasts and—oh God!—with her hips against his, brushing against his hard-on in a natural way, without being provocative, though of course she was. This was Sophie. All she had to do was breathe and he was there.

Normally a woodie that wasn't going anywhere hurt. Was ridiculous, a waste of energy. But this one was okay. They'd be on that big bed soon enough and, in the meantime, crazy as it sounded, they were basically making love. Okay, technically his dick wasn't inside her but now they were so close that if they weren't both dressed, it would take just a second. Lift her up, position her legs around his waist, and there he'd be—balls deep in Sophie.

But as a second best, this wasn't bad. Wasn't bad at all. His hand had drifted down from the small of her back to her luscious bottom, and he was holding her tightly against him. Each movement opened up the lips of her sex against him.

The sweat suit pants were cotton and she wasn't wearing any underwear. His cock had surged upward when he realized that. Against him, beneath the top and the sweatpants, there was no barrier, nothing but warm woman. So with each sway and whirl, her soft breasts moved against his chest and his cock was more firmly lodged against the lips of her sex. Each movement made him swell, but it wasn't just his cock.

Every bit of him grew, became supersensitive. Every cell of his body felt attuned to the woman in his arms, to the music, to the very air. The room glowed with early morning sun, but the woman in his arms glowed even more. She was like sunlight in his arms, light in every sense of the word.

The music rose, the soft undertones of the beat now prevailing, heavy and insistent, echoing his heartbeat—rising, rising, then stopped. Somehow Sophie had coaxed him with her body into a series of twirls, stopping exactly with the music, up on tiptoe at the end of the last twirl, fully against him, breathing hard.

He was breathing hard, too, but not from the exercise. The entire dance had been a form of foreplay, the best in his life. Foreplay to a beat. Shit, he was going to have to remember this moment, because it was never going to get better.

The morning light caught her face and it was glowing, radiant, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, full mouth open, lips slightly pouting. God. Irresistible. He didn't even try to resist.

Her mouth tasted of fruit and honey, the most incredible delicacy that had ever touched his. No light kisses, not after that dance, which had been pure sex, everything but penetration. He plunged into her mouth, starving for that taste and even after they stopped moving, his heart continued that fast beat of the music, as if he were running. It felt like they were moving only they weren't, it's just that the world spun around them.

Sophie went even further up on tiptoe, arms tight around his neck, breasts arching against his chest. Her hips moved, sex rubbing hard against his dick and he swelled even more. She felt it, moved against him harder, moaned into his mouth.

The temptation to drop to the floor, pulling down her pants and his, sliding into her fast and start fucking her hard, was enormous. She wanted it, he wanted it, the floor was right there. But . . . this was Sophie.

“Bed,” he gasped when he lifted his mouth slightly.

“Bed,” she repeated and kissed him hard. She was lifting herself slightly so that she was riding his cock instead of rubbing it back and forth.

Jon gasped for air. He was on fire.

Bed. Right now. The fastest way there was to carry her because the bedroom was about a mile from the kitchen, and carrying her was more romantic than dragging her by the hand at a dead run. He picked her up and the moment her head was cradled against him, she kissed him, mouth hot and sweet.

His knees buckled. He managed to stiffen them at the last second before falling in a heap right onto the light-colored hardwood floor. All of a sudden the distance from here to the bedroom seemed like a chasm, an impossible distance. Sophie was kissing him and kissing him and he felt weak and rubbery, completely different, right down to his core.

Jon never felt weak. He'd once taken a bullet. It had gone right through him without hitting major organs or a bone or an artery, and he'd been patched up. He'd been mostly angry and a little sheepish because he hadn't zagged fast enough. But weak? Fuck no. He could run as long as he had to, he could march with a hundred-pound pack for as long as he had to, but right now, carrying Sophie into Robb's bedroom just seemed impossible. He wanted to get there as fast as possible, but someone had nailed his boots to the ground.

“Bed,” Sophie whispered against his mouth again, and it was as if someone had released him from bonds. He took off at a sprint, carrying her.

Special Ops soldiers are taught to run in a special way, so they can run and shoot straight at the same time. It came in really useful right now because he wanted to run and carry and kiss Sophie at the same time. It was a funny, short-stepped gait that looked weird to outsiders, but it got the job done. And Sophie wasn't looking at his feet, her eyes were closed.

And damned if his eyes didn't close too. Which was crazy, of course. He was running with a woman in his arms through unfamiliar territory
with his eyes closed
. Any drill instructor he'd ever come across would have screamed in his face and ordered him to drop and give him five hundred push-ups.