He came out of the bathroom and saw her limping into the bedroom. He followed, instantly concerned.
“Why are you limping? Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. My…butt is killing me.”
He didn’t think. He simply reacted. He scooped her up. Without hesitation, her arms went around his neck, and as carefully as possible, he held her. The incredible sensation of her melting into him did him in. It was the softest moment of his life. Every curve she had found a place on his body and molded itself to him.
“I think I got something in my butt, maybe glass,” she said, real soft, her voice little more than a sigh against the side of his neck, her breath blowing along the edge of his ear.
Sex.
It was the only thought he had for a couple of endless seconds, during which he didn’t move, just stood there like a gobsmacked idiot and thought sex. Nothing specific, just sex, the whole gorgeous, brilliant thing.
“I’m in so much trouble.”
Yeah, he was pretty sure she was.
And he had nothing for brains. He was running on empty, which was just about the stupidest damn thing that had ever happened to him—getting gobsmacked by Mad Max’s sister, a woman he shouldn’t be anywhere near, let alone touching or wanting.
He entered the bedroom, again someplace he shouldn’t be. He was making a habit of being where he shouldn’t be tonight. If he didn’t get back to HQ soon, he was going to be in deep shite.
But all that went out of his head when she made a soft sound of distress. “I think I better take a look.”
“I think you better.” Her voice was still soft, still near his ear, but he had at last strung two thoughts together. He was going to call that a win.
He set her on her stomach on the bed. Then he looked down at her skirt. He could see small cuts in the leather. There was no way in hell he was getting that tight material off her. Sliding it down would be…painful. He had to take a breath because for a minute there, he couldn’t quite breathe. Sliding it up would cause even more pain.
“Uh, Anna, I’m going to have to cut the leather off you. Are you all right with that?”
“Yes. I need to get this taken care of, then we need to talk.”
“You have a first aid kit?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Scissors?”
“No. But there’s a knife in the inside top of my left boot. Be careful. It’s razor sharp.”
“I know how to handle a knife, Anna,” he said, his voice hard. “What I don’t know is why you’re carrying one in your boot.” This stepped over way too many boundaries. He could hear the conversation between him and Max. What did you do tonight? And his reply, Oh, I cut your baby sister’s leather skirt off her body and pulled glass out of her rocking ass.
“I’ll explain everything,” she groused, then seconds later asked, “Dodger?” Anna looked at him over her shoulder. “Come on. We don’t have all night. This situation could be going bad ten ways from Sunday. I need to get ahead of it. My job and my life could depend on it.”
He headed for the bathroom. He was a hardened, tough-as-hell former SBS and currently a bloody Navy SEAL. He could do this. Grabbing the first aid kit, he went back into the bedroom.
He set it on the bed. Taking a fortifying breath, he reached between her legs trying to ignore the ridiculously soft skin of her inner thighs sliding along his hand through the fishnet. Think of this as an op, he told himself. Operation Fishnet. He was going to go insane. He delved into her boot, found the handle of the knife, and pulled it out.
He set his hand at the small of her back and slipped the knife beneath the hem of the skirt. “Don’t move,” he said. He used the tip of the knife in the center of the two taut globes of her butt to cut the leather, each slice revealing more of her creamy skin, fishnet, and…no underwear.
Damn, he was sweating. That was a first-class arse.
Wait, no. She was. It was a thong, nothing but a shiny black ribbon around her waist with a heartbreaking red bow, the ribbon trailing between her two gorgeous mounds. He was glad he couldn’t see the front of her. He might go to his knees and beg.
He did go to his knees, but he didn’t beg…almost. It was touch and go.
“I’m getting the glass out.”
“About time,” she muttered. “I hope you’re getting a good show.”
“I’m working the problem, Anna,” he said in his most calm, most professional voice.
He popped open the first aid kit and grabbed for tweezers. There were several shards embedded in her skin. Some had cut the fishnet, but the tough leather had saved her from most of the damage.
He carefully removed each piece. Then leaned down closer.
“What are you doing?” Her voice had gone airy. “I can feel you breathing on me.”
He clenched his jaw. “I’m checking for any slivers. Almost done.”
“Hurry up.”
He looked closely but couldn’t see anything. “How does it feel?”
“Stinging is all I can feel right now.”
“I’m going to run my hand over it to make sure there’s nothing else.
“Okay, get it done.” This time it sounded like she was clenching her jaw.
He smoothed his palm over her. “You feeling anything?”
“Plenty,” she said. “But there’s no more glass.”
He breathed a sigh, then cleaned the area with disinfectant, dabbed on antibiotic cream, and pressed on several Band-Aids.
He rose and backed out of the room. “I’ll wait outside until you change.”
He closed the door and went to the window to look out at the front of the building, his shoulders tight. There was nothing out there. No movement. Just cars passing. He found bottled water in the fridge and drained the contents of one. The backs of his fingers touched his nose and pain rushed up, down, and along the ridge into his eye sockets, forehead, and his nostrils. He winced.
He heard the patter of bare feet on the hardwood, and Anna came into the kitchen. She took one look at his nose and sighed hard. “I’m sorry about hitting you.” She slipped by him and grabbed some water, too. She took several long gulps. “Is it broken?”
“No. Luckily. But I’m going to have black eyes, I think. I’ll look like a raccoon.”
A small smile curled her lips. “You could never look like a raccoon, Oliver.” She tilted her head. “Maybe one of those scary Celtic Scots.”
He wasn’t going to ask what that meant.
“You just have to tell your teammates you got beat up by a girl.”
He went to make a haha expression, but it hurt too much. “So, Anna. What the hell is going on?”
She sobered and leaned against the wall, closing the fridge. “I’m not a National Geographic photojournalist.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m a CIA officer and you just crashed my classified op.”
“Well fuck,” Dodger said succinctly.
3
Everything was red, blood-soaked. No matter how much he wiped at the blood on his hands, more accumulated. Surprisingly there was nothing but calm. It was finally over. He’d done what he had to do. It was his only option. He’d been pushed into a corner where there was no escape. Just action. Only action.