Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

He popped the DVD in her player and was about to sit down beside her, when she started to get up again. “Stay put. What do you need?”

“I was going to start a fire. It’s chilly.”

“I’ll do that.” He wondered where she stacked her firewood, then realized she had one of those natural gas contraptions. “How do you make this thing work?”

“Flick the switch.” Her voice, though strained by pain, held a note of amusement.

It was like turning on a light. A fire sprang up between fake logs, putting out a surprising amount of heat. Still, he preferred the kind of fireplace that actually burned wood. What the hell good was this thing if the electricity went out and you actually needed a fire?

He sat beside her, consigned to watching the film. Instead, he found himself watching Laura. Her eyes grew heavy, the lines of pain on her face easing as the medication kicked in, but still she fought to stay awake.

“Come here.” He drew her close, resting her head in his lap, his fingers finding their way to stroke the softness of her hair.

In a few minutes, she was sound asleep.

He left her on the sofa, drew down her covers, then went back, lifted her into his arms, and carried her into her bedroom. Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment as he laid her on her bed. He drew her covers up and turned to go.

“Javi?” she said sleepily. “Don’t go.”

“If that’s what you want.” Heat pulsed through his body at the idea of being in bed with her, but he ignored it. He pulled off his T-shirt, crawled between the sheets, and stretched out beside her, still wearing his jeans.

“I’m . . . I’m afraid.” She turned toward him, snuggled into him.

He knew she was half-asleep and sedated, but he liked that she trusted him. He stroked her hair. “You don’t need to explain, bella. I am more than happy to be your teddy bear.”

JAVIER LAY ON his side, watching Laura sleep, the first weak rays of winter sunshine peeking through the cracks in the blinds. He wished he could say he’d slept well, but he hadn’t. Every part of him had been aware throughout the night that she was there. When he had managed to drift off, he’d had the nightmare again—the helo exploding in midair, bits of metal and body parts raining down on him and his element, the stench of charred flesh and burning helo fuel. Only this time, Laura had been on board, and he’d known she was dead. He’d jerked awake, covered in sweat, unable to sleep again.

If he’d been alone, he’d have gotten out his guitar and worked the dream out of his system with music, but he hadn’t wanted to risk waking her up. Instead, he’d watched her sleep, grateful she was safe and alive.

She lay curled against him now, her face pressed against his chest, her left leg tucked between his, her hair tangled. She looked serene, untroubled, her sweet face relaxed, her eyelashes dark against the pale skin of her cheeks, her breathing deep and even. Even though she was taller than most women, she felt delicate in his arms, her body soft and slender compared to his, her hands fine-boned, her nails neatly manicured with just a touch of clear polish.

For some time now, a part of him had wondered whether everything that had happened—their weekend in Dubai, her abduction, the false news of her death, his role in rescuing her—had made him see her in some kind of ridiculous, rosy light, exaggerating his feelings for her, leaving him confused. But holding her like this, he knew that nothing he’d felt had been exaggerated.

And what exactly do you feel for her?

Okay, so maybe he was confused.

His gaze traveled over the soft curve of her cheek to her jaw and along the silky skin of her neck. He’d once kissed her there, nipped and tasted her there, raising goose bumps on her skin, making her gasp and shiver, the heat inside him like a fever. He’d nibbled his way across her collarbone to the valley between her breasts, then taken her soft pink nipples into his mouth and suckled her, feeling her arch beneath . . .

Blood surged to his groin at the memory, making him hard—not typical morning wood, but a full-blown boner. Pretty certain Laura wouldn’t like waking up to find herself being jabbed by his junk, even if it was still encased inside his jeans, he shifted his hips.

Time to think about something else, chacho.

But the moment he moved, Laura stirred, stretched, pressing her belly against his erection. Her eyes opened, her gaze unfocused. She blinked, gave a little gasp, went rigid. Her gaze fixed on his chest, then slid slowly upward until their gazes met.

¡Coño! Damn!

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Play it cool, man.

“Sleep well, bella?”

She nodded, her gaze flicking southward toward his erection, then up to his face again, her cheeks turning pink. “You?”

“Yeah. Like a rock.”

Not the best choice of words right now, Corbray.

“I’m glad.” Her gaze flicked southward again, and she drew away from him.

“Don’t worry about the . . . uh . . . hard-on.” He shoved aside the covers, his dick catching awkwardly against the seam in his jeans as he slid out of bed and stood, leaving him a choice between adjusting himself or risking accidental circumcision. “It’s just what happens to guys, you know . . . Morning wood.”

She sat up, looked straight at his crotch, then looked quickly away again, her face flushed. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“Oh, I’m not. I just didn’t want to you to think . . .”

To think what, pendejo? That you got hard thinking about having sex with her? Because that’s what happened. No, you’re not embarrassed. You’re guilty!

She stood, looking hotter than any woman had a right to at seven in the morning, her hair hanging in tangles, the buttery softness of her robe and nightgown clinging to her curves. “There’s a bathroom through there.”

“Thanks.” He walked in the direction she’d pointed, locking the door behind him.

He lifted the toilet seat, unzipped his fly, and looked down at his dick, which was giving him the one-eyed stare from behind the waistband of his black boxer briefs. Of course, there was no way he was going to be able to take a piss with a full-on rocky.

It was time for a shower.

LAURA HEARD JAVIER step into her shower and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, not sure what to think of what had just happened. She remembered putting her head in his lap, waking up in her bed, asking him to stay. She remembered, too, what his answer had been.

I am more than happy to be your teddy bear.

She’d woken up in his arms. Somehow, she’d curled up against him in her sleep, had known even before she’d opened her eyes that she was with him. It had startled her, but at the same time, she’d felt an unexpected trill of . . . excitement.

She found her handbag on the counter, took out her comb, and ran it through her tangles, then walked into the main bathroom, where she kept a spare toothbrush, and brushed her teeth. She found herself smiling at her reflection, amused by Javier’s embarrassment over an everyday average morning erection.

Well, maybe not average. From what Laura remembered—and from what she’d felt pressing against her—nothing about Javier was average.

Distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t feel it coming. Grief stole up on her quietly, seeping under her skin, sliding over her like a shadow. Her smile faded. She rinsed her mouth, set the toothbrush aside, overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness.

Oh. God.

She missed it. She missed all of it. She missed that entire part of herself—the part that had loved sex, that had reveled in intimacy, that had known how to tease, laugh, and play with a man. Al-Nassar had crushed it, stolen it, beaten it out of her, and she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she longed for it, not just the physical pleasure of sex, but the sense of closeness that came from joining with a man, giving her most private self to him, accepting what he gave her.

She inhaled, Javier’s scent on her skin, images of that weekend in Dubai sliding through her mind. Endless slow kisses, deep kisses, fierce kisses that stole her breath. Lips, hands, and skin moving over soft skin. The scent and taste of him mingling with her own scent and taste. The hard feel of him moving inside her as he took her against the wall, on the floor, in the sunken tub. The warmth of his muscular body as he lay in her bed, held her, slept beside her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fought to stop the bittersweet barrage of memories, her life now so empty by comparison. That wasn’t how she wanted it to be. She’d never intended to live a sexless, lonely life. Yet she wasn’t sure she was capable of enjoying sex right now—with anything other than her vibrator, of course. But seeing Javier again, being close to him, waking up to find his arms around her . . .

No. She couldn’t. Especially not with Javier.

The time she’d spent with him in Dubai had been special. If she got into bed with him now, she would tarnish that precious memory for both of them. She didn’t want to risk hurting or humiliating him. And then, of course, there were her stretch marks—and the fact that someone out there wanted to kill her.

She closed her eyes, drew a few deep breaths to quash the emotions she was feeling, then turned away from her mirror, walked into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. Fairly certain Javier wouldn’t care much for the traditional Swedish breakfast of hard-boiled egg, cucumber, and cod roe on knäckebröd, she opened her fridge and took out some eggs, then began to search for anything she could use to make omelets.