leave the past.
He leaned against the wall and smiled at her. “As I recall, there’s a post-combat exercise you might enjoy. You know…because you like traditions.”
He ran a finger over her slick shoulder, traced over her collarbone, and circled a lush breast.
Her nipple tightened.
Her beautiful brown eyes dropped to where his dick was lengthening.
“It’s traditional, hmm?” Her voice had turned husky.
“Oh, yeah.” His heart rate was increasing.
“Well. I’m an old-fashioned girl.” She curled her hand around his erection and squeezed.
His cock turned hard enough to break rocks.
“But I’m new to fighting.” She pumped him once and then rubbed her thumb over the head. “Perhaps you could show me the…tradition…of which you speak?”
He chuckled. “I can take this duty on, I suppose.”
The rest of the shower was a blur of sensations. Her breasts, heavy in his hands. The velvety feel of her nipples. The taste of her, warm and wet on his tongue. The way her hands gripped his head, holding him to her as she cried out and came. The sweetness of her mouth closing on him—and her curse when he pulled away and lifted her…high enough to impale on his cock. Her gasp, and the tension, then reception of her body around him, welcoming him. How she wrapped arms and legs around him, enfolding him in heat—and love—as he gave her all that he was.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In a forest, keep your focus wide. Take it all in—the sounds of birds and insects, every set of tracks, the smells, how the vegetation moves in the wind. Then, if something is wrong—if there’s an ambush set up—you’ll know. Do that same shit when you’re looking at a person. ~ First Sergeant Michael “Mako” Tyne
That evening, Frankie slid out of Bull’s pickup and was grateful he’d parked it right by the back door of the municipal building. Her leg hurt like someone was stabbing her calf with a knife. Maybe she should have brought her jo and used it as a cane.
She’d have to remember when she visited the hospital tomorrow. Earlier, she’d called, and the nurse had said the swelling in Kit’s brain was going down, and she’d probably be allowed to wake up tomorrow some time. That she was doing all right.
Kit was going to live. Frankie clung to the door a minute and blinked away the blurriness in her vision.
As Bull came around the vehicle, she noticed the uniformed state trooper at the back door was frowning at them. The building was well guarded. When they drove past on Main Street, there had been a couple of troopers barring the way to the front door.
The trooper came down a step. “I’m sorry, people, but only authorized persons—”
“I know, I know.” Bull took Frankie’s arm, lending support as they moved closer. “As it happens, the Chief of Police asked us to bring food for everyone…including the support staff.”
The trooper blinked, then hope filled his face. “Food?”
“Lots of food. Can you give Gabe a ring to get his ass out here and identify us?”
“Hell, yes. I’m starving.” The young man talked into his radio for a moment, laughed, and said, “I’ll let them through.”
Frankie blinked. “You’re not going to make Gabe come out here?”
The trooper shook his head, his gaze on Bull. “He gave me a description.”
Gabe had probably said something like huge and muscular, with a shaved head and goatee. There weren’t many like Bull.
“Good.” Bull grinned and headed back to the pickup. “If you draft people to carry in the coolers and boxes, I’ll get an area set up for food.”
“I’m on it.” The trooper lifted his radio again.
After lowering the tailgate, Bull handed her a sack. “You can take that one in.”
Full of bread, it weighed almost nothing. She wrinkled her nose at him. So over-protective. “Thanks, Skull.”
Chuckling, he grabbed a cooler, then left the hand trolley sitting beside the back for whoever would bring in the heaviest of the coolers and boxes.
Once inside the wide reception area, Bull slowed. “We should probably find Gabe or Caz.”
There were people everywhere, mostly law enforcement and health professionals, including social workers, as well as the survivors of the PZs. Caz had said the women and children would be interviewed, then if they had no other family, would go to shelters in Anchorage where they’d get counseling and help. If a child appeared abused—or if the woman wanted to return to the PZ, more evaluations would be done.
What a mess. At least, the news media hadn’t sniffed this out yet.
“Bull, Frankie.” At