Raid - By Kristen Ashley Page 0,67
a scary-huge gun, butt to his hip, barrel pointed out. Raiden was smiling, white teeth, eyes crinkled, dark wraparound shades pushed back on his head.
Mouthwatering.
Heartbreaking.
I just got the chance, and pulled up enough courage, to take in the faces of the two men on either side of him before I heard the toilet flush.
I put the frame back where it was, raced across the room to the kitchen-ish area, anxiously searched it and found a coffeepot nearly hidden by boxes and dishes. At the bottom was a thick, black crust.
The hinges screamed right before I snatched the handle of the pot and yanked it out making boxes and bowls teeter dangerously. I turned and saw Raiden exit the bathroom buck naked.
I lifted the pot and asked, “Seriously?”
A smile spread across his face as his feet brought him to me. He pulled the pot out of my hand and tossed it on the mess on his counter where it miraculously found purchase between a box of Fruit Loops and a stack of bowls. His hands then went right to my booty, he lifted me up and I wrapped my limbs around him.
He walked us to the bed, turned his back to it and we went down, me on top.
After we bounced, I lifted up to forearms light in his chest and he announced, “We’ll shower, go to Rachelle’s, get breakfast and coffee.”
“Affirmative,” I agreed and his lips curled up then I declared. “I get battle pay for doing it, but I’m taking an afternoon this week in this crazy den of yours to sort it out so it’s livable. By that I mean you can make a pot of coffee and close your drawers since the rest is beyond my capabilities, unless you rent me a sandblaster and give me a credit card at Sears.”
His body was lightly shaking under mine when he asked, “What does battle pay consist of?”
“I’ll decide later.”
“Babe, you make this place livable, whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”
I grinned at him.
He was already smiling and he kept doing it.
It hit me suddenly that in all the time I spent waiting for him, watching for him at Rachelle’s, when I saw him he would grin at his sister, and maybe if he was in a good mood he would smile, but other than that never did he walk in or move through smiling.
And I’d never heard or seen him laughing.
But he used to do it all the time before he left. I’d watched avidly in the corridors and cafeteria at the high school when he did it. Even if things at home were tight and he lived with the knowledge that his Dad was a massive dick, he had a good life back then and he demonstrated that frequently.
And now, again, he did both a lot with me.
“I like to see you smile,” I told him softly, sliding one hand up his chest, his neck, fingers in his lush hair but I moved my thumb out to stroke his jaw.
“I know, honey, since you find ways to make me do it and you find them often.”
I was thrilled he noticed.
So thrilled, I swept my thumb down his jaw then bent to touch my lips there.
When I lifted up again, his arms wrapped tighter around me and he asked, “Plans for the day?”
“Shipments piling up. I have to spend the day in town sorting that out and hauling them to the Post Office. This doesn’t make me happy because I like making afghans, not packing and shipping them, but life happens, you deal. You?”
“Meet in Denver,” he answered.
I pressed my lips together, his eyes dropped to my mouth and one of his hands slid up and into my hair.
“Hanna—” he started, but I interrupted him.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask. Did everything go okay while you were away? I mean, an indication of the success of your endeavors is that you returned unscathed but did you, uh… get your man or whatever?”
His eyes were warm and amused at my question, but they grew serious which made me mentally brace.
“Business went good,” he answered. “And it sucks we’re on this topic, but the time was gonna come and this is that time, so you gotta know, with my business, I’m gonna be away like that a lot.”
I had a feeling. My guess was that fugitives did not hang around Willow (or I hoped not) just so he would be able to be home for dinner every night.
Although I