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I’m not sure what undoes me most—his use of good girl, his new nickname for me, or the getting somewhere idea. It’s all a wrecking ball.
Never let them see.
“Where is that?” I rasp, my hand cautiously exploring his chest.
What the hell is happening here?
He smirks, like he’s got a secret. Or sees one. “To an understanding.”
“Which is?” I ask, relishing his steel-cut pecs rising against my palm.
His lips graze my cheek with an exquisite tingle. “You’re more.”
God, is he as turned on as I am? Because it’s taking all my strength not to turn my head the fraction of an inch necessary to capture those lips.
I can almost taste the beer on his breath and even the nicotine he denies himself.
Freedom and forbidden.
Always keep them guessing.
Instead of lifting my chin that half inch, I murmur, “Yeah,” because I am more. Far more than what he’s claimed in the past. His acknowledgment bursts across my skin like a blaze, leading me to volley his query. “Are you?”
He’s dominating the almost space.
Almost kissing.
Almost groping.
Almost taking me right here in this lust-filled metal cube.
His hand glides to my lower back, pressing me against him and devouring the air between us. Any doubt regarding his arousal is erased by his hard cock nudging my abdomen. A chill skitters down my spine as his lips wet my ear.
“You tell me.”
“Maybe,” I concede with an eager pant. He’s certainly packing more.
He angles his face, revealing a smile that obliterates the midnight forest with a boastful ownership of my assessment. “You’d be right, Carver.”
Play their game.
I slide my hand over his shoulder, humming seductively as my fingers weave into the shaggy hairs dressing the nape of his neck, and stretch onto my tiptoes, my lips moving against that sexy golden stubble on his upper jaw. “If tonight taught you anything about me, Graves, it’s that I rarely bet on a maybe.”
Wriggling out of his embrace to reach the control panel, I activate the elevator again, facing the doors. And down we go, my heart chanting an accept-the-challenge cadence.
He stands behind me, laughing incredulously. “Worst move of the night, Ace.”
Checkmate. “Prove it.”
LIAM
Every now and then, Wells gets a wild hair up his ass and throws us into full-on SEALs training. The man is a machine, always has been—fast, agile, matchless stamina. Unbeatable. On mornings like this, I generally assume his goal is twofold: Remind us how age hasn’t touched him—he’s still the best. And get one of us to puke.
Won’t be me, asshole.
My smoking years bite me on days like this, but I manage fine—with the feel of a boulder strapped to my chest. No one knows that shit but me though. Gage is at the biggest disadvantage. While Wells, Ty, and I are all taller than the average SEALs member, that’s nothing new. But Gage has bulked up to twice the muscle mass he had back then. He’s a big motherfucker. That slows a guy down and makes every damn hanging exercise twice as taxing. If anyone’s puking today, it’s the Big Guy.
After our usual morning routine of running, swimming, push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, Chief had us endure two hours of log PT in our sopping clothes, followed by combative shooting drills. While it’s nothing compared to Hell Week, he’s determined to stretch us. Particularly grueling after being up into the wee hours of the night, drinking. He awoke us at dawn, after three hours of sleep.
