Fighting for What's His (Warrior Fight Club 2)

A smile played around her lips. “Billy…” The word came out as little more than a breath, but he still heard it. More than that, things inside him felt it.

“Shayna,” he said a little louder, trying not to look at the line of her collar bones or the scattering of freckles just above the fabric of her bikini top or the nearly bare curve of her hip that remained uncovered by the towel.

Her eyelids popped open, and those eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea looked up at him so soft and sleepy. And then awareness slid into them as she pushed up onto her elbows. “What’s the matter?”

Everything, his gut answered. Then his gaze scanned over her face. Or maybe nothing at all.

He shook his head at himself and in answer to her question. “It’s about to storm.”

“Oh,” she said, her gaze going up to the sky just as a fat rain drop nailed her between the eyes. “Aaah! I see that now.” She chuckled as she wiped at her face and twisted her legs off the edge. “You know, you strung this hammock up like it’s for the Jolly Green Giant. I had to make an acrobatic maneuver to get into it.”

Her feet dangled nowhere near the ground, though that was hard to focus on when he got his first eyeful of just how much of her skin that bikini bared. Christ. “I think I’d like to have seen that,” he managed.

“Can you make yourself useful and hold the hammock still so I can hop down?” she asked, amused frustration in her voice.

He swallowed hard as he bent to retrieve the scattered paper. No, not paper. Photographs. “Nope. I’m here for the dismount maneuver,” he said, as the photographs—arresting photographs—captured his attention. They were a mix of color and black and white. Of a cemetery…

She gave an aggrieved sigh. “Come on, douchecanoe, it’s starting to rain for real. Help me down so I don’t splat all over the place.”

The images in his hand were melancholy and haunting, and set off a weird feeling in his chest even as her words penetrated the way they’d captivated him.

With a half-hearted chuckle, he came toward her. “Douchecanoe, huh?”

“Uh huh,” she said, smirking up at him, so playful and pretty.

He came close enough that his knees touched hers. Without giving himself a chance to rethink the wisdom of his actions, he put an arm around her back. “Fine. Grab on to me,” he said, the words coming out low and rough.

“I don’t want to hurt your sh—”

“Grab on to me.”

She did. Her hands clasped around the back of his neck, coming nowhere near the wound on his shoulder that he knew concerned her. And then he pulled her against his chest until all her soft curves were pressed tight against all his hard edges.

Their gazes collided.

Her breath caught and she glanced at his mouth. Just the slightest little glance.

Billy was instantly and demandingly hard. And so fucking hungry for just one taste.

Shayna’s eyes flashed back to meet his. “Thank you,” she said in a breathy, needful voice that ratcheted up the lust suddenly heating his blood. From that look and the feeling of her body against him and their whole day together.

“It’s nothing,” he said, putting her down.

But she didn’t let go. “It means a lot to me.”

“What does?” His body wanted more of her pressed to more of him again. Wanted it bad. He clenched his teeth against the need clawing through him.

“Everything you’re doing for me.” Her voice still had that breathiness that grabbed him by the balls.

“It’s no problem, Shay,” he gritted out. It didn’t matter how bad he wanted more from this moment. He couldn’t let himself have it. But he also wasn’t pushing her away, was he?

Her gaze dropped to his mouth again.

“Shayna.”

Pink filtered into the fair skin of her cheeks and she dropped her arms. “I guess we should go inside.”

“Uh huh.”