Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance) (7 page)

I just need to get through tomorrow.

I wake up to the sun glowing brightly through my closed eyes, making me grumble and frown as I'm torn from my broken sleep.

I growl as I slowly wake up, my eyes focusing on the annoying chirping of the birds over my head, the glare of the sun in my eyes, and the hard sand beneath my back. I'm instantly thinking of the nice, soft, comfy bed I had back at the hotel; the room service, the air conditioning, the satellite television.

You just had to step in, didn’t you? Moron.

I could
still
be in that damn bed right this very moment. Hell, I could still be there with literally any other hottie in the world that I could’ve been checking out at that pool besides Chelsea fucking Archer. I’d still be living large if I’d just kept my damn nose out of business that didn’t concern me, and all it’d have taken was just being
who I am
. I’m the bad guy. I’m no fucking hero, so why the hell did I have pretend I was back there?

I groan, shaking sleep from my head as I sit up and try and toss those thoughts from my head. I'm sore from the ground as I stretch, once again thinking angrily about the hotel room I left behind me.

Well, its not jail either, pal.

But that doesn't mean I can't miss that sweet hotel room; maybe some room service for a steak, some tequila, and possibly some hot young thing in a bikini. My thoughts instantly drift back to Chelsea's full tits in that white bathing suit; the sarong slung low across her hips-

I suddenly look around, more awake now. Speaking of Agent Sugar-tits; where the fuck is she?

I stand, covering my eyes to peer through the trees at the shore as I start to make my way towards the beach. I'm pushing aside ferns and branches and just about to step foot onto the sand, when I finally see her.

Holy fucking shit.

She's swimming in the easy waves of the protected cove; ducking her head under and coming back up to push the water and the hair back over her head and down her bronzed back. It takes me a full five seconds to realize what's missing from the scene, and when I do, I'm instantly
rock fucking hard.

It's her bathing suit; her white, thin little bikini is sitting on a rock right next to the water.

Which means I'm watching C.I.A. Agent Chelsea Archer swimming utterly naked, not thirty feet away from me.

She ducks under again and comes up, half turning towards me as she pushes water out of her face. Holy
fuck
this girl is
gorgeous
. I can only see her from the waist up and at an angle, but it's
just
enough of a look to catch a glimpse of the curve of her breast, and just a peek of a soft, pink nipple; rosy and hard in the chill of the water.

My cock throbs in my shorts. The old me, the younger, crazier me, might've stepped out right then. I would've walked right over and made my move. A girl like that needs to be handled right, and I'm willing to bet uptight, prim, frosty little Agent Archer hasn't been “handled right” in her whole life. I also decide right there that I’m
just
the type of scoundrel to show her how its done.

Except, that’s the old me. You grow up a bit getting stabbed in the fucking jugular and going to jail though.

You grow up a lot.

And you learn more about how the
normal
world works outside of the fucking insanity and chaos that I’ve lived in all my life. You learn things like knowing that she'd lose her
shit
if I did anything
remotely
like jumping out and telling her we should fuck. Sure, the old me might've even welcomed the smack - hey, its a reaction. But I'd like to think I've maybe grown up a little.

Just
a little.

I mean I want to step right out, grab her by the waist and pin her to the sand. I want to kiss her deep, run my hands over every inch of that fucking insane body, and bury my cock into what I'm
positive
is a pussy as tight as that attitude of hers.

But, yeah, no. The new me understands how fucking weird a thought that is. Also, beyond how predatory the idea sounds, this girl is
off fucking limits.

She's the C.I.A.; the
enemy
. This bitch is here to put me away, probably for a
very
long time, and I'd do good to fucking remember that.

I might be dropped head-first into chaos right now, but I need my routines to stay normal; to stay focused. My routines usually include a long, muscle-burning swim in the pool at my gym, so when I first wake up, the shore is the first place I go.

That and I
really
need to bathe after the insanity of yesterday and sleeping on the sand.

There’s a guilt about leaving Javier still sleeping when I head down; guilt because my first thought is wishing I had something to tie him up with so I could walk away without thinking he might run. But then I’m just
mad
at myself for even
thinking
weak thoughts like those.
Guilt
? The man is a criminal, and an escaped one at that; running away is
what he does
.

But its also quite
early, and I know most people aren't up anywhere close to my normal waking schedule. I weigh the possibilities in my head for another minute, watching his muscled, tattooed chest rise and fall with his sleeping breath. His hands are still behind his head, his eyes closed, and I let my eyes wander down over the tightly wound body of the man I'm in charge of. I look down over the ink and muscle of his chest and shoulders, my eyes lingering for a moment on the scar on his neck from Quinn; now covered by a tattooed rose.

My eyes drop further, down those chiseled abs and the deep grooves on his hips; in general the body built for sin. I follow the trail of hair leading down his abs under the waist of his shorts, and suddenly I gasp as I notice the
huge
bulge there.
 

Oh my GOD, he's hard.

He's actually
very
hard, apparently, and I blush furiously as I wonder just what sort of dreams Javier Toro is having at this moment.

Yeah
, I need to get this man and that body out of my head.

He's not going to run.

I shake my head and quickly make my way down to the water's edge, taking off my sarong and laying it on a rock by the water. It's
absurd
that I'm thinking about Javier Toro like
that
. It's unforgivable, really, after what he did to our family.

Well, and what our family did to him.

Oh shut up
, the voice inside chides me, making me frown.

I start to strip off my bathing suit, realizing how bizarre it is to do that before a
swim
, but also knowing that I don't exactly have a change of clothes, and the idea of spending all morning in a wet bathing suit is just uncomfortable to think about.
 

The water is surprisingly cool as I dunk under, the chill of it tingling across my sun-warmed skin. I suppose I’m just
overwhelmed
a little with the adventure of the last twenty-four hours, which is why I'm not thinking clearly. I'm out of my element, and pent up, and just confused. And I blame my sex life back home, or rather, lack thereof. Boyfriends? Yeah, right. I don’t have time for
life
, let alone a relationship. I don't even have time for just going out for something casual, even if  wanted to. Working for who I work for is like having the most overbearing father-figure in the world monitoring your dating life. There's just too many levels of security around me.

I realize as soon as the thought crosses my head that I mean that both literally and metaphorically.

I guess I’ve just learned to be insular. I learned to add layers and levels around myself to keep me safe; to keep me protected. I was the youngest when our dad died, and my sisters were
there
for me of course, but they were also older, and moving forward with the rest of their lives.

Me? I had to stay. I had to process being alone more than they did, I suppose.

I shake my head as I stare at the gentle ocean waves before me. Of course, fucking
none
of this matters, because it’s all stemming from horrible thoughts about
him.

Jesus, just,
no.

I dunk under the waves again, letting the ocean clear my thoughts for me as I come up and push the hair from my face. There are bad boys; I mean I
get
that whole “rebel with a problem with authority” thing. Both my sisters are with tatted-up Marines who flaunt authority and rules like it’s their second job for crying out loud.

But, Javier isn’t a bad boy.

He’s a man.

A very, very bad man.

I step out of the waves, knowing its probably not a good idea to be so naked and exposed like this. But he was out like a light back at the campsite, and again, it's not like I have a change of clothes. The sun and the edge of my sarong dries me quickly, and I step back into my bikini before heading back to the campsite. Time to wake up Javier and get going with getting out of here.

My heart drops like a rock though as soon as I step through the trees: The sleeping, muscular and hunky fugitive is no longer snoozing under the tree where I left him. He's just
gone
.

You fucking idiot
. The thought hits me like a rock to the head as I whirl around, manically looking around for him as if I’ve somehow
missed
him standing right there.
 

Of course he's not here, you moron
. He probably wasn't even sleeping, he was just
waiting
for his moment to strike, like a snake in the grass. I somehow trusted him, like a complete fool, and that piece of shit ran off.