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When I’m finally deep into counting about two hundred sheep, I jerk awake from a half sleep, breathing hard.
There’s something huge and heavy wrapped around me.
Somethingthickand simmering against my butt.
Oh, no.
My heart lunges into my throat as I try to turn—and can’t.
Because I’ve got more than two hundred pounds of ginormous hero-man eclipsing me, his thick arm wrapped possessively around my waist, his seriously large—ahem—digging into my ass.
Holy hell.
He must’ve rolled across the entire mattress in his sleep.
It’s like my body knew—and welcomed it—before I even startled awake.
Nerves in places I never knew I had are singing, “Day O!”
My skin is a flimsy sheet of flame.
And that sharp ache between my legs pulses like the strings on a violin—resonate, insistent, demanding to be played to a finish.
I swallow hard.
“Bull. Fucking. Shit,” he rumbles against my ear, unmistakable anger in his tone.
I freeze, my lust fever momentarily broken.
“Sex, no. Tell them we’re not pulling back for extraction. You saw...you saw theshitin that asshole’s library. If we pulled one out behind that fucking bookshelf—that prison—you know there’s more...”
His arm around me tightens.
Oh my God.
Bookshelf prison? Whatishe talking about?
I turn carefully, just enough to see Chris’ face.
Gone is his peaceful big cat expression from earlier.
Now, his whole face is contorted, screwed up with a pain that scares me. His lips are still moving, but I can’t make out the words, speaking terrible words only known to him.
“Chris,” I whisper softly, finding his arm with my fingers.
I brush his skin lightly, trying to banish this nightmare or flashback that has him in its grip.
“...goddammit, no! I’m not leaving. Not letting those assholes run. You’ll have to slug me and drag me out, boss. Yeah, I don’t care if they’re holed up in some room with a whole army. I’m not fucking leaving—we’ve got two men down besides the girl and more kids to find—so you can tell Strauss you’re leaving without me, or you can find your fucking balls andhelp.”
I gasp.
It’s that raid with the Jordan Warzach bust.
He’s reliving a special kind of hell, chasing a man armed to the teeth who enslaved little girls and women for money—some from right here in Vegas, supposedly.
“Chris!” I whisper more urgently, shaking him.
For a second, his face screws up.
