If You Fall (Brimstone 1)

Once inside the elevator, and as the lone occupants, he continued the kiss, pulling me against him as he leaned on the elevator wall. My body warmed in response to the touch of his tongue, his hands gliding over my back and lower, not quite grabbing my ass, just resting above it but low enough to remind me how close he was. I kissed him back, hungry for him, my eyes closed tightly, just giving myself over to the sensations he elicited in my body with his touch. It had been so long since I was in a man’s arms and felt his hard body against mine that I couldn’t stop, and shoved my guilt down deep.

He took my hand when the elevator door opened and pulled me down the hallway to a room on the third floor, past gilded mirrors and deep gold brocade wallpaper, the furniture dark wood with ornate ca

rving and paintings of old ships. After he slid the keycard into the door lock, he opened the door and pulled me inside as if he feared I’d change my mind at the last minute. He didn’t have to worry for if I was on the fence before about what was going to happen, I wasn’t any longer. I wanted this.

I wanted him.

He led me in deeper into the dark interior of his luxurious suite, equipped with a full living room and bar and kitchenette. I barely noticed the décor as he took my hand and led me through the suite, except that it was dark grey and white and burnished silver – very masculine. We went into a separate bedroom with a huge king bed and stood beside it, kissing once more, our hands on each other, now more intimate since we were alone and in his bedroom. He pulled me more tightly against his body, pressing his erection against me, sending a jolt of lust to my core, my breath hitching. His hands roved over my body, down to cup my buttocks and then up to squeeze my breasts through the fabric of my dress.

“Let me get this off,” he said as he reached down to the hem of my dress and pulled it up and over my head. I struggled a bit to get it over my head, but soon it was off and I stood before him in nothing but my heels, lace bra and thong. He took me in despite the dimness of the room, letting out a low whistle.

“You are so lush…”

I started to remove my heels, but he stopped me.

“Keep them on.”

I nodded, a shaky smile on my lips. Then he almost devoured me, his mouth moved down from my lips to my chin. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled me into his arms, his lips sliding down the skin of my neck to one breast, pushing aside the fabric to reveal my nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, sending stabs of desire through my body right to my clit. I squirmed helplessly, almost panting with desire.

“I have to see you,” he said and left me to turn on a bedside light, the lamp casting a warm glow over the room.

When he returned to me, I reached up and pulled off his jacket. “My turn,” I said, my voice wavering from desire. He helped me, throwing his jacket onto a chair against the wall, then we both attacked his tie and cuffs, until I was able to unbutton his white shirt, opening it to reveal hard washboard abs, just as I expected. He removed his shirt and finally, he was bare from the waist up.

I ran my hands over his chest and down to his abs, my eyes lingered on his pants, which revealed a lovely bulge from his more-than-ample erection, but before I started to unfasten his belt, I ran my tongue over his chest to one nipple and he let out a low moan when I circled it with my tongue.

It was then I saw a thick scar on his neck, running ragged from a few inches beneath one ear to the middle of his neck.

As if someone had tried to slash his throat or behead him.

The edges still had a sewn-up look, faint dots beside the seam where the knots of each stitch had been. Whoever sewed him up did it really quickly.

It wasn’t a surgical scar -- that was for sure. It was an injury, the stitches looked like they saved his life but only just.

“Oh, my God,” I said, unable to help myself, stepping back. “How…”

He sighed and covered his eyes with a hand, then pounded his temple with a fist. “I’m so sorry, Miranda. I didn’t think…”

“What is that?” I said, my throat tight. “What happened? You never told me…”

He sighed heavily. “You don’t want to talk about your sad story? I don’t want to talk about mine.”

“Where did you get that?” I said, undeterred, every ounce of desire seeping out of me. “Were you attacked? Was that in Afghanistan?”

He nodded. “Shrapnel from an IED.”

The scar brought everything back to me – learning of Dan’s death in Afghanistan during a routine training mission. Two uniformed men driving up to the house, getting out, their hats in hands. Jeanne crumpling onto the floor as she realized what their presence meant. Me running to the back of the house, not wanting to hear the truth, covering my ears as if that could prevent it from being true.

Dan was dead…

“I…” I swallowed hard, my desire drowned in a wave of emotion that still felt like grief even almost a year from the day I got the news. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t,” he said and reached out for me. “Don’t pull away.” He tried to embrace me again, but I couldn’t respond, my mind returning again and again to the war and to Dan. “Let it go.”

“It’s just that,” I said, my voice cracking. “My husband…”

He touched my face, his fingers caressing my cheek, tracing my lips. “You’re married?”

I frowned. “Widowed,” I said, my voice breaking. “Dan – he was killed in Afghanistan a year ago…” I didn’t want to say another word, because it was still raw – the emotion connected to his memory.