Read Online Mastered By The Mavericks by Angel Payne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Angel Payne
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“Go ahead. Move along. Check the oil. Kick the tires. Lay out the peanut bags. Chop
chop.” He shoulder-butted the guy, hard enough to let Sam know he meant business—only
to find himself pushed aside by the woman behind him, with the eyes of fear and chin
of stubbornness that wrenched at his chest all over again.
“So you’re flying this thing?” she asked—demanded—of Sam.
He bent over again, this time in gentlemanly deference. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then don’t fuck it up.”
She whirled away from them both and marched toward the plane, head high and spine
straight, not a trace of her terror showing from this angle. Rebel, battling to ignore
what did show well from this view, caught up with her in time to help her step up into the
plane. As he did, there was no escaping the sensations that slammed him—nor did he
want to. He was…proud of her. And even more. Inspired.
The feelings weren’t difficult to peg. They were part of the good stuff about being
in Spec Ops, these moments where witnessing someone push past their internal walls
outweighed the exhilaration of watching them scale real ones. Pride came from the
honor of being part of the moment. Inspiration came from knowing that when his turn came for the wall leaping, he’d be able to use it as strength.
And God, did he want to remember Brynna Monet.
Every damn thing he could about her.
No sense in fighting that one anymore, either. No matter what kind of flame-out he’d
suffer when this was over, there was no way to fight the searing lure of her now.
Dan Colton’s loss was absolutely his gain—and he was going to savor every last possible
penny of this fortune.
But right now, nothing was about him. It was about parking his ass in the leather
bucket seat next to hers. Examining the white expanse of her face, the dilated terror
in her eyes, the taut coil of her hands. Reaching across her to grab the strap of
her shoulder belt—a detail lost to the obvious whirl of her thoughts—and clicking
it into the fastening on his side. Keeping himself turned toward her, one hand on
her jiggling knee, and forcing her to take deeper breaths with the steady squeeze
and release of that hand.
Finally, she seemed to get the idea. Her chest began to rise and fall with longer,
calmer flows. Rebel remained silent, communicating with her simply through his touch—and
his gaze. The latter couldn’t be helped. Now that he had her locked in and to himself,
he took greedy advantage of the chance to stare his fill. Those dark red lashes, fanned
over her cheeks with a little curl at the ends. The bright red wisps escaping her
braid, playing at the elegant slope of her neck. The contrast of her lips, the color
of ripe raspberries, against her pale, pale skin.
Without notice, she blinked her eyes open. Peered at him—then actually cracked a fast
smile. It was such a surprise, Rebel burst into a laugh.
“Not funny.” Her chide had no rancor. If he pretended hard enough, he could almost
imagine they were in bed together, after he’d spanked her into an orgasm then fucked
her into a couple more.
Not. Going There.
Too late. His imagination had hammered down stakes and the tent of debauchery was
on the rise.
“Of course not,” he returned, all mocking smirk and teasing eyes.
“I’m serious, Rebel.”
“So am I.” And suddenly, he was. Even through the extended moment of thick silence
between them. Even through the lift of his fingers, softly stroking those errant hairs
off her neck as well. Even through the seconds he took to swallow with purpose, before
murmuring, “So what are we talking about here? Natural heebies about flying in a…‘tin
can’…or deep-seated childhood trauma I really will need to call the shrink about?”
She swallowed, too. Leaned her head over a little, toward his hand, which he’d dipped
just a little beneath the collar of her shirt. It was either do
chop.” He shoulder-butted the guy, hard enough to let Sam know he meant business—only
to find himself pushed aside by the woman behind him, with the eyes of fear and chin
of stubbornness that wrenched at his chest all over again.
“So you’re flying this thing?” she asked—demanded—of Sam.
He bent over again, this time in gentlemanly deference. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then don’t fuck it up.”
She whirled away from them both and marched toward the plane, head high and spine
straight, not a trace of her terror showing from this angle. Rebel, battling to ignore
what did show well from this view, caught up with her in time to help her step up into the
plane. As he did, there was no escaping the sensations that slammed him—nor did he
want to. He was…proud of her. And even more. Inspired.
The feelings weren’t difficult to peg. They were part of the good stuff about being
in Spec Ops, these moments where witnessing someone push past their internal walls
outweighed the exhilaration of watching them scale real ones. Pride came from the
honor of being part of the moment. Inspiration came from knowing that when his turn came for the wall leaping, he’d be able to use it as strength.
And God, did he want to remember Brynna Monet.
Every damn thing he could about her.
No sense in fighting that one anymore, either. No matter what kind of flame-out he’d
suffer when this was over, there was no way to fight the searing lure of her now.
Dan Colton’s loss was absolutely his gain—and he was going to savor every last possible
penny of this fortune.
But right now, nothing was about him. It was about parking his ass in the leather
bucket seat next to hers. Examining the white expanse of her face, the dilated terror
in her eyes, the taut coil of her hands. Reaching across her to grab the strap of
her shoulder belt—a detail lost to the obvious whirl of her thoughts—and clicking
it into the fastening on his side. Keeping himself turned toward her, one hand on
her jiggling knee, and forcing her to take deeper breaths with the steady squeeze
and release of that hand.
Finally, she seemed to get the idea. Her chest began to rise and fall with longer,
calmer flows. Rebel remained silent, communicating with her simply through his touch—and
his gaze. The latter couldn’t be helped. Now that he had her locked in and to himself,
he took greedy advantage of the chance to stare his fill. Those dark red lashes, fanned
over her cheeks with a little curl at the ends. The bright red wisps escaping her
braid, playing at the elegant slope of her neck. The contrast of her lips, the color
of ripe raspberries, against her pale, pale skin.
Without notice, she blinked her eyes open. Peered at him—then actually cracked a fast
smile. It was such a surprise, Rebel burst into a laugh.
“Not funny.” Her chide had no rancor. If he pretended hard enough, he could almost
imagine they were in bed together, after he’d spanked her into an orgasm then fucked
her into a couple more.
Not. Going There.
Too late. His imagination had hammered down stakes and the tent of debauchery was
on the rise.
“Of course not,” he returned, all mocking smirk and teasing eyes.
“I’m serious, Rebel.”
“So am I.” And suddenly, he was. Even through the extended moment of thick silence
between them. Even through the lift of his fingers, softly stroking those errant hairs
off her neck as well. Even through the seconds he took to swallow with purpose, before
murmuring, “So what are we talking about here? Natural heebies about flying in a…‘tin
can’…or deep-seated childhood trauma I really will need to call the shrink about?”
She swallowed, too. Leaned her head over a little, toward his hand, which he’d dipped
just a little beneath the collar of her shirt. It was either do
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