Sam knew he had to do something, and fast.
First, relax. He uncurled his hands from the wheel, sat back and consciously unclenched his muscles. Forced himself to breathe slowly. Forced his face muscles to relax. Closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Opened them.
For the brief time he’d been a sniper, he’d learned a lot. He didn’t love the mechanics of sniping like Mike did. Mike loved his guns like children. For Sam they were tools, and not particularly interesting ones at that.
But still, sniper training included big chunks of bodily control. They’d taught him how to slow his heartbeat. They’d been taught to let their bodies go into a weird form of hibernation, where they could stay utterly still for days at a time, bodily functions set at minimum, turning over just enough to stay alive.
He reached deep inside and dialed himself down. Way down. Over the next minute, like the ticking of an engine cooling, he slowed his heart rate, his breathing, even stilled his thoughts.
No more fevered images of Nicole Pearce under him, deep blue eyes slitted in ecstasy, long slender legs open for him, soft sex accepting him.
No no. Instead, he filled his head with quiet pools of emptiness and gray nothingness, willing his body to cool. The first time he’d been told that SEAL training taught you to do that, he’d laughed. It sounded too much like something beamed in from Woo-Woo Land. Sam had wanted into the SEALs more than anything else in the world because he wanted to be the hardest man in a world of hard men. When told part of that included becoming like Yoda, he’d scoffed.
But it had worked then and it was working now.
Nicole’s hands were now still in her lap and a little color had come back to her face. She’d lost that shocked look, as if she’d suddenly found herself face to face with a wolf.
Their eyes met. Christ, her eyes were beautiful. Such a deep, intense blue, framed by ridiculously long lashes. How the hell could she keep her eyes open with lashes like that?
“I want you. A lot,” he blurted out. Oh shit. He’d wanted to say something soothing, maybe even suave, not that he was known for his smoothness. Usually he was pretty blunt with women.
She looked like the kind of woman who’d appreciate a little suavity. It seemed that right now he didn’t have any in him. Desire had fried his circuits. “Sorry.” He winced. “I mean?—”
Nicole huffed out a little breath. She wasn’t smiling, but her face had lightened. “That’s okay. I kind of got the message when you dragged me out to your car without stopping to ask for the check.”
His back teeth clenched. “Sorry,” he said again, then stopped. Quit while you’re ahead.
“Yes, I can see that.” Her voice was soft. They looked at each other, gauging each other, the cabin of the car utterly quiet. Sam controlled everything—his breathing, his movements. Stillness would have to be his gift to her, a sign that he could control himself later, in bed.
He hoped.
Nicole lifted her left hand from her lap. How could absolutely everything about her be so frigging beautiful? Her hands could figure in one of those soap commercials. Pale ivory skin, long, slender fingers. Some kind of complicated ring with several kinds of stones on the middle finger, not the ring finger, thank you, God.
Nails manicured but short without that white square-top craziness and not painted black or purple. That and black lipstick were real turnoffs for him, made him think of fucking a zombie. Gah.
There was nothing about Nicole that was a turnoff.
Nicole’s hand was so gorgeous he had to freeze his muscles not to grab it.
Her hand was moving, floating in space. He didn’t take his eyes from her face, though he could easily see her hand in his peripheral vision. Slowly, she placed her hand over his on the wheel. It felt cool, and soft.
The contrast between their two hands was amazingly erotic. His hands were large, tough, scarred. Hers were like some marble statue by the world’s greatest artist.
He became, if possible, even more still for a breath, two. Something must have reassured her because she smiled, faintly. She squeezed his hand, a light caress that shot straight to his dick, then put her hand back in her lap.
“Are we going to do this?” she asked, her voice low.
Fuck yeah!Sam locked the words in his throat instead of yelling them out.
“Yes. I hope.” His voice came out hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in years. He cleared his throat, then locked his mouth shut.Do not jinx this, he told himself. Anything that came out right now would be wrong.
Her eyes dropped to his groin, where a blue steeler was trying to punch its way through the lightweight wool of his expensive suit pants. Unlike the jeans, the suit pants simply outlined him.
“I can see that.”
Blood pulsed in his dick, and it moved in his pants. She couldn’t miss it. It was like his dick was reaching out to her.
