Weapons Master Galactic Gladia - Anna Hackett Page 0,12
down the hall, then up the stairs.
Light glowed from his workshop.
She broke into a jog. By the time she reached the door, she was running.
Once again, Maxon was shirtless. His head lifted. He had some goggles over his eyes and he pushed them up onto his head.
Thick brows drew together. “Bellamy—”
She flew across the workshop, straight to him.
A part of her wondered if he’d shove her away, but strong arms closed around her.
She pressed her face to his chest, absorbing the warmth of his skin. She breathed him in. He had a woodsy, masculine scent, overlaid with a touch of healthy, male sweat from his work.
“Shh. Drak, you’re cold.” He held her closer.
She hadn’t realized that her hands and feet were like ice. Suddenly, he lifted her onto the bench. He rubbed her hands in between his big ones.
“Here.” He shoved a mug into her hand.
It was half empty, but still warm. She sipped it and made a humming sound. “It tastes like nothing I’ve ever had before.” A little bitter and woody, with a faint hint of sweetness.
“It’s called erca.”
Apparently, whatever it was, he liked it strong.
“Nightmare?” he asked.
She nodded and turned her head, staring at the stone wall.
“It’s a normal reaction after being rescued from the situation you were in,” he said matter-of-factly.
“When your family abandoned you, did you have nightmares?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Yeah.”
Damn, now she felt guilty about making him relive something that was clearly painful. Then she realized how close they were. He was standing between her legs, while she sat on the bench. Her legs were mostly bare, her sleep shirt draped over the rest of her.
Heat washed over her, and she saw a flicker in his eyes that looked like melted gold.
Then Bellamy reached up, and tugged his head down.
She didn’t dive right into the kiss, which was her usual MO when she wanted a man. She nibbled at his lips. They were full, well-shaped. Yummy.
He made a low sound, then his mouth covered hers.
Everything exploded—he was heat, light, desire. Their tongues stroked; his hands gripped her hips. She moaned into his mouth and he angled his head, taking the kiss deeper.
Yes. That one word vibrated through her. Nothing had felt this right…ever.
Suddenly, he wrenched his head away.
Bellamy blinked, feeling bereft. No, dammit. She wanted this. A mindless, hot fuck would erase her nightmare, help her not think for just a little while.
Maxon’s face looked like rock, his eyes turning to steel.
When she reached for him, he gripped both her hands with one of his. Then he scooped her up and carried her over to a battered couch resting against the far wall.
“You need sleep,” he growled.
She just looked at him. With jerky moves, he snatched up a blanket and covered her with it. It smelled like him.
She could picture him sleeping right here, when he’d worked too long and didn’t want to leave his workshop.
“Now, go to sleep and quit distracting me.” He stomped back to the workbench.
She watched the flex of muscles in his tight, muscular ass.
Strangely, she lay down and fell asleep, feeling warm and relaxed.
The next morning, striding down the corridor to Magnus’s office, Maxon was still thinking about Bellamy.
Drakking woman had invaded his head, like she did his workshop.
When he’d woken this morning, he hadn’t been surprised to find the couch in his workshop empty. The blanket had been folded neatly over the back of it.
A house worker exited a doorway and smiled at him. He glowered back and she hurried off.
Bellamy didn’t even blink at his scowls.
And she’d kissed him.
At the memory, his body surged to life, his cock lengthening against his fastenings.
Drak. He dragged in a breath. His body had been revved and oversensitive all morning. For the first time in a very long time, he’d taken himself in hand in the shower and stroked himself until he’d spilled. As he did that, he’d been imagining Bellamy Walsh’s hands and mouth on him.
“Enough,” he muttered under his breath.
He’d stopped the kiss last night because she’d still had the shadows of her nightmare in her eyes. She’d come to him, upset and shaken. Even he wasn’t enough of a crudspawn to take advantage of that.
He’d had sex—both before and after becoming a cyborg. Before, he’d wanted it all the time, as he guessed most twenty-year-old young men did.
Afterward, he hadn’t wanted anyone close to him. A few times, when his body’s urges got too hard to control, he’d found a woman. He’d kept it brief,