The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“You always smell so great,” she murmured.

“So do you.” His chest rumbled beneath her cheek when he spoke, and she sighed in contentment, feeling small and safe and protected in his hold. They continued to wander slowly down the beach.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked when a sharp gust of frigid wind flirted with the hem of her skirt and sent goose bumps up her thighs.

“Nah, I’ve been trained not to be as affected by the weather. Extreme heat and extreme cold don’t bother me too much.”

“Did you see a lot of combat?” she asked, tentatively broaching a subject she’d been curious about for a while.

“I saw my share,” he said after a long pause. “When I was just a kid during the Iraq War. I’d barely finished basic training before I was shipped out. Then again later, after I was more of a specialist, shall we say? We were required to do some stuff I’m not at liberty to talk about. Nothing pretty.”

“Tell me about your scars; were you ever badly injured?” He stopped walking and turned to face her, and even in the pale light of the moon she could see his look of surprise.

“People hardly ever ask me about that. Top three things I usually get asked: how many people I shot and/or killed, how many bombs I’ve diffused, and have I ever flown a helicopter. Some folks really seem to have a Hollywood vision of war in their heads,” he said with a wry shake of his head, before continuing. “Nobody ever asks me about injuries. They figure, I’m alive, have all my limbs, so I must have come through it all unscathed.”

“I don’t care about the other stuff. I mean, I care about the people you may have shot and/or killed but only because I worry about how it must have affected you.”

“It was seven years ago; I’m over the worst of it.”

“Are you?”

“I . . . I’ve learned how to deal. It’s no longer a problem.”

“But it was?”

“Daisy, everybody who has seen combat suffers from varying degrees of PTSD. I had my moments, I still have the occasional lapse—one loud, misplaced bang could see me diving for the closest cover—but they’re few and far between now. I’ve—what’s that phrase? The shrinks love it. Ah, yes, I’ve reintegrated.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out, and he sighed, linking his hands behind her back and pulling her toward him until they stood chest to torso.

“I was shot twice and got winged by shrapnel in the IED explosion that killed Quincy. I’m afraid I have a road map of scars on my lower back; it’s not pretty.” Daisy had seen the scars on his chest and arms, but she hadn’t seen his back yet. She looked up into his beautiful face and felt sorrow at the anguish he must have felt. He claimed it was long ago and no longer affected him, but his eyes told a different story.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said.

His lips quirked, and he bent his head to claim her lips gently. The kiss was the slow-burning kind; it started with a tiny spark and built into a small, flickering ember when his lips nudged hers apart. That ember leisurely escalated into a shy, hesitant flame when his tongue met hers. She gasped at his touch and opened up even more for him, adding fuel to the flame until it grew stronger and bolder. Her hands went up to circle his neck, and her bare toes pushed her up as far as she could go in an effort to get even closer. The flame, now blazing and building into an inferno, threatened to rage out of control when his hands found her breasts through the slippery material of her silky dress.

“Daisy,” he groaned. “Let’s go back to our room.”

“Yes,” she encouraged. “Please.”

He stepped away from her and grabbed her hand.

“How fast can you run?” he asked urgently, and she giggled.

“Not very.”

“Not good enough.”

They made it back to their suite in under ten minutes, and Mason had her out of her clothes about a minute later. He swore reverently while she stood in front of him, trying not to be self-conscious about the fact that she was completely naked while he was still fully dressed.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he growled, his eyes hot and intense and embarrassingly, single-mindedly focused on her breasts. He looked into her blushing face and smiled tenderly at whatever he saw there. “I’m going too fast, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s fine,” she said, sounding unconvincing even to her own ears.

“It’s just I’ve wanted you for so long. Come here, angel.” He held out a hand, and she took it and stepped toward him without hesitation. “I’m going to kiss you, all over. I’m going to run my hands and tongue and teeth over every single inch of your beautiful body.” The promise was shakily given but brimming with sincerity, and Daisy felt an embarrassing rush of liquid warmth between her thighs at the prospect.