Speed King (Men of Action 1)

“Nope, it was for Major, but his stupid ass can eat dirt for all I care.” He hesitates for a second, then shoves it into the fridge as well.

“Is he here?” I twist back to the house.

“I’m assuming he’s asleep, considering he bitched like a baby during our run.”

“You ran? I thought you met Talon and Ford at the gym.”

“I did, then I got in six miles here.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“Not yet.”

“Aren’t you exhausted? You should rest.”

“I’ll be fine. Pool time.” He once again ignores my comments, comes around to take my hand, and leads me to a chair where he threw my bags earlier.

I set up my chair and tighten the hair tie on top of my head, knowing it’s a hot mess and wearing it down is out of the question. I’d like to think I’m one of those girls that can work out and look like a runway model afterward, but I am anything but. In the quick change I did at my apartment, I was able to partially tame my curls, spritz up a little, and dress in my favorite bikini.

I pull off my cover-up and reach for some lotion when a low rumble causes my head to fly up. My breath catches at the wild expression on his face. But my heart races out of control for other reasons. He’s removed his shirt, and I become paralyzed, unable to move anything but my eyes as they travel over him. Achilles has always been well built, and I’ve seen him in a swimsuit dozens of times. But the man in front of me is almost unrecognizable. My knees wobble and I grip the back of the lounge chair for support. Every part of him is sculpted and muscular, defined much thicker than the last time I saw him.

I zero in on his chest and shoulders, drawn to the massive amount of ink. I knew he had a USMC tattoo on his shoulder blade, but these are new to me. Some of the artwork is recognizable numbers, but most are custom-designed swirls and lines. All of it is remarkable.

I think of his mythical Greek hero namesake. He’s gorgeous… Godlike is the word that comes to mind.

The silence stretches on as I continue to soak in and appreciate every fine detail of his physique. When my eyes find their way back to his, an icy chill runs down my spine.

The intensity in his gaze has me frozen. Insecurity takes over and my hand inches for my towel.

“Stop.” He reads my mind, stepping forward. His fingertips skim down my arms to my hand, where he links our hands again. “You’re beautiful.”

The way he says it sends another kind of chill along my spine, this time bringing a full out body shiver.

“So are you,” I basically whisper.

His own body jolts, and he tightens his grip. “I fucking missed you, Harley.”

“I missed you, too. Maybe too much.” I can’t control my admission.

“I’m back now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I’m back.”

He doesn’t elaborate further and I force myself to look away, breaking the intensity of the moment. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge for long. It isn’t in my character. Someone says they’re sorry, I either accept or don’t, but always move on. With Achilles, our history is complicated, and I want answers. My heart beats in rhythm with the ringing in my ears, and I swallow down all the thoughts whirling through my head.

‘I’m sorry, I missed you, and I’m back’ replay over and over. I make the decision that it is enough—for now. It may make me pitiful, but with this man, sensibility flies out the window.

“I’m glad you’re back.” There’s no way he can miss the meaning behind my words.

The change in him is immediate. Before I know what’s happening, I’m swooped in the air and over his shoulder. His mission is clear when the edge of the water comes into view.

“Don’t you dare!” I screech, squirming to get free.

In another swift move, I’m upright, with no choice but to wrap my limbs around him and hold on. He jumps forward, both of us going airborne for a second before the cold water crashes around us.

“You want help moving her?”

“You touch her, I will break your hands,” a hushed growl responds.

There’s a low chuckle followed by a few words I can’t make out, then a cool material drapes over my hips and legs. I curl deeper into a ball and sigh, falling back asleep.

“If you care about him, the best thing you can do is let him be himself. Accept and support him. If it ever becomes too much, know when to walk away.”

My dad once told me that Achilles carried the weight of ten men on his shoulders. He bore responsibility that wasn’t his and accepted it willingly. I’ll never forget his advice. My parents knew that I’d never walk away from him. I took Dad’s advice—accepted and supported every step of the way.