All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

BUSINESS CLASS was a few steps up from coach, so we had more leg room, more seat room, and fortunately, only two seats next to the aisle.

“You should sit by the window,” I directed. “You’re gonna pass out as soon as we take off, and that way I won’t have to climb over you.”

“Okay,” he agreed, getting in after I shoved our coats into the overhead bin. We had to keep our carry-ons with us at our feet since we had our badges and guns in them.

Once we were settled, listening as the captain welcomed us aboard, explained that we’d be taking off on time, and directed us to give our attention to the flight attendants, I sucked in a breath, lifted the armrest between us and leaned into him with my whole body. All along one side—shoulder, hip, thigh, knee—we were touching. I waited—mouth dry, heart stopped, left hand clenched into a fist—to see what he would do.

“Did I miss lots of poker nights or did you guys not play?”

I turned my chin so I could look at him.

He was waiting.

“I—what?” I rasped. My voice sounded like I’d been choked to death. I needed some water.

“Did you guys play cards or no?”

Weird thought: maybe he didn’t realize I was crowding him. “Yeah, we played except for the week my clan was here. Last night I took home eighty bucks.”

“Impressive,” he said, and he tried to smile but it looked odd, strained. “And that’s nice that your friends came to see you.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“But they wouldn’t’ve needed to if I was here.”

“No. You would have taken care of me.”

“Yes,” he agreed, studying me. “You should drink some water, your voice sounds funky.”

That was my cue, so I leaned forward, pulled my water bottle out of the seatback pocket where the barf bag was, took several deep gulps, and, when I sat back, gave him room.

I was so relieved he wasn’t pissed that for a second I didn’t register what he was doing.

“I swear I’m cooking,” he grumbled, reaching up to turn on the air vent. He fiddled with it, and when he sat back, he pressed up against me, exactly as we’d been moments before. “Aren’t you hot?”

Was I too warm?

“There’s never enough air on planes.”

I was freezing.

“And staying hydrated is important.”

My throat was dry; drinking something was a good idea.

“Are you all right?”

I wasn’t. I was terrified. But I was ready. One way or another, I would find out what I could have. I put on my seatbelt then, right before the flight attendants checked. I never put it on until I absolutely had to.

“M?”

“No, I’m good,” I said softly. I let out a deep breath, feeling the calm wash over me as I closed my eyes and listened to everything going on around me. I registered people talking, bells dinging, the sensation of lifting as we took off. Most of all, I savored the closeness the man sitting beside me was allowing.

I’d had fantasies, of course. They always started off fast and hot. He would walk across a room, throw me up against a wall, and take me right there, rough and dirty. Or we’d be stuck somewhere, in some tiny little hole in the wall, like a border town in Texas or… the scenarios were always the same, with him jumping me.

He was a super soldier; he threw around guys twice his size. I’d seen him do incredible things with his body; his strength was daunting, and in combat training, he’d taken on ten men at once. His spinning high kick was really something to see. I never worried when he was with me, never. Even if, for some reason, we were ever unarmed and cornered by people who were, still, even then, I wouldn’t worry. Maybe that was unrealistic, but he was a Green Beret. They dumped him behind enemy lines to retrieve others and that’s what he did. Thus, because I knew so well the kind of man he was, there had never been a time when I thought I would be the one holding him down.

But he was waiting for me to do… something. It was so very obvious. The hitched breath, taking direction, wanting to be close…. I’d been missing all the clues. I was normally much better than that, and it was probably why everything with me was off, why I missed it when guys were hitting on me, oblivious to the signs and innuendo. Ian Doyle had totally jammed me up.

I had always thought that if he ever even considered sleeping with me, it would be him on top—when apparently the truth of the matter was it would be me.

“M?”

I found him smiling at me.

“The nice lady wants to know if you want something to drink.”

The flight attendant was waiting on me. I’d lost time, totally checked out, absorbed as I was with Ian. “Sorry, uhm, just some apple juice, if ya got it.”