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There was shucking cover then there was just inappropriate. Army regs would not encourage asking the vice president about her nocturnal habits. But for the first time in a long time, he could also tell those regulations to make like besties with his ass. Silver linings. Fuck yeah.
“You want the truth?” She finished the challenge by biting her lip again. Christ. If she kept doing adorable shit like that, he’d forget the word “inappropriate” even existed at all. Did her lips taste as good as they looked? Some company should sell the color and make a goddamned fortune. It’d be named something just as good too. Tracy’s Temptation. VP’s Vice. Lips of a Goddess.
“Truth.” He grabbed the chance to steer his brain away from her mouth. “Always a good thing, when you can swing it.”
Humor flashed in her eyes. “I liked sleeping on the floor.”
“The floor?” It didn’t shock him. It did make him curious. He watched her pick up on that, her composure loosening a little more. She settled herself sideways against the cushion.
“Used to really settle me.” She flashed a searching look across his face, as if trying to see beyond the surface of his reaction. With a finger, she traced a nervous figure eight over her knee. “Kind of silly, I guess, but—”
He made her stop by grabbing that enticing finger. Pulled the rest out too, curling their tips toward him. Her fingernails were perfect and polished, coated in a pale pink, so different from his dark, nicked-up paw.
“Butts are for smokes and rifles,” he murmured. “And anyway, I get it.”
“You do? Really” The clutch in her voice twisted weird heat around his nerve endings. What did he do with this shit? Give him a lying terrorist or a wise-ass recruit and he could deal with the energy. But this woman’s brave, bare honesty? He was in the weeds without chicken plates on his brain’s armor, surrounded by an enemy of his own making. His fascination with her.
And his lust.
Yeah, that asshole, too.
“Yeah,” he finally managed. “I really do. But I’m a well-trained grunt who’s used rocks as pillows more times than I can count.” He looked away, unsure again. Her stare had gotten intense, gaining incredible silver lights. What the hell was that? If it was her version of pity, he preferred staring at his own shoelaces, thank you very much. “Sometimes it’s easier to sleep with dirt in my hair and Sondheim in my ears than drowning in a sea of puff pillows and comforters.”
“Right?” She disconnected their hands by flinging hers up, giving him a full what’re-you-gonna-do. “You get too comfortable, you can’t think things through. And if I don’t think things through, I’m sure as hell not going to sl—” Her features scrunched on a frown. “Did you say Sondheim?”
His smirk kicked higher. “You like Sondheim?”
“He’s a genius.”
“Damn straight he’s a genius. Though I’ll likely go to my grave wondering whether Company or Assassins was the best.”
“Pardon the hell out of me? West Side Story, anyone?”
“Doesn’t hold a candle to Company.” He chuckled. “Guess my cosmic dilemma just answered itself.”
She tilted her head and smirked too. Impish. Delicious. “Now you can die happy.”
“Suppose I can.”
“Just not at the moment, please.”
“That an order, Madame Vice President?” He couldn’t help jumping on her little taunt with one of his own. If that were the only thing he was tempted to jump right now, things would be a lot easier. Wasn’t in the cards, especially as she tapped a finger to the side of her chin, pointing his attention to her enticing dimples.
“Hm. I suppose it is, Captain.” Her cat-in-the-cream tone sent a matching vibe through her posture. “Well, what do you know. Executive rule has an ‘up’ side, after all.”
He grunted—only half teasing this time. “Don’t get used to it.”
A pout plumped her lips. “Killjoy.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Killing.
A lot more than joy, at that.
Only now, the Big Green Machine didn’t need his “services” anymore. Not like that. Sure, there’d been the obligatory offer of “alternative” duty—some on-base, paper-pushing gig banishing him as far from missions and field training as they could possibly maneuver—but they might as well have suggested a one-way ticket to hell. The same pasty walls, soft-ass chair, and lukewarm coffee every day? No fucking way. He’d leave this dimension the same way he’d been born into it. Suddenly and brilliantly. If he were lucky, he’d save lives in the process. Special Operations had been the perfect means to that end.
Only the end had never come.
