Read Online Mastered By The Mavericks by Angel Payne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Angel Payne
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that or try to behave—in
which case, his gaze would’ve migrated toward her cleavage. Not that the work shirt
showed it off well, though it was much better than her workout attire from last night.
Damn sports bras. They needed to be renamed tit crushers.
“Can I pick something in between?” she replied. When he pressed his fingers to her
nape in a wordless affirmation, she went on, “The last time I was in one of these,
Enya and I were on vacation in Costa Rica.”
“Enya?”
“My little sister. Well, not that little. Not so little that she didn’t get a wild
hair up her backside and sign us up for a ‘ziplining adventure’ in the middle of nowhere.
After that plane ride, I thought I’d be dying in the middle of nowhere, too.”
He compressed his features, hoping they spoke his commiseration. “Wish I could say
I don’t know how that feels.” Even the world’s finest pieces of military aircraft
didn’t make up for RPGs or missions in shitty weather conditions.
He was glad to see his reassurance sink into her—though bewildered by the rest of
her reaction. With a little turn toward him, she leaned her head sideways against
the cushion, as if settling in for a warm chat over tea. “Yet here you are, ready
to do it again.”
He couldn’t help the new quirk of his lips. Well, imagine that. The smooth little
psych major did want a heart-to-heart, disguising her question as observation. Did she know how thoroughly he knew this drill already? How many times he’d already had his head torn open by the
base shrinks, being the guy on the team most exposed to the possibility of watching
his guts blown out of his body as his last mortal sight?
But if this soothed her nerves for the flight, he’d be more than happy to oblige.
She wouldn’t learn a thing he didn’t want her to.
“In my line of work, you learn to live by fear or possibility,” he offered. “If you
want to keep serving your country and making a difference, you have to choose the
latter.”
There. That should give the little Freuds in her head something to snack on for a
few minutes. He waited for the signs of it—the slight furrow in her brow, the tentative
chew on her lip—though damn it, all she did was change the angle of her smile and
reach for him, too.
As her fingers lifted, Rebel tensed. Shit. She was going for his face. Not the goddamn face . It wasn’t that he hated it. He just didn’t exactly…enjoy it. It was why he’d gotten
so good at all the fun of bondage. Tie them down before the naked stuff started, meaning
he controlled every inch of contact. Yeah yeah; he’d seen the explanations on paper—mommy
issues, intimacy issues, fucked-up-beyond-recognition issues—like any of that happy
horseshit made them easier to deal with. Only one thing helped with that. Not indulging,
period. Not allowing those special little female touches that all but sucked his soul
straight to his eyes—and the pain back into his heart.
And yet…he let her.
Wanted to let her.
He flinched and tensed and grunted but sure as fuck, went ahead and just let her move
in, tracing one eyebrow, over the bridge of his nose and across the next brow. Enduring—no,
goddammit, enjoying —the awakening of every cell beneath her questing touch.
Christ. Stop. Stop.
Don’t ever stop…
She finally did.
Only to utter words that made his inner chaos even worse.
“That’s what makes you a hero, Rebel Stafford.”
His first temptation was to free a laugh. Correction: a bark. An angry, caustic, bite
of sound that would double as the bolt cutter on the lock of his control and let out
the filth that he didn’t even reveal to the brain bakers. The reasons why he was nobody’s
fucking hero—least of all, hers.
He clamped back the laugh—and with it, the bark. The feat was a little tougher than
usual but nothing years of practice couldn’t help him achieve. When most of one’s
soul
which case, his gaze would’ve migrated toward her cleavage. Not that the work shirt
showed it off well, though it was much better than her workout attire from last night.
Damn sports bras. They needed to be renamed tit crushers.
“Can I pick something in between?” she replied. When he pressed his fingers to her
nape in a wordless affirmation, she went on, “The last time I was in one of these,
Enya and I were on vacation in Costa Rica.”
“Enya?”
“My little sister. Well, not that little. Not so little that she didn’t get a wild
hair up her backside and sign us up for a ‘ziplining adventure’ in the middle of nowhere.
After that plane ride, I thought I’d be dying in the middle of nowhere, too.”
He compressed his features, hoping they spoke his commiseration. “Wish I could say
I don’t know how that feels.” Even the world’s finest pieces of military aircraft
didn’t make up for RPGs or missions in shitty weather conditions.
He was glad to see his reassurance sink into her—though bewildered by the rest of
her reaction. With a little turn toward him, she leaned her head sideways against
the cushion, as if settling in for a warm chat over tea. “Yet here you are, ready
to do it again.”
He couldn’t help the new quirk of his lips. Well, imagine that. The smooth little
psych major did want a heart-to-heart, disguising her question as observation. Did she know how thoroughly he knew this drill already? How many times he’d already had his head torn open by the
base shrinks, being the guy on the team most exposed to the possibility of watching
his guts blown out of his body as his last mortal sight?
But if this soothed her nerves for the flight, he’d be more than happy to oblige.
She wouldn’t learn a thing he didn’t want her to.
“In my line of work, you learn to live by fear or possibility,” he offered. “If you
want to keep serving your country and making a difference, you have to choose the
latter.”
There. That should give the little Freuds in her head something to snack on for a
few minutes. He waited for the signs of it—the slight furrow in her brow, the tentative
chew on her lip—though damn it, all she did was change the angle of her smile and
reach for him, too.
As her fingers lifted, Rebel tensed. Shit. She was going for his face. Not the goddamn face . It wasn’t that he hated it. He just didn’t exactly…enjoy it. It was why he’d gotten
so good at all the fun of bondage. Tie them down before the naked stuff started, meaning
he controlled every inch of contact. Yeah yeah; he’d seen the explanations on paper—mommy
issues, intimacy issues, fucked-up-beyond-recognition issues—like any of that happy
horseshit made them easier to deal with. Only one thing helped with that. Not indulging,
period. Not allowing those special little female touches that all but sucked his soul
straight to his eyes—and the pain back into his heart.
And yet…he let her.
Wanted to let her.
He flinched and tensed and grunted but sure as fuck, went ahead and just let her move
in, tracing one eyebrow, over the bridge of his nose and across the next brow. Enduring—no,
goddammit, enjoying —the awakening of every cell beneath her questing touch.
Christ. Stop. Stop.
Don’t ever stop…
She finally did.
Only to utter words that made his inner chaos even worse.
“That’s what makes you a hero, Rebel Stafford.”
His first temptation was to free a laugh. Correction: a bark. An angry, caustic, bite
of sound that would double as the bolt cutter on the lock of his control and let out
the filth that he didn’t even reveal to the brain bakers. The reasons why he was nobody’s
fucking hero—least of all, hers.
He clamped back the laugh—and with it, the bark. The feat was a little tougher than
usual but nothing years of practice couldn’t help him achieve. When most of one’s
soul
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