Lace & Lead

Chapter 7

His heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest after that admission. He tried to ignore that he’d actually meant every word he’d said. He’d analyse his emotions later. And the way she flung her arms around him and kissed him meant that later was going to be a ways off.

He somehow got her back to his room, set her down on his bed and knelt beside it, finally pulling his lips away from her mouth. She looked so tiny sitting there, even though he was on his knees. A part of him hoped that this was some kind of joke, a twisted prank, one he’d get over and move on from. But the way she was biting her lower lip, the anxiety and anticipation in her eyes, was sending another surge of adrenaline through his body.

If this was real, he’d never be able to forget her. If she did walk out, he’d go out on every mission with a death wish.

“Please.” Her voice was husky. She reached out and put a hand on his forearm.

He stood up, not bothering to hide his base lust, the aggressive lines of his body, his overwhelming size in comparison to her slight frame. She’d weighed nothing in his arms and still she looked at him like he was the only thing in the world.

Equipment was thrown hastily in its various places. He stripped off the vest, letting it hit the floor beside him with a dull thud. The tank followed.

Her eyes widened again and he knew she was looking over his scars. Most women he’d been with had been simultaneously turned on and disgusted by them. But Emma was looking at them with a familiarity she shouldn’t have.

You were hoping she’d be scared by them. You’re trying to get her to back down, he told himself.

To an extent, this was true but it was easier to rationalise it as his need to make sure she knew exactly what she’d be getting from him.

He slid out of his boots, flung them carelessly to the side and popped the top button of his pants. She had a dazed expression on her face. He knew how she felt.

He was sure he was going to wake up any second.

“Are you a—” he started, but gentled his voice when he saw the flush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. “Have you ever—”

“No.”

He shook his head, the civilised part of him reining in the little control he had left. “Your first time...it shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be with me.”

She gave him an undecipherable look. “Why not?”

“I’m not pretty about it.”

She stood up, closing the distance between their bodies. He fought down the urge to step back, to put space between them.

“You’d never hurt me,” she told him, reaching out nervously to place her hand softly against his ribs, right over the worst of the scars. His muscles spasmed under her touch.

“No,” he agreed.

“And...” She swallowed, but looked up at him with all kinds of hope written on her face. “I think you like me back.”

His throat tightened. If only she knew. “Yeah,” he admitted.

“What more could I want?”

Then she was pulling his face down and kissing him and he forgot all the reasons he’d hate himself after. She was all he could breathe in, taste, feel. He groaned against her mouth.

He was outside his body, still unable to fully comprehend what was happening. His fingers were scrabbling against the ties of the damn corset and he couldn’t get it undone to save his life.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

She did, without hesitation. He used his knife, sharp blade slicing up through the ties, destroying the corset in the process. He loved the way she shivere

d when he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “One fucking torture device neutralised.”

She was solely responsible for undressing herself from that point. Not because he didn’t want to help, but because he couldn’t get his mind to kick back in. Watching her peel off layer after layer of delicate white underclothes was the most excruciating form of foreplay he’d ever gone through. She didn’t turn back to him until she was in a thin shift.

He finished stripping his own clothes, grateful when he saw her admiration and wonder. But he had to touch her. He had to know this was real.