Page 47 of Distress Signal
There was a small gravel lot out front, and I pulled to a stop, shut the car off, and leaned my head back, eyes closing as I begged the universe for an ounce of patience and peace.
When I opened them again, finally mustering up the courage to face the firing squad, I got out to meet Finn.
God, he was the kind of man wet dreams were made of—and he’d certainly starred in countless of mine over the years. I hadn’t given myself the chance to reallylookat him when I’dbeen here a month ago, too wrapped up in everything going wrong to allow myself that luxury.
The years had been kind to him, morphing him from an attractive but polished twenty-something with his buzz cut and muscles who still maintained some of his boyish charm, into this rugged, sinfulman. And, goddesses, it made me want to bebad.
I wondered, had the metamorphosis been the Army’s doing? Experience? Was there a woman in his life? I’d never considered the possibility, and I realized now what a horrible oversight that had been on my part.
One that could epically backfire.
Not that I was interested in Finn Lawless.
Not like that.
At least, that was the lie I’d tell myself.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing how that hard body looked beneath the Carhartt pocket tee and thigh-clinging denim. He’d been strong back then, but now he seemedbigger—and had more tattoos.
Was his ass still tight enough to bounce a quarter off? Could I pour tequila into the ridges of his abdomen and slurp it up like the thirsty bitch I was?
Get it together, Reagan.
Giving myself a little internal shake, I closed the distance between us.
“You didn’t.”
“I did,” he grinned. “It was the only way.”
“Only way to what?”
“Keep you close.”
I hated the way my insides clenched at the promise and sheer alpha malepossessionin those words, my body waking up and remembering.
We like this one, it seemed to say.He fucked us real good. We should absolutely let him do it again.
Yeah, yeah, my inner voice was a slut—but only for Finn Lawless.
I remembered the sign out front as I drove in.
“The ranch is yours?” I asked.
“My family’s,” he said. “West and I run it now.”
“So you decided to come home once you left the Army after all.”
“You remembered,” he said, that grin growing wider.
I merely nodded.
I’d need a fucking lobotomy to forget.
Every nanosecond of that night seven years ago was etched into my memory, a brand I’d never be able to remove. Not only the sex, but the conversation too.
“I can’t stay here,” I said, turning the conversation back into safer territory.
“Sure you can.”
