Jack pivoted toward the bunk area. Fire flamed through his thigh. He chewed back a curse before Monica whipped out her doctor credentials and grounded him. All he needed was a few minutes off his feet and something to distract him.
And he knew just the perfect distraction.
Sweeping an arm for Monica to precede him into the small sleeping compartment behind the cockpit, he waited until she sat in one of the two seats across from the bunkbeds built into the bulkhead. He jerked the privacy curtain closed.
Total darkness blanketed the tight quarters. Slowly his eyes adjusted and he made his way to the bottom bunk. For good measure and added isolation, he secured the curtain across the viewing window, as well, before he stretched out on his right side. Flush against the wall. Not much room, but then, he wanted her close. "You know what would make me rest better?"
"Not a chance, Korba." Her chastisement sparked through the inky darkness. "No way are you and I going to get busy. Your doctor says no because of your leg. And your wife says no because of all those people downstairs. I thought you wanted to talk."
"You overestimate me if you think I can do it after flying combat, crash-landing with shrapnel in me, followed by getting stitched. My leg hurts. I'm tired. I want to hold my wife."
He could almost hear her melt. For a tough lady she always did like those sappy-soft words when spoken at just the right moment. He'd have to dig deep for a few more.
Rustling sounded seconds before her aloe scent washed over him, his senses heightened by the absence of sight. Would it be the same for her?
All her senses, touch most of all.
She dropped to the edge of the bunk. "There isn't enough room."
"Sure there is. Lay on your side." He reached, found her back and guided her down.
He heard her surrender, sigh as she sagged against him. She was right. There wasn't really enough room. If either of them so much as sneezed, their tangled bodies would flip off and onto the floor. But he couldn't bring himself to let her go now that he had her in his arms.
The whole damned night clobbered over him. How near death had come to truly biting him on the ass. How close he'd come to leaving this woman a widow. To never holding her again.
Wind howled outside, not too far off from the howling adrenaline rush in his veins. He understood all about combat aftermath and the body's instinctive reaction. Understanding didn't stop the feelings. Through the ache in his thigh, arousal stirred to life after all.
And no way would Monica be able to miss it as close as they were flattened together.
"Jack," she warned.
"Shh." He shushed into her hair. "I'm not going to risk having those clowns downstairs find either of us with a flight suit around the ankles. I respect you too much for that."
Truth. Which earned him more of that Monica-melting. If only he had more words, but with testosterone and adrenaline searing paths through his brain, rational thought got tough.
Monica's face shifted against him. Her lips skimmed his ear. "Kissing's okay, though. Right? Your doctor says that wouldn't hurt you. And as your wife, I know everyone downstairs already saw us kiss earlier before takeoff."
"I think kissing would be okay." He palmed her h*ps to rock against his while holding himself still. "As long as we didn't enjoy it too much and start moving around."
Her husky laugh ended short, captured by his mouth. In his mouth. Pent-up adrenaline, edgy battle aftermath channeled itself into drugging desire for the sexy, pliant woman in his arms.
Who the hell ever said they had to get na*ed to get busy? Or for at least one of them to get seriously busy, anyhow, because his leg did hurt like hell and he couldn't risk putting himself out of commission.
His hand skimmed her hip, forward, between her legs to cup her hot mound in his hand. He rubbed gentle circle massages of his palm against her. Her breathing sped, her reaction to his touch as instan-damn-taneous as always.
Her oh-so-getting-busy fingers skipped between them, onto him. Adrenaline aftermath was working its magic on both of them. His hard-on leaped in response and if he didn't stop her soon, the rest of him would be grinding against the cradle of her hips.
He clamped her wrist. "I meant it when I said I don't think I can right now. If I flex any muscles—" one major muscle in particular "—I'm gonna whimper like a baby for real. But it would bring me immeasurable pleasure to pleasure you. Call it a macho ego kick if you want, but it gives me such a rush hearing you come and knowing I brought you there."
Her panting moan of consent, insistent urging, split his restraint.
By touch in the dark, he located the zipper on her flight suit, traced its path down her belly until he located the tab between her legs. Lucky for them, flight suit zippers opened both ways, up as well as down.
He inched it up, not far, but far enough to slide his fingers inside to cotton bikini-cut panties. Damp cotton. Thank you, yes. He scooched aside the crotch, tucked in to find...
Immeasurable pleasure.
Her breathing snagged, picked up pace, pressing her generous br**sts against him, faster, harder with fuller breaths. With her free arm, her hand fluttered over him in restless patterns that lacked control. Her hands fisting in his hair. Clutching his shoulders. Skimming around to his buttocks before sliding up again to his back.