Searching for Winslet (Fallport Rescue Operations #5)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Winslet stared at the backside of Jett while he finished the last of the dinner dishes. He was a fine specimen of a man. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Thick muscles everywhere. It was hard to believe that a few months ago, he was recovering from his final surgery on his right shoulder. Not to mention everything else he’d gone through.

She swirled her wine. Her stomach was finally willing to accept the alcohol. Not that she wanted to consume very much. She had been nursing this one glass all night. She might consider a second one, especially since the night had been more relaxing than expected, which was unnerving for other reasons.

Their conversation flowed naturally as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. Not two strangers getting to know one another.

It was weird but not uncomfortable, and that scared her. The last thing she needed was a man in her life. Even temporarily. She could never live in Fallport permanently again, even if she loved the damn town and it checked all the boxes.

The local university had offered her a position. One that would allow her to continue her work with the FBI. She loved working on criminal cases. More than she enjoyed archeological digs. When she’d been younger, those excited her because of the travel and all that she learned. But now, as she approached forty, she wanted something different out of life.

Unfortunately, Shamus showed her that, and she resented him for it.

As much as she loved her parents and wanted this to be her safe haven, the place she came when life kicked her in the ass, being around her parents only reminded her of everything she’d allowed Shamus to steal. Being around her father, knowing of his betrayals, made her want to shake her mother.

It also created this desire to tell Shamus’ wife.

But that wasn’t her place.

She wanted coming home not to feel like a mistake. Only right now, her entire existence had become worse than a bad made-for-TV movie.

Jett would undoubtedly be a nice distraction from her problems. However, that wouldn’t be fair to either one of them. Not to mention she could already see his fatal flaw. The one that made him appealing and made her want to run out of his apartment as fast as she could, all at the same time.

Most people built their greatest strength around their biggest weakness.

Jett had two.

He was the kind of man you could rely on. She suspected he was his family’s rock. That if someone needed him at three in the morning, he didn’t ask why, he just did what needed to be done.

But he never asked for a damn thing in return.

Strength.

Weakness.

Not because he was too proud or didn’t believe he needed help. No. He didn’t see it that way because he didn’t have to. He had a few friends like Zeke. He’d been blessed that way, and it sounded like he had a strong family.

His second strength was that he was incredibly insightful—of others. But that was built out of not being so insightful of himself until it was too late. That took turning the lens inward and it wasn’t something she believed he ever had to do very often. Not that he came off as if he were the golden boy of anything. However, his ability to accept life on life’s terms wasn’t because he learned some hard lesson—though he’d had many. It was because he’d been taught there wasn’t a point in fighting it.

Perhaps that was true.

But if she lived that way, she would have never gotten her PhD simply because most in her path told her she’d never be able to do it.

She rarely accepted no for answer.

He seemed to accept whatever life tossed at him.

“I love food, but I hate doing the dishes.” Jett dried his hands, turned, and lifted his wineglass.

It surprised her that he had such an expensive taste in wine and a wide selection of it. He seemed more like a whiskey and beer man, but looks were always deceiving. Something her job and life had taught her.

“Not my favorite thing to do either, which is why I order out more than I eat in. Besides, cooking for one sucks.”

He nodded. “My ex-wife loved to cook. Loved everything about it, along with being a housewife. She hated it when I was late and more so when I didn’t text or call that I wouldn’t be home on time. She was rigid about dinner. It was weird. I tried to tell her not to start it until I got home and then I’d help, but she had this old-fashioned idea that she wanted me to walk in the door and have it on the table.”

“That’s actually quite sweet.”

“At first, it was. But it became stifling.” He curled his fingers around his neck. “Like she had a choke hold on me. We fought about it all the time. There was no compromising with her.”

“Seems like a strange thing to be so passionate about.” She held up her hand. “On both sides of the fence. I mean, to me, that’s an easy one to solve.”

“There was only one solution in Kiki’s mind. And that was for me to make it home at precisely the time food was put on the table. In my line of work, that’s not always possible.”

“None of my business, but did you ever try marriage counseling?”

He tossed his head back and laughed. Hard.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“To me, the things we fought about were stupid. She picked fights over not putting the salad bowls in the right drawer. It was never the big things, so I didn’t know our marriage was in that much trouble.” He held up his hand. “I get that makes me look like an ass, especially the day I came home from a mission to find her things packed. I was dumbfounded and suggested counseling before just calling it quits. That’s when she informed me she was in love with someone else. She’d already checked out. She rolled her suitcase out the front door and told me the movers were coming the next day to get her things. The divorce papers were on the kitchen table.”

“So you gave up.”

“There was nothing left to fight for. She was with someone else.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to beg. It did take me a bit to get over the shock of it all. I’m man enough to admit I was hurt and getting over her was hard. While I know I made a lot of mistakes in that relationship, she didn’t fight for us either.”

“You’re a very logical man.”

“One of the many complaints my ex-wife had about me.” He polished off his wine and poured some more. “I tried to be a little less pragmatic and let my feelings out more when it came to Becky, but she too thought I was cold and distant.”

“I wouldn’t say that about you. I find you to be warm and kind. But you do approach things very much like a cop would a crime scene.”

“Ouch. Not something a man wants to hear when he’s trying to date a woman.”

She leaned back. Her stomach filled with butterflies. Not many guys could have that effect on her insides. She prided herself on being in control of her emotions at all times. It was rare that she ever let anyone see her break down. But she’d done it twice with Jett.

And he’d been so sweet on both occasions. There was no judgment in his eyes for what she’d done or how she’d behaved. Her drunken stupor didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Nor did her cryfest. She appreciated that about him. She also valued his honesty. But while he shared parts of his life, he did lack emotion, and that rubbed her the wrong way.

Shamus had accused her of being reserved about her feelings at the beginning of their relationship. But he did a three-sixty when she turned up the heat.

“You’re very open about your life,” she said. “In the couple of days I’ve known you, I’ve learned a lot about you. Your childhood. Your sister and family. Your career. Failed marriage. A helicopter crash that nearly killed you and what you went through to be able to stand here on your own two legs. But you don’t really get into the emotions that surround those events. It’s like you’re detached from it all.”

“It’s in the past. I don’t dwell on what I can’t change.”

“But you have to feel something about what happened to you. Much of it has shaped your life. Who you are.”

He took his glass, and then with his free hand, he took hers and lifted her from the chair. “I feel them in the moment. I adjust my life accordingly.” He guided her to the family room and eased onto the sofa.

The moonlight filtered through the window, casting a warm glow, making for a romantic ambiance that couldn’t be denied.

“Are you hung up on why I’m not more upset over my ex-wife leaving me? Or Becky?” He stretched his legs out on the ottoman and swirled his wine.

“I suspect you were upset, but the way you share your experience, it’s like a dry textbook. Or transcripts of a court hearing without the human touch. It’s hard to relate to monotone,” she said.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a funny, haha laugh. More of a sarcastic grunt. “After Kiki left, I drank myself into oblivion for six months. I was a useless human being. I was angry as hell. Mostly at myself for not seeing the writing on the wall and not trying harder to save my marriage. Hell, for not knowing we had bigger problems. I felt like a fool for having no idea she’d been seeing someone else for months while I was deployed. Trust me, I had a plethora of emotions circling around in my heart and soul.” He lifted his wineglass and took two large gulps. He turned his head and stared out the window. The scruff on his face was more pronounced than yesterday. He scratched at it. “When Becky dumped me, it was the day after my hip replacement. I was in so much physical pain that I could barely see straight. The doctors had to deal with my lung and heart issues before they dared deal with my hip, spine, and knee problems. It was this delicate dance to decide which part of my body to fix first, if I could be fixed at all.” He dropped his feet to the floor and abruptly stood, marching to the window, tossing back his wine like it was a shot of whiskey.

This was the most emotion she’d seen from him outside of being kind to her when she’d blubbered all over his shirt.

He was far from putting this in his past.

He was human after all and while she didn’t want to see this man suffer, it oddly warmed her heart to know that he grappled with his humanity like she did.

Because they weren’t all that different. She often viewed showing her emotions as being weak. She knew that wasn’t true, but having grown up in this town, with all the whispers about her family, she had to learn not to let it bother her.

Even though it did.

Jett set his glass on the windowsill and turned. The pain in his dark eyes was unmistakable. “Becky destroyed me,” he whispered. “I don’t blame her for leaving me. I actually understand how hard it had to be for her in part because I knew that was one of her biggest fears about being in a relationship with me, but to waltz into that room, the morning after that surgery, and tell me that we were done. That she couldn’t sit by my bedside and help nurse me back to health, well, let’s just say it set me back.”

As gracefully as she could, she stood and closed the gap. She rested her hands on his shoulders, raised up on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

He curled his fingers around her wrist. “I don’t like talking about this. I can’t change the past and stirring up feelings over it won’t do anything other than put me in a sour mood.”

She wanted to tell him it was because he still held on to a few tiny pieces of those situations. He’d locked them in his heart and used the intense pain those women had caused to guide his decisions, whether he was conscious of it or not. “I can’t change the fact that Shamus is married and chose not to tell me. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. You have more feelings about your past than you realize, and those emotions still affect how you handle things. It’s like you’ve locked all that up and now you approach dating, or even wanting to get into my pants, like a transaction.”

“That’s what you think I’m doing?”

“I believe you’re a kind man who has a big heart, but you protect it with everything you have because you don’t want to get hurt again.” She let out a long breath, resting her head on the center of his chest.

He took her chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head. His gaze bored into her like a freight train.

“You have this backward,” he whispered. “It’s not me I worry about. I don’t want to be the cause of anyone else’s pain. I have a decent handle on who I am, which doesn’t include a third go-around at long-term commitment. So, if I come off as aloof, or even a little cold, it’s not because I’m guarding my heart. It’s simply because I want to protect whomever I’m dating at the moment.”

He could tell himself that all he wanted, but Winslet wasn’t buying it any more than she could lie to herself about what she wanted for her future these days. But she wasn’t about to argue with the man. It was his life. His heart. His soul.

His lips brushed against hers in a soft, slow kiss. He was a master when it came to kissing and she caved to her desire by wrapping her tongue around his, searching, demanding all the passion he could give. Her body needed it.

But her mind kept reminding her of all the reasons she should stop this insanity.

Sleeping with Jett would be about the worst idea she’d ever had.

Somehow, the proximity of their bodies made it all the more difficult to heed her common sense. Jett was like a potent drug, immediately addictive and intoxicating. He pulled back for a moment, dark eyes ablaze with fervor. It was impossible to ignore the curling heat in his gaze or how his breath hitched slightly as he dared to venture further.

His fingers traced down her spine, causing Winslet to shudder. She gasped, clutching on to him for support as her legs turned to Jell-O. This was wrong, oh so wrong, but how could she deny herself this pleasure?

Jett's other hand nestled gently in her hair, his lips returning to hers with an insatiable hunger. The world around them seemed to fade away. It was just him and her, entwined on this thin line between right and wrong.

A whispered plea escaped Winslet's lips as she guided his hand to where she needed him the most. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as anticipation coursed through her veins. The voice in the back of her mind was now a distant echo, drowned by the symphony composed by Jett's hands, mouth, and body that played on her senses.

Despite knowing that this could be a disaster waiting to happen, she cast caution to the wind. “Shall we take this to your bedroom?”

Jett's eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, predatory and possessive. Without a word, he scooped Winslet into his strong arms, carrying her through the dimly lit hallway to his room. She nestled into his warmth, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling her fears to silence.

Every nerve in Winslet's body tingled as he laid her gently on his bed. His broad shoulders blocked the faint glow from the moonlight outside, casting him in an ethereal shadow. His lips moved against hers once more, his taste a potent mix of wine and spices that set her senses aflame.

She reached up, tugging at his shirt. He lifted it over his head, revealing a chiseled chest lined with unspeakable scars. The sight of him was unforgettable—raw power contained within human flesh and then tortured with the scars of devastation and destruction. She instinctively reached out to touch him, trailing her fingertips across the raised skin. “What’s this one from?”

“Heart surgery.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm before placing it on his shoulder. “I had two surgeries here and one on my other arm.” He twisted his body, showing off a snakelike line that curved across his side and then blended into a long scar that went all the way up his spine to the base of his neck.

She swallowed. Hard. He’d told her of the crash. Of all the problems. Replacements. And the metal in his body. But nothing could have prepared her for this.

Or for how it didn’t seem to faze him.

With a soft smile, he brushed away a loose strand of hair from her face, his touch surprisingly gentle. He lay next to her, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “I’m sorry if they bother you, but there are many more. My hip. My knees. However, to me, they're reminders,” he murmured, “of battles fought and won. Sometimes, I need to remember not only the struggle but the lengths it took me to get here.”

Winslet's eyes retraced the scars, mapping out each ridge and hollow with newfound reverence. She laid her head on his chest, hearing the rhythmic thump of his heart, a testament to his fight for survival. Sitting up, she straddled him, ripped off her shirt, and flung it across the room.

A deep groan vibrated from his mouth and landed on her skin. Quickly, he unhooked her bra and brought his lips to her nipple.

A shiver of pleasure ran along her spine, her body responding to him in a way it had done for no other man. He kissed his way down her stomach, his hands traveling up her sides before resting on the dip of her waist. He touched her with care and slow precision, which belied the scars that marred his skin.

“Your body is…” He paused. His dark eyes met hers, shining with an emotion she couldn't quite decipher. “Perfect,” he finished, the word barely more than a whisper. The scars on his back rippled as he pulled her closer to him, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle meant to be connected.

“I’m not…” Winslet started to protest, but the rest of her words were swallowed as his lips silenced her. This wasn’t about perfection. It was about acceptance, about feeling seen and valued despite—or perhaps because of—their flaws.

His hand traveled down her back, tracing the curve of her spine as he deepened the kiss. In a frenzy, they removed the rest of their clothing as if their bodies were on fire. As passion flared between them, Winslet forgot everything else—forgot his scars, forgot the past that had brought them to this moment. All she knew was him, every inch of him that fit so perfectly with every inch of her.

She moved against him, letting out a soft moan as his hand tightened on her hip. They moved together in perfect synchrony until time seemed to lose all meaning—a dance as old as humanity itself.

Her fingers scratched along the jagged scar across his shoulder, and he winced slightly but didn’t stop moving. She paused and he gave her a brief shake of the head. “Don’t,” he rasped, “they don’t hurt—but you make me feel alive.”

And so she continued touching him, every scar, every imperfection, feeling his breath hitch and hearing sounds of pleasure escape with her touch. She created a map of his body from his lips. Each scar a story, each sigh a victory.

And there, beneath the sheets, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the thin curtains, they discovered each other's bodies and souls. They found solace and affection in one another’s arms in a world of so much pain that had been inflicted.

But it wasn’t going to save either of them from themselves. It didn’t change her situation, and it wouldn’t heal his broken heart.

He flipped her to her back and thrust himself deep inside. She accepted him as if that’s exactly where he belonged. As if he’d come home. It was a sensation that startled her more than the climax that exploded from her body, causing a ripple effect of a second… and then a third.

She dug her fingernails into his back. “Oh God, yes,” she whispered. The tidal wave of pleasure that curled her toes and swam across her skin right to her eyeballs had been nothing like she could have imagined.

And she felt his release slam into her like the ocean rolling over the beach.

His voice, barely more than a raspy murmur, muttered her name again and again as if it was a prayer or an incantation. She felt his shuddering sighs against her skin, the tremble of his body over hers. The raw power that had driven him only minutes ago, now melted into a tender surrender. His fingers traced over her face, lightly tracing her lips as if she were the most delicate of treasures.

He collapsed onto her, momentarily leaving her breathless until he rolled off, drawing her into his arms. Their legs tangled together in a knot of warm skin and content sighs.

In silence, they lay in postcoital bliss. Winslet knew there was no turning back from this point—she had tasted him, felt him in ways she never thought possible, and succumbed to the intoxicating allure he had over her. There was no place she would rather be than in his arms.

His thumb brushed against the soft curve of her lips, causing them to part in a small sigh as she nuzzled deeper into his side. He kissed the top of her head.

As the moon slid along its nocturnal path, they held each other close under the warmth of shared covers. The room lulled them into another rhythm now—one of slow breaths and quieter whispers shared beneath the cover of shadows and silk sheets.

“I hope you plan on spending the night,” he whispered.

Winslet looked up at him and knew without a shadow of a doubt she was in trouble and in more ways than one. "I don't think I could leave even if I wanted to," she admitted, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his bare chest.

He chuckled lightly, but a note of seriousness crept into his voice as he said, "Good, because I don't want you to, but you might boogie on out of this bed when I mention something that we didn’t discuss before we let things get out of hand."

She rested her chin on his chest. “I’m on the pill. I probably should have mentioned that, and we probably still should have used something else for other reasons.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us was being responsible because being a father isn’t on my agenda.”

That statement wasn’t going to make her hightail it home, but now that her world had been turned upside down by Shamus, she knew without a shadow of a doubt she wanted more from life, and she wasn’t going to get it from Jett.

He tilted her chin and kissed her tenderly. “Good night, Winslet.”

“Sleep well, Jett.” She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes. The semester would be over in a month. She wouldn’t bother staying through the summer. Her parents would give her shit, and she had nothing lined up, but she’d land on her feet.

She always did.