Crossing The Line (KTS Book 2) Read online

  “Baby?” he pressed, his hand brushing over my throat, back and forth, back and forth, lifting the hairs on my arms, making a shiver skate down my spine.

  And cue more blurting. “I still have it on.”

  Another slow, sexy smile, those fingers coming to the hem of my hoodie, slipping beneath the material of his shirt to stroke across my abdomen. “You do?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?”

  “It’s early.” A beat. “I didn’t have time to change.”

  His other hand came up, tugged a lock of my hair. “No, that’s not why.”

  I sighed, wrinkled my nose. “Why doesn’t matter.” I lifted my chin. “Except the why for why you call me Pop.”

  “I call you Pop because you’re Olive, like Olive Oyl.”

  My nose stayed wrinkled. “You’ve been calling me Pop because of Popeye?”

  Yuck.

  He laughed, stroked a finger down my nose. “Yes.”

  Well, way less romantic than I’d been expecting. I mean . . . Popeye was fine, I supposed. He just wasn’t a character I was particularly excited to being compared to. “That’s—”

  “Not what you think.”

  “Except,” I muttered, “it is like I think because you’re comparing me to a bicep-bulging, spinach-eating sailor.”

  Linc’s fingers drifting lightly across my skin. “Popeye’s strong.”

  I raised my brows.

  “You’re strong.”

  I waited for more of an explanation. “That’s it?”

  His lips twitched. “That’s it.”

  I swatted him on the chest, or at least I’d intended to. But then my hand made contact with his skin and instead of being a swat, it became a caress.

  No, a cup.

  Of those glorious pecs and then my other hand joined the first, and all of a sudden, I had two fucking incredible handfuls, and I suddenly didn’t care that this man thought I was a bulky sailor.

  Running his hand over my hair, he murmured, “It’s not supposed to be an insult, baby. It’s just what I thought of the moment you introduced yourself.” He paused, met my eyes. “You walked in with tight jeans snug on your ass, combat boots on your feet, a smile as bright as sunshine on your face. And I discounted you. I thought, how in the fuck can a woman this sweet be at KTS?”

  One half of his mouth curved. “But then you called me on my shit approximately one-point-two seconds into our conversation—and called me on it rightly. I was wrong. You were correct, and you were the first damned person in a really long time to have done that.”

  He wove his fingers into my hair. “And you did it all with that smile, did it all sweet. Then when I pushed back, when my ego got in the way and I questioned you—even knowing that you were right—you showed me spine. You showed me strength.” He brushed his lips to mine. “You were Popeye, not Olive.”

  I inhaled sharply, more touched than I probably should be with just a silly nickname, but . . . I was still touched.

  Even more so when he said, “If it bothers you, I’ll stop. I promise.”

  My hands were still involved with their cupping, with the sweet words and silly nickname that was making my heart go all fluttery, and as thus, it took a moment for me to process what he’d said.

  What he’d offered.

  God, he was just so freaking nice.

  “I was going to get you some food,” I whispered, tilting my head toward the door.

  His eyes went soft. “I’m not hungry, baby,” he murmured, still stroking my hair. “We grabbed some junk food on the way back to base.”

  My teeth found my bottom lip, nibbled lightly. “I . . . um . . . I also don’t mind Pop.” Not when he’d explained it like he had. “Though I do wish you’d give Olive some credit”—I lightly dug in my nails, found my banter—“with a little more screen time, I’m sure she could have saved Popeye instead of playing the damsel in distress.”

  “Ah, misogyny,” he said lightly. “It’s alive and well.”

  “I would like to think that a cartoon like that probably wouldn’t be as successful in this day and age.”

  A chuckle. “I’d like to think you’re right.” A beat, the hand in my hair growing a little tighter. “You were going to bring me food?” He’d moved closer, so the question was a warm puff of air against my mouth.

  I nodded, heat trickling down my torso, gathering between my thighs, making my breathing unsteady. My tongue darted out to find my bottom lip again. “Feed you,” I whispered, ticking the items off on my fingers. “Tuck you into bed.” Another tick. “Let you sleep.”

  His hand at my waist slid higher, dragging me a little closer. But I hardly noticed the loss in dexterity. Because all I could feel was Linc. “So, we can skip the first”—his hand moved higher—“forget the third”—higher—“and go straight to the second?”

  “The second—” My question cut off as he began towing me toward the bed. “What are—?” He tugged the zipper of my hoodie down, nudged the fluffy cotton off my shoulders. “I can’t—” It hit the floor with a soft floof. “I have to work.”

  He didn’t answer, just stared at me.

  “Linc?” I repeated. “I have to work.”

  “God, I love it when you wear my shirts,” he growled, his mouth dropping to my jaw, dragging back toward my ear.

  “You’ve—ah”—he nipped the lobe, making me shiver—“seen me in them before.”

  “Yup.” Another nip. “I still love you in them.”

  “And—eek!” I found myself on my back on the mattress, a very strong and not sleepy and—it had to be said—precariously-towel-clad man on top of me. Who was staring down at me like he’d worked a long fucking night, and I was the last donut in the infirmary’s staff room.

  Just to be clear. I was the donut in this scenario.

  And considering the heated, sexy-as-shit look in his eyes, the hand that was still moving on my skin, the mouth that was coming closer . . . I really didn’t mind being the donut.

  I’d be a chocolate glazed.

  Or maybe a rainbow sprinkles.

  Because I always loved color, and I like the idea of being the type of colorful this man devoured.

  Devoured. Such a delicious word.

  Such a delicious feeling, having this man want me.

  “I made you squeak.” His palm stroked higher, tracing the band of my bra.

  “No—” My denial was interrupted even before I got it all the way out.

  “It’s been ten days.”

  I blinked at the sharp left turn in conversation. “Okaaay?”

  He nipped at my bottom lip. “You’re supposed to ask, ‘Since what?’”

  “Since what?” I parroted, my mouth twitching.

  “Since you were hurt.”

  My brows drew together. “Actually, it’s been elev—”

  “Eleven. Right.” He did some cupping of his own, first the left breast, then the right, and my nipples hardened against the fabric of my bra. I wanted the bra gone. I wanted the shirt gone.

  I wanted my sweats and my cute hedgehog undies gone.

  But mostly . . . I wanted this man.

  “Linc?”

  “Hmm?” His mouth dragged down my throat, tugging the loose neckline to the side, trailing his tongue along my collarbone.

  “Are you saying your self-imposed vow of chastity is now over, and we can finally fuck?”

  Gray eyes flying to mine. A heavy body above mine going so, so still.

  A hard cock growing harder between my thighs.

  I reached for the towel.

  And that seemed to finally unfreeze him, to send him into a flurry of movement, of rapidly moving hands and shifting body parts, and . . . suddenly I was stripped down to nothing but my hedgehog panties and my boring white sports bra.

  Linc’s eyes were on my body—a long, slow stare that left my nerves on fire and had my thighs clenching around his waist. But he didn’t move any farther, just stared.

  I found mysel
f getting tetchy.

  “If you’d wanted some of that lace from your peeping Tom fantasies, you should have taken me on a date,” I said, lifting my chin and crossing my arms over my chest. “Or maybe, more accurately, you should take me on that date you keep saying you’re going to take me on.”

  A ghost of a smile. “I didn’t say I wanted lace.”

  My brows lifted. “You don’t?”

  “I’m not opposed to it.” He bent, kissed one globe of my breast then the other over the top of my sports bra. “I just am not saying I expected it.” One flick and he nudged the band up, making my breasts pop free, kissing his way toward one nipple, stopping just before he sucked it into his mouth. “You want to wear lace, Pop,” he said, lifting his head and meeting my eyes. “Then wear lace. You want to cover that sexy ass of yours in the biggest, ugliest pair of granny panties I’ve ever laid eyes on, great. I don’t care. Because I would want you in a fucking garbage bag, in a chastity belt—” A shake of his head. “Okay, not the chastity belt because that would make what we’re going to do next very difficult, but baby, I mean it when I say I fucking love you in sweats, I love you in those jeans with the torn right knee, I love you in hoodies, and I love you in my T-shirts. Wear what makes you happy, just so long as you let me take it off you.”

  Laughter bubbled up in my chest, and I shook my head. This man was just . . .

  “God, I love when you laugh.”

  “Because you—” I broke off, a moan tumbling from my lips when he sucked my nipple deeply into his mouth.

  “Because I what?” he asked after he’d released it with a soft pop. His fingers trailed over my abdomen, down toward my pussy in slow, steady circles. I could feel his erection poking into my thigh, and it was driving me to the edge of reason. Linc wanted me just as much as I wanted him, and yet, the blasted man kept stopping to have conversations with me.

  Although, I kept having them, too.

  Although, I could solve that problem.

  But first . . .

  “You like me laughing because it makes my tits jiggle.” I waved a hand along my front. “Now, will you just get on with it?”

  “Get on with what?” he asked innocently, brows up.

  And that was the moment I decided I’d had enough talking, enough banter, enough teasing and gentle stroking.

  I’d wanted this man for-fucking-ever, and I’d waited long enough.

  I shifted my weight, lurched up and over in a move that was definitely not light duty, but one that also didn’t make my healed injury hurt . . . all that much anyway. Regardless of the pinch of pain in my side, I had a really good reward at the end of it: Linc sprawled out beneath me.

  “Get on with this,” I murmured, dropping my mouth to his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  KTS Satellite Base

  Western Georgia

  10:08hrs

  Linc

  She kissed me like I was her life’s blood, like she couldn’t get enough of my mouth, my tongue, my body.

  And that was fine with me. On a normal day.

  On a normal day, I’d let her take all the time in the world. To kiss me for an eternity, to sip at my mouth, stroke her tongue along mine, to tease me until I couldn’t see straight.

  But this wasn’t a normal day.

  It was Day Eleven.

  And it was Eleven after ninety-six days of calling myself a dumbass, after eleven hundred and seventy-two days of finding her incredibly sexy—though knowing I was married and couldn’t appreciate the sexy in any way, shape, or form. I had waited a long time for this.

  And so had she.

  So no, I couldn’t let her take the lead, to break my control, to make this something fast and quick and over.

  I wanted that.

  Fuck, how I wanted that.

  But she deserved better.

  One rapid movement had her back beneath me. Her cheeks were rosy, the blue of her eyes darkened with desire, and her lips damp from our kisses. Quite simply, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  But when I went to kiss her again, she stopped me, one finger pressing to my mouth.

  “Lose that towel.”

  That was easy. It wasn’t even hitched on my hips, more tangled around my thighs from all our flipping. A lift of my pelvis, one sharp tug, and it was gone, tossed over my shoulder to hit the floor somewhere behind me.

  “You lose your clothes, too,” I said, even though she was already tugging her bra over her head. I reached for the cute as fuck underwear and slid them down her thighs. Getting naked was probably a terrible idea—well, no. It was clearly the best idea we’d ever had. But it was also not great for my already fractured control.

  When she was naked, I found I didn’t give two shits about control.

  I just needed to touch and kiss and stroke, and I needed to do all of that to every inch of her body, all at the same time.

  What a moment to be a man and not an octopus.

  Also, for the record, behind brokering world peace and curing child hunger, Olive’s breasts definitely belonged on the list of things I wanted most. My mouth watered. My fingers itched. My cock—

  “Linc?”

  “Yeah, baby.”

  Her mouth twitched. “You can touch me.”

  A groan bubbled up in the back of my throat. “Yeah,” I growled. “I want to do that.”

  And so I did.

  Just like I’d imagined for so long. Running my palms over her torso, grazing them over her nipples, her rib cage, her navel. And everywhere my hands went, my mouth followed.

  Her skin tasted like honey and strawberries with the barest hint of salt. Her hitching breath when I found a particularly good spot made my own lungs work like I’d run a marathon. Red had begun to edge into my vision, narrowing my focus to this woman, to wringing every bit of pleasure out of her.

  With my fingers.

  With my tongue.

  Those breasts got attention—long draws and light strokes of my tongue, sharp nips soothed by a gentle mouth. I spent more time on her breasts than I ever did thinking about how I was going to broker that world peace or solve childhood hunger.

  And then I kissed my way down between her thighs.

  A firm caress through the damp heat of her, my mouth latching onto the bundle of nerves at the apex, finding it impossible to go slow. My cock was a throbbing beat in my groin, demanding I plunge home, that I take us both right over the edge. But the vestiges of my control reminded me that she needed to go first. She needed more.

  Deserved more.

  So . . . she got more. She got everything I had to give.

  She got fingers sliding home, curling up to the angle she preferred. She got my tongue and teeth and lips working in tandem. She got to fly over that edge first, and without me.

  But I didn’t let up.

  I knew she was sensitive, but I was too close to exploding.

  If I slid home, I wouldn’t last long.

  And that meant she needed to be brought right back up to the precipice.

  So my teeth and tongue and lips went back to work, leaving her clit alone until her hips started rocking against me again, until her head began thrashing on the pillow, until her legs opened wider, and I couldn’t resist the siren’s call of being inside her any longer.

  One abrupt movement toward my nightstand, scrabbling through the drawer until I managed to pull out a condom.

  Shaking fingers to roll it down the length of my cock.

  Then I was back between her thighs, staring down at the woman I loved, knowing this was going to change everything.

  For the better.

  Slowly, I pushed in.

  Slowly because even though it was day Eleven, I still needed to be careful.

  Slowly because I wanted to savor this moment, wanted to remember how she felt the very first time I had her.

  Slowly because the moment halted, inched forward, until we were reduced to two souls existing in one plane, one body, one perfect fract
ion of time.

  And then I was in deep. Then her eyes were on mine.

  Then . . . her hand lifted to cup my cheek.

  And fuck if my throat didn’t grow tight.

  “Linc,” she murmured.

  “Yeah, baby?” I rasped out.

  Intense blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “You can move now.”

  I did, but perhaps not in the way she intended. Because instead of pouncing on her like she was probably expecting, I peeled her hand off my cheek and laced our fingers together, resting our linked hands lightly on her chest, just above her heart, feeling it pound.

  Her lips parted.

  I kissed them.

  Because I could.

  Because I wanted to taste her moans when I started moving.

  And finally, I did start moving, pulling out, pressing back in, slow and steady, finding a rhythm she liked, and then exploiting it until her moans were tumbling from her mouth to my own, until she broke her lips from mine, her head falling back to the pillow and her eyes squeezing shut.

  I slowed, ignoring her when she protested. “No, baby,” I said and waited.

  She opened her lids, glared at me.

  “Look at me when you come,” I ordered.

  Her gaze went hot. Her free hand gripped my hair, and she yanked my head down toward hers. “Don’t stop, and maybe I will come.”

  I kissed her, hard and fast.

  Then I started moving again.

  And I didn’t stop.

  And then . . . she did keep those gorgeous blue eyes on me as she came, her pussy tightening around my cock, making me lose any semblance of slow and easy, making me forget she was injured as I thrust several more times before exploding.

  Making me forget anything except that this woman was fucking perfect.

  And that she was mine.

  Would be mine forever.

  We were neck-deep in files.

  And not a single one of them was making any bit of difference.

  It had been forty-eight hours since we’d brought in our drug lord, and since there was nothing more to be done on that front for the moment, Hannah had decided our team’s next mission would be to pool resources with Laila and Ryker and see if we couldn’t get a lead on Daniel.