Steel Vengeance (Blackthorn Security #6)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

“ Y ou take the bed. I’ll be fine on the floor.”

They stood there, staring at the bed. It was late, and Sloane was beyond exhausted. Stitch could see it in the dark circles under her eyes and the pale look of her skin. She needed rest, and the bed definitely wasn’t big enough for the two of them—not without one of them ending up in the middle.

“Are you sure?” She glanced at him. “There’s plenty of space.”

“You must be delusional or seriously high on painkillers if you think we’re both fitting in that bed.”

She laughed. “Suit yourself.”

She pulled back the covers and got in. It was true, she didn’t take up much space, barely a third of the bed. “You really don’t have to sleep on the floor. I’m so drugged up, I’ll be out cold in five minutes.”

With that, she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes.

He knew he shouldn’t.

Ever since she came back from the bathroom in just her shirt, he’d been fighting his growing hard-on. He blamed those long, smooth legs that went on forever. And the way her nipples pressed against the fabric of her shirt.

Fuck.

It had been a relief when she finally slipped under the covers and pulled them up around herself.

Yeah, he was definitely sleeping on the floor. No way was he risking rolling into her during the night.

He adjusted the tightness in his pants, grabbed a pillow off the bed, then paused. Her breathing had already deepened. She was out. The painkillers, mixed with exhaustion, had knocked her right out. She lay on her good arm, her bandaged one folded next to her like a bird with a broken wing.

A wave of protectiveness surged through him. She looked so vulnerable, lying there with her eyes closed, her dark hair spilling over the pillow. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, hold her tight, and protect her from everything until this was all over.

Maybe even kiss the pain away.

He rubbed his forehead. Great, now he was fucking delirious.

There was no denying she was a beautiful woman, though. Any guy would struggle to pick the floor over her. Take Matthew, for example. The prick had probably taken one look at her and thought he’d score on that front too.

Recruiting a stunner like Sloane had probably been fun for him. She was single, available, maybe a little lonely. Easy pickings for a smooth-talker like Matthew. He’d wined and dined her—dinner at his place—then seduced her. He’d kissed those cherry-red lips, wrapped those long legs around him...

Stitch threw the pillow back on the bed with a sudden flash of anger.

Jesus.

Then, after he’d reeled her in, the bastard had sent her off on a dangerous mission to a foreign country where she didn’t know anyone and was totally alone. Hell, there were a few things Stitch would love to say to Matthew Fuckhead Sullivan, if he ever got the chance.

Stitch pulled off his shirt and stripped down to his boxers. The carpet didn’t look too clean. God knows when it had last been vacuumed. This definitely wasn’t the Hilton. And Sloane still hadn’t moved.

She was right, there was more than enough room. With that in mind, he checked the door, turned off the light, and climbed onto the bed.

Stitch rounded a bend in the mountain road and saw the smoke. It rose in a thick, dark column into the sky, filling him with panic.

He floored the Land Cruiser, kicking up dirt and skidding around corners until he reached the village. The closer he got, the thicker the smoke became.

“Soraya!” He jumped out of the vehicle, the back of the military jeep loaded with supplies from town.

It was like running straight into hell.

The inferno tore through the village, consuming the thatched houses, burning the trees, destroying everything in its path. Gunfire cracked in the distance. He sprinted through the flames, dodging burning debris, heading straight for the house where he lived with his wife.

Thank God, it wasn’t on fire. Not yet.

Smoldering embers on the roof told him he only had seconds before it, too, would go up in flames. He barreled through the door, nearly ripping it off its hinges.

“Soraya!”

No answer.

He ran upstairs to the bedroom—and froze.

She was lying on the floor next to the bed, shot multiple times.

No. No! Soraya!

He dropped to his knees, frantically checking her for any sign of life. Nothing. He was too late. There was too much blood.

He pulled her lifeless body into his arms and screamed to the sky, his voice raw with agony.

The heat around him grew unbearable. He couldn’t breathe.

Still sobbing, he lifted her up and carried her outside, away from the burning house.

“Soraya,” he choked, laying her on the ground. But she could no longer hear him.

“Stitch?” whispered a voice beside him.

She was alive!

“Soraya,” he murmured, reaching for her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re having a bad dream.”

Thank God. It had felt so real.

“I thought you were dead.” He pulled her into his arms. She lay against his chest, her breasts pressed into him.

“Stitch, wake up.”

“I am awake, babe. Finally, I’m awake.”

The nightmare was over. Soraya was alive. Everything was going to be okay.

She felt so good in his arms. Soft, warm, familiar.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

His hands moved up her back, fingers sliding into her hair. It was as silky as he remembered. Somehow, she’d come back to him.

He held her head, gently guiding her face closer to his.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured when she hesitated. “It’s okay. I’m not letting you go. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He kissed her, soft and tender at first. God, he’d missed this. The feel of her lips, full and sweet—fuller than he remembered.

She moaned softly and opened to him, and he deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth. The longing he’d buried for so long came rushing back.

His hands tangled in her hair, their breaths mingling, heat building between them until it was a swirl of need, want, and pure desire.

He tugged at her blouse, pulling it open. Her cool skin slid against his, and he cupped a breast, soft and round. He teased her nipple as he kissed her more intensely, the heat rising.

She moaned again, a sound that didn’t quite fit.

“Oh God, Stitch.”

Wait. That wasn’t Soraya’s voice.

Confused, he snapped out of the dream, his mind slowly making sense of what was real and what wasn’t.

Sloane was on top of him, kissing him, her hands gripping his hair. He had a handful of her breast, the nipple firm between his fingers.

His tongue was in her mouth, and she was kissing him back, just as lost in it as he was.

It felt so good.

Too good.

With a groan, he froze. This wasn’t right.

Realizing he’d stopped, she opened her eyes and pulled back.

“Stitch?”

He stared at her, horrified.

“Sloane... I... I thought?—”

Her eyes were wide and heavy-lidded, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and brushing his bare chest. Her blouse was open, her breasts exposed, full and smooth. In the soft orange glow of the streetlight from the window, she looked sexy as hell. He could still taste her, still feel the heat of her mouth. His body ached with unfulfilled desire, wanting her even as she pulled away.

She rolled off him, looking unsure, cautious.

Fuck. What had he done?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I... I thought you were Soraya.”

“Soraya?”

He nodded.

“You thought I was your wife?”

He sat up. “Bad dream.”

Or maybe a good one, depending on how you looked at it.

She sucked in a breath. “Oh, God. So... you didn’t mean to?—?”

“No.”

There was a painfully awkward pause before he added, “If I came on to you, I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I have these dreams sometimes... they feel so real.”

“Oh.” She was at a loss for words, and he didn’t blame her. What an idiot! How could he have lost control like that?

Getting out of bed, he couldn’t even look at her. There was only one thought on his mind, to get out of there. Now. Before he made it any worse.

Avoiding eye contact, he hurried into the bathroom and shut the door, leaving her staring after him.