Navy SEALs Complete Series: 3 Books + 3 Novellas (Tempting Navy SEALs) (30 page)

“What were you doing touching my woman’s ass to begin with, Mace?” Clint asked him carefully. “I left her here for you to protect, not to be handling.”

“A woman only belongs to a man if it’s what she wants.” Mace grimaced. “I’m telling you, though. That woman.” He pointed his fork in the general direction of the bathroom. “Ain’t no man gonna own, but only one man is gonna touch. And that’s at his own damned risk. You sure you didn’t lose a few brain cells when you took up with that mini-volcano?”

Maybe he had, because he’d be damned if he couldn’t feel something inside his chest melting.

“Oh man, you are so sunk,” Mace grunted. “Get that fool grin off your face before she comes back in here. I’m telling you, that woman is dangerous.”

“Yeah, she is,” Clint murmured, shifting in his seat, realizing he was suddenly hard, engorged with lust. He was so damned tired that just eating was a chore, but damn if he wasn’t ready to show Morganna just who that pretty ass of hers belonged to. “Eat, Mace. She’ll forgive you in a few weeks.”

Mace choked comically. “She racked me, man,” he moaned. “And you’re making jokes. I can’t believe you’re making jokes. And I was just trying to be nice.”

Mace stuffed his mouth with pancake, sighed, and devoured his half. Evidently being racked didn’t affect his appetite. It was affecting Clint’s heart, though. He hadn’t known
a single woman who had ever rejected whatever attention Mace wanted to pay her. Women loved him, lusted after him, stood in line to be at his beck and call. To Clint’s knowledge, no woman had ever kneed Mace in his sexual history.

Until Morganna.

Clint finished the pancakes Morganna had made, delicious, fluffy pancakes that damn near melted in his mouth, before he carried his plate and glass to the sink.

“Go get some rest. I’ll get these dishes. I’m just running some intel on the computers right now; it will be an hour or so before I have anything worth mentioning.”

Clint turned back from the sink, dragging in a weary breath before releasing the pack he still carried from his belt. The black pouch bulged with the four cell phones and a variety of matchbooks, little black books, and an assortment of receipts.

“See what you can get from these.” He tossed the pouch on the table. “They came off the four men tailing me.”

“Gave ’em up willing-like, did they?” Mace picked up the pouch and hefted it slowly.

Clint stared back at him directly. “It’s hard to disapprove of something if you’re dead, Mace,” he told him softly. “Fuentes has a nice little message coming his way.”

“Shit,” Mace muttered. “You sure they were Fuentes’ boys?”

Mace had a problem with killing first and asking questions later. Clint didn’t.

“I recognized one of them right off.” He shrugged. “The other three I had to study on. They were all with Fuentes, and four were looking to ambush the dumb little SEAL they were tailing. Their mommas should have raised them better.”

“You’re cold, man,” Mace sighed. “Real cold.”

“One of my men is dead and those bastards want to rape my woman,” he snarled in reply. “Yeah, Mace, I’m real damned cold, and I can get colder, my friend. Don’t you doubt that.”

But first he intended to get warm. Real warm. He flicked a final glance at the pouch Mace was picking up before moving through the underground room to the bedroom. Mace had himself a cool little setup here. The bedroom was almost soundproof, the entrance sealed shut with another wall-like door that slid in place when he hit the switch on the inside of the bedroom.

From there, there was a trapdoor down in the bathroom that actually did lead to a sewer access tunnel. Mace was a paranoid SOB, even more so than Clint.

As the wall sealed shut behind him, Clint stripped off his shirt, then sat down in a surprisingly comfortable wing-backed chair to take his boots off. He could hear the water running in the bathroom. Bathwater rather than a shower. Mace had the biggest damned sunken tub Clint had ever laid his eyes on in there. Evidently Morganna was taking advantage of it.

The thought of that had him grimacing at the hard-on swelling beneath his leather pants. The thought of her stretched out in that huge tub alone, all that sweet darkly tinted flesh, her Spanish ancestry evident just enough to tint her flesh, to give it a soft earthy glow that he loved so much. It also gave her that damned temper, he thought with a smile.

He couldn’t believe she had racked Mace. As Clint placed his boots and socks beside the chair, he rose to his feet, shaking his head at the memory of Mace’s bemused expression and Morganna’s furious one. If there was one man on the face of the earth Clint would swear could crack any woman, it was Mace.

Morganna had racked him instead.

Clint padded to the open bathroom door, the smell of sweetened vanilla reaching his senses. She was using the bath gel he had chosen from the all-night convenience store where he had found pj’s. Warm vanilla sugar. That was the scent. The name had reminded him of Morganna and made his mouth water for the taste of her. So he had bought it. He had
bought the bath gel and the pajamas, even though he had no intention of allowing her to sleep in them.

He stepped into the steaming room, intent on joining her in the bathtub, until he saw her. The steamy water lapped around her slender form as she sat with her knees bent, her face buried against them as her arms covered her head.

Her shoulders were shaking, but the only sign of her sobs was the soft hitch of her breathing. Long, wet corkscrew curls floated in the water around her like a silken cape.

“Morganna.” He knelt beside the raised side of the tub, fighting his shaking hands as he pushed the long strands of her hair back, over her shoulder. “Baby, why are you crying?”

She shook her head, hiding her face.

His heart was breaking. He could actually feel the splintering effect in his chest, the tightness in his throat, as she turned her head from him.

“Morganna, honey, you know I can’t stand to see you cry. It makes me crazy. You have to talk to me here.”

When she still didn’t speak, he moved slowly, sliding into the water behind her and forcing her back against his broad chest as his heavy thighs bracketed her small body.

She flowed against him, her head turning to press into the thick expanse of his upper arm, the warmth of her tears washing over his flesh, branding him.

“I came back as soon as I could,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of her head as he fought the need to hold her tighter.

Her hands gripped his lower arm, holding on tight to him as he heard that little broken sound that came from her throat. It wasn’t exactly a gasp, a bit more than a hitch. A breathy little catch filled with sorrow and pain. Morganna didn’t cry often, but when she did, it was because the hurt went too deep to contain. That was why her tears made him violent. He couldn’t handle Morganna hurting that deeply.

“Did you think I was going to be upset that you racked
Mace?” he whispered, feeling the heat of the water and the warmth of her body seeping into him.

She shook her head.

“I couldn’t take you with me.” He closed his eyes tight, unable to resist pulling her closer to his chest, his arms holding her tighter. “I couldn’t risk you like that, Morganna.”

“Stop.” She shook her head again. “That made me mad. . . .” Her voice hitched. “I don’t cry over mad . . . Just go to bed. Rest. . . .” The keening little whimper that left her throat had terror racing through his soul. Oh God, if she started sobbing, could he survive it? Morganna had never, ever sobbed.

“I can’t leave you like this, Morganna.” His hands smoothed up and down her arms, everything inside him reaching out to her, desperate to comfort her. “Tell me how to make it better, sweetheart. I will.”

She shook her head again.

“Sweetheart, you’re breaking my heart here,” he whispered against her hair. “I can’t stand to see you hurt like this; you have to let me help you.”

“How?” she cried, her voice rough, hoarse. “You didn’t see your eyes, Clint. You didn’t see the grief and sorrow, and I can’t help it.” Her hands clenched on his arm. “I can’t do anything to take it away like I used to. I can’t joke, or poke at you, because I know what he meant to you. I can’t help you. . . .” One little sob. It jerked from her chest and sent a dagger stroke of pain to sear his soul.

He had thought he had a handle on it before he faced her. Had thought he was hiding the grief, the rage. He should have known better. He had never hidden anything from Morganna; it was one of the reasons he had fought to stay away from her, to push her as far from his life as possible. Because she could see into his soul.

He fought to swallow back his emotion as he sighed roughly.

“He was a friend,” he said softly. “Just as Nathan was.”
His jaw clenched at the thought of the hell they would awaken to. “I can’t imagine waking up one day and knowing you were gone, Morganna,” he said, feeling a shard of weakness filling his soul. “I don’t know if I could survive. And that’s all I can think about. Losing you. Never hearing you laugh, never being pissed at you again, or touching you again. It makes my gut knot with terror. And I don’t like that fear. I hate it, baby. Fear makes you weak. It makes you slow. I can’t afford to be slow right now.”

“I need to comfort you.” Her breathing hitched again. “And I don’t know how. Just like a year ago, after Irish’s service, I needed to do something. Anything. . . .”

And he had sent her away. Had she cried then? Had she hidden and let her misery flow in the tears she shed? He had made her cry, more than once. Him, the same son of a bitch who had broken a man’s nose for making her cry.

“You’re here,” he told her then, knowing that was more comfort than he deserved. “Look at you, flowing against me, sweet and soft. I don’t have to be alone. . . .”

He clenched his teeth tight, realizing the truth of the statement he was making. He didn’t have to feel alone, because she was with him. Because something about Morganna eased him.

“You never had to be alone,” she said hoarsely. “I was always here, Clint.”

He lifted her then, turning her across his lap, cuddling her close to his chest as he felt his erection slipping between her thighs, resting against the silken flesh of her sex. He wanted her. Hungered for her. But for the first time in his life, his arousal was taking a backseat to something more important, something primal, insistent.

Comforting his woman.

He stared into the stormy depths of her tear-soaked eyes, her dark lashes spiked around the misty depths, her expression paler than normal.

“I knew you were waiting on me,” he said as he smoothed
his thumb over her cheek, wiping away her tears. “I came back to you, desperate to feel your warmth against me. I’m cold inside, Morganna.” He grimaced at the emotion she inspired within him. “Warm me.”

Her eyes widened, her breath hitching again as her hand curled around his neck, her fingers pushing beneath his hair as she drew him to her.

“Warm me,” he whispered again as her lips touched his. “Just for a little while.”

He couldn’t not touch her. The loss raging inside him, the danger surrounding her, the emotions ripping through his soul, needs and hungers, desire and feelings he couldn’t define, refused to define, tore through Clint in an upheaval that threatened to destroy him.

Morganna’s lips were heated satin, hungry beneath his, opening to him as he sent his tongue to taste her. And she tasted like nectar, the wine of the gods, the perfect passion. A balm to the ragged wounds he had felt shredding his very spirit with the loss of his men.

Her fingertips moved over his face with trembling caresses that had his body tightening, his mind fighting the loss of control over his emotions. He couldn’t afford to feel this deeply for her. Yet he did. Here, surrounded by the steamy heat of the bathwater, the rising hunger that flared so easily between them, Clint knew he would never walk away from her easily.

“I was scared for you.” Her breath hitched again as his lips slid from hers to taste her jaw, his lips sliding lower as her head fell back over his arm. “I hated you being alone.”

“Shh. I’m not alone now, baby.” One hand caressed her hip as the other smoothed along her shoulder. “You’re right here with me. Feel me?”

“No one . . .” She gasped as his hand smoothed to her full breast, the swollen weight fitting perfectly in his hand. “Watched your back. . . .”

He had learned to watch his own back, but he couldn’t tell her that. He kissed her instead. Bending her over his arm as his lips devoured her, short, stinging little kisses that flushed her face, that darkened her eyes and left her panting in his arms.

She shifted against him, the slick heat of her pussy caressing his engorged cock, sending electric fingers of sensation to race through the swollen shaft before it sizzled up his spine.

She was like a storm, whipping through his senses, drowning out his control and his sanity as he let his lips feed from hers, consuming her passion as he gave her his.

There was no time for the gentleness he wanted to give her. No room for finesse or soft words. Blood and death surrounded them both. Grief, sorrow, and a need he couldn’t fight or ignore filled him until he wondered if he could survive the emotions tearing through him.

He needed her. He wouldn’t survive if he didn’t take her, if he didn’t fill his soul with her need, his senses with her touch. With the assurance that there was something left worth fighting for. There was the innocence of true passion, Morganna’s throaty moans, and the feel of her nails pricking at his scalp as she held him to her.

“You make me burn, Morganna.” The words were torn from his lips as he lifted her, turning her until those long, slender legs clasped his hips and he could feel the thick head of his cock parting the tender folds between her thighs. “Inside and out.”

He held her waist as her head tipped back on her shoulders, a keening moan of need whispering past her lips as he felt the head of his cock force past her tender entrance.

Being inside her wasn’t easy. She was small, tight, clamping around the invading crest as her panting moans urged him to hurry. He had no intention of rushing; he wanted to feel her, needed to experience each convulsive ripple of pleasure that quaked through her slick channel.