Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans Book 4) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,99

he sensed was following close on its heels. “Don’t worry, baby.” She smiled so sweetly, with so much…hope in her eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“And that was the last time I saw her,” he said, coming out of the memory slowly, like a person wading to shore.

Maddy lovingly stroked his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

When it came to his past, Bran had formed a psychological callus—at least that’s what the Navy headshrinker had called it. But Maddy had no such protection. Tears rolled freely down her soft cheeks to drip from her chin and land on his chest, right above his heart. Each hot, salty drop felt like a benediction. Was he fanciful to think maybe they’d be enough to wash all the blackness inside him clean?

He pulled her down so he could kiss her tears, sip their saltiness between his lips. “I didn’t tell you so you’d feel sorry for me,” he whispered. “I told you ’cause you’re my friend. My true friend. And I want you to…know. To know…me.”

She pushed away and opened her mouth to say something, but the cutter abruptly changed course, nearly toppling them from the bed.

“What in blue blazes?” she huffed, dragging the backs of her hands over her wet cheeks before wincing and looking down at his bandage. “Did I bump into—”

“No,” he cut her off, glancing toward the door. Everything in him wanted to stay here in this warm room, in this warm bed, talking, making love. Unfortunately, his operator’s sixth sense told him something was up. A familiar sensation prickled over his skin like an icy kiss of cold wind.

A hard knock sounded on the metal door. “I hate to disturb you guys,” Mason said from the opposite side, “but we’ve got a fuckin’ situation up here. I think you should both come to the bridge.”

Bran exchanged a look with Maddy. She didn’t have to say anything. Her thoughts were written all over her face: Not again.

“What’s up?” he called to Mason, his body nearly crying out at the loss of contact with Maddy’s warm skin when he slid from the bed to grab his boxers and shorts.

“Picked up a Mayday from a nearby motor yacht,” Mason said through the door. “Apparently two guys in a dinghy boarded it about an hour ago, roughed up a couple of the folks onboard, and took off again after they stole some fuel cans.”

Bran and Maddy exchanged another look. This one said: Two men in a dinghy? That’s no coincidence. Apparently after the fishing boat ran out of gas, they’d used the skiff to go in search of more. He hadn’t banked on that. Regretted not putting bullets in their brains when he had the chance.

“They’re requesting emergency medical help and Webber has to oblige,” Mason continued.

When Maddy bent to grab her clothes, Bran got an eyeful of her plump ass. It didn’t matter what was happening, who was talking, or where they were. He zeroed in on the round hemispheres like a heat-seeking missile.

She turned and caught him staring—his tongue hanging down around his knees—and shook her head. Her eyes were still red and puffy, but there was a grin twitching her lips. “Stop givin’ me the Big Bad Wolf, all-the-better-to-eat-you-with-my-dear stare right now, or we’ll never leave this room.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Bran whispered, buttoning his shorts over his burgeoning erection. One look at Maddy’s bare butt and he was raring to go. Bad guys in dinghies and teammates standing outside the door be damned!

She got a pained look on her face. “We’ll be right there!” she called to Mason. Then she stepped into her panties and fastened her bra, covering up all her beautiful, feminine flesh.

And now he was the one who felt the need to cry.

* * *

1:08 a.m.…

“I got a bad feeling about this,” Maddy heard Bran whisper to Mason.

Mason grunted his agreement.

“What did he say?” Alex asked Maddy from the side of her mouth.

They were standing shoulder to shoulder on the bridge, watching as four of the six crew members on the Coast Guard boat scrambled around the deck, throwing over bumpers in preparation for tying up next to the motor yacht, which was the kind of ship owned by the one-percenters of the world but not the one percent of the one-percenters. With a main deck for seating, dining, and a small galley, and a lower level that was likely separated into a couple of cramped cabins, the vessel was nice without