Handcuffed by Her Hero (24 page)

Though his voice was still full
of command, there was no mistaking the encroachment of real life on them once
more. She sighed deeply. It wasn’t like she hadn’t expected this part. She’d
knelt for him with the full knowledge that no woman would ever hold that the
space at Z’s feet forever.

Knowing it and accepting it were
two different things.

She turned her cheek against his
chest and gazed at the couch across the room. And conceded that she’d never
look at that thing the same way as long as she was here.

And wondered if she’d look at
anything
the same way again.

And realized, even with the
entire Seattle PD and a vengeful madman looking for them, that no moment in the
last twenty-four hours terrified her more.

He woke up alone. And was puzzled
why that bothered him so much.

A glance at the clock told him it
was two a.m., though that wasn’t the reason for the disconcertment. In Special
Forces, one lived by the time table of the mission. This was often the team’s lunch
hour. The immediate circumstances weren’t a valid excuse, either. After
funneling so much of himself into the needs of a subbie, it was often a relief
when they snuck off to freshen up, letting him relock himself the way the he
liked best: in silence and seclusion. The good ones figured that part out
pretty quick.

But she wasn’t just
a “good one,” was she?

She was the
perfect one.

“Fuck.” He threw his forearm over
his eyes, as if that would blot out the memories of her kneeling for him,
opening for him, climaxing for him…giving herself to him. “You need to stop
this right now, moron,” he told himself. “Perfect or not, it’s past tense now.
It
was
good. It
was
a damn great adventure. End of story. She scratched
her D/s itch, and you were the lucky bastard who got to help. She’s done; you’re
done; it was great. Move the hell on.”

Even considering anything else
with her would be a catastrophic mistake. His past was knife fights and naps in
garbage dumpsters. Hers had been homecoming games and cupcakes. His present was
missions, bullets, and terrorists. Hers was bandages, healing…and cupcakes. The
last time he checked, bullets didn’t go well with frosting.

That didn’t stop him from wanting
one last embrace.

Where the hell was she?

He sat up in bed, realizing that
he didn’t hear her in the bathroom. A quick look across the room didn’t reveal
a light under the door, either.

He swept back the covers and left
the bed in one flow of movement.

Since he’d put his shorts back on
when he’d gotten the cream for her ass, he only had to throw his T-shirt on
now. He did that while crossing to the doorway to the landing. Once there, he
stopped and listened to every corner of the cabin.

Aside from the post-storm drips
off the roof and trees outside, he heard nothing.

There were no lights on
downstairs, either.

Where the
hell
was she?

Following protocol from years of
training, he clamped down the urge to yell for her. Instead, he padded to the
upstairs lock box, quickly keyed in the code, and yanked out the Springfield
.45 caliber stored within. With a fast flick, he opened the chamber and loaded
a couple of bullets. He slid his thumb to the safety, preparing to flip it off
if need be then took the stairs two at a time down, absorbing his weight with
his knees and regulating his breathing so he made no more noise than a feather.

Which was what he felt like when
he got to the ground floor and saw her again.

Moonlight shone through the back
deck window, though the silver streams danced with the storm clouds, making the
living room look like a mystical rainforest. Rayna, covered again to her knees in
his Henley, stood in the middle of it—if that was the proper term for her pose.
With one leg raised with its foot braced against her other knee and her hands
pressed over her heart in a diamond shape, she reminded him more than ever of a
graceful fairy tale bird. She was adorable. Amazing. If he hadn’t been all over
her and inside her six hours ago, he would have even doubted she was real.

He couldn’t decide whether to
keep staring at her, or order her to the couch so he could redden her ass again
for scaring the shit out of him.

Not scratching
that itch again, jackass. Remember?

The next moment, she took care of
his dilemma, anyway.

“Put down the gun and come join
me, Sergeant Hayes.”

Her voice was as ethereal as the
light that surrounded her and soft as the smile she tilted at him. The fact
that he stood there with the weapon didn’t seem to stun her in the least—which
dazed
him
so much, he complied without a word. She rewarded him by
extending a hand, pulling him next to her.

“You should be sleeping, bird.”

She arched both brows as she
angled him to stand as she did, facing toward the panorama of cliffs and
mountains that seemed to undulate beneath the clouds and the full moon’s glow.
“Are you really going to try that one on me, SF boy?”

“And are you really going to call
me ‘boy?’”

She turned her face up to him.
Her eyes were full of dark emerald solemnity. “Then what do I call you?”

Hell. That was the sixty million
dollar question, wasn’t it? He looked away instead of answering her, all too
aware of the words that pushed way too close to the edge of his discipline.
You
can just continue with “Sir.” How does that sound? Or maybe I’ll just tell you
how it sounds. Maybe I’ll tell you about all the submissives who have offered
it to me in so many scenes, but how none of them filled my spirit with such satisfaction
or pumped my body with such need. How it never gave me what your lips did…

“What are you doing?” he asked,
instead.

“Just getting the chakras in line.”

She centered her stance again.
This time she kept both feet on the floor. Without letting his hand go, she
lifted her arms like a swan about to take flight. If his evasiveness ticked her
off, she chose to play it close to her vest. Well, her chest. Like he could
avoid noticing the sight, between her pose and the deep V of flesh exposed by
the neckline of his shirt.
Damn it.
From his vantage point, he could see
all the way in to the dark gold circle of her left areola, including the deep
pink streaks left behind by his teeth. He smiled in grim triumph. He couldn’t
touch her anymore but she’d sure as hell remember he had, at least for a few
days.

It would be so easy to use their
handclasp to drag her close again. To ram her against him, devour her in a
kiss, shove that shirt up past her waist and—

“Come on, Z.” Her voice fell back
into its gentle mist again. “Join me.”

The steamy fantasy bugged out
like a greenie grunt under heavy fire. “Nah. Thanks. I’m good.”

“Yes, you are.” She curled a
silky smile. “But how’re your chakras?”

He seriously needed to just let
go of her. But goddamnit, he couldn’t. As his arm went along for the ride
through a sweeping circle of hers, he muttered, “Bird, I don’t do chakras.”

“Really? Because you sure as hell
tangled with a few of mine.”

Shit. How did he address
that
without coming off like an elephant on rice paper?

With a nervous snort, he rotated
and adopted the same pose as her. “Is that good or bad?”

He watched her face carefully as
she considered an answer. Her forehead crinkled just a little before she
replied, “A little of each. So breathe in the next time we go up, okay? Hold it
then let it out slowly.”

He rolled his eyes. “I—don’t—”

“In,” she decreed. Up their arms
went. He snorted his way through obeying her. “Now let it out. Slowly.”

“Christ,” he grumbled—though damn
if the action didn’t spread a nice layer of warmth through him. As she lifted
his arm again, he ditched the snort in favor of really filling his lungs all
the way.

And sneaking in a stare at her.

And marveling at what he saw.

With her hair a bright mahogany
mess, contrasting with the porcelain serenity of her profile, she was as
fascinating to him as the first day they’d sat and talked in the garden at the
embassy in Bangkok. He took in the little curves at the corners of her lips,
the gentle rise of her neck, the straight strength of her shoulders. There
always seemed something new to notice about her, something else about her
beauty that took his breath away.

And here she was…all his. Dressed
in his damn shirt. Still covered in his bites.

Filling his cock with craving her
beneath him again.

“Z.”

“Huh?” he stammered. “What?”

“You’re not breathing.”

A shrill ring saved him from
having to answer or apologize to that. The satellite phone.

He rushed into the kitchen to
pick it up. The ID showed Garrett’s land line, but he still didn’t say anything
when he picked up. It was anyone’s guess as to how far Mua’s influence
stretched now.

“Zsycho?
Annyeong
?”

He expelled a relieved breath.
There was only one person who spoke Korean in a tone as pretty as his face.
“Runway.” He used Ethan Archer’s radio call sign in return. “Hey, man. What the
hell are you doing at Hawk’s place?”

“Helping you out, ass face. Most
of the team’s here. It’s our new command center, I guess.”

His mind jumped three steps ahead
to the next conclusion. “Which means you’re not using the team facilities at
base.”

Ethan’s own rough breath clouded
the connection. “No.” Defeat weighted the word. “That’s part of the reason for
the zero-dark-fuck-me call.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He
grunted against the thick, dreading ball curling in his gut. “What’s the word
on this rodeo?”

“Not
bueno
,” Ethan
supplied. “Your horse is limping, Z.” He paused for a second. It sounded like a
bunch of people had just come into Garrett’s condo. “Hawk, Slash, T-Bomb, and
Moonstormer just got back from running Franz back to the base. He had to file
you as AWOL, Zeke. I mean, officially.”

The ball turned into a lead
brick. He knew Runway couldn’t see his nod, but he went through the motion
anyway. “Yeah. Got it.”

“He didn’t want to, man.”

“I know,” he returned. “But I
expect things weren’t pretty when he took all our findings to the Chief of
Police.”

“And the mayor,” Ethan added.

“Shit.” He couldn’t hide the
surprise from that one. “Does Franz think Mua’s got a squeeze around nut sacs
that high?”

“He wasn’t ruling out the
possibility, especially when the mayor backed up every page of the book that
the chief wants thrown at you.”

Good-bye anxiety, hello rage. Two
things happened in that second to cause the twist. First, remembering the
incident that had led to this mess to begin with, how those bastards were
preparing to leash Rayna up and drag her back to Thailand like an escaped zoo
animal. Second, watching her round the corner in front of him now, her face
darkened by apprehension—and the purple bruise at the side of her face that still
bore evidence to their cruelty.

“If the asshat wants to throw
books, let him come,” he snarled. “Hawk is always telling me to read more,
anyhow. We’ll all learn something too, such as how half their police force is
on the take from a criminal who’s supposed to be locked up in their highest
security box.”

“We’re all on that tack with you,
Zsych.” There was more scuffling, as if the other guys heard Ethan say his name
and were literally gathering around in a circle of support. “He’s not getting
away with this bullshit anymore. Franz has given us the keys to the jeep and
told us to throw down the throttle on exposing him, along with every
ankle-grabbing fuck stick in the PD or otherwise who’s jumped in his mud
puddle.”

“Outstanding.” The support of his
team, who were the closest thing he’d ever get to brothers, filled his chest
with a furnace of gratitude. He relaxed enough to let Rayna push him down onto
a barstool so she could do a re-check and bandage change on his own souvenir
from the Mua-nettes. “So what am I doing next?”

“Uhhhh…” Ethan grunted. “What do
you mean what are you doing next?”

There was a brief scuffle on the
line. The next voice he heard was Garrett’s. “You maintain that twenty,
Zsycho,” he barked. “Your invisibility is our best ally. With them all on the
prowl for you, we have much less clog on the line for these firewall jumps into
their system.”

Z scissored his jaw and nodded
again. “Agreed,” he said. “As much as I hate admitting it…agreed.”

The chatter behind Garrett faded.
Even so, his friend lowered his voice. “Level with me, Z. You gonna be okay for
a few days while we get this twister roped in?”

He snorted. “If I say no, you
going to check Rayna and me into the goddamn Four Seasons?” He followed it with
a chuckle that felt a little manic. “I’m sure I’ve been in rougher scrapes than
this. Just remind me what they were when this is all over.”

Garrett was quiet for a long
moment, which tossed the brick of dread back into Z’s stomach. They both knew
what he was trying to reference by ‘rough scrapes.’ They also both knew he’d
trade those hundred times he’d almost lost his life for this single moment of
looking at the end of his military career. And his personal freedom.

Angrily, he fired, “Look,
everything’s hunky-dory here, okay? I’ve got cash stashed in the safe. I’ll run
down to the general store for food and supplies. They’re floating my military ID
pic on the news blasts, right?”

“Yeah.” Garrett let out a laugh
now, too. “The one you look nothing like most of the time.”