Page 50 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"I know the timing is shit." A smile tugs at her mouth. "Tomorrow we face down God knows how many armed men who want us dead. We might not make it. But tonight?" She steps closer, close enough that I can feel her warmth. "Tonight I don't want to be chasing ghosts or hunting evidence or anything except exactly who I am. With you."
Every reason why this is a bad idea lines up in my head. The mission. The danger. The fact that people I care about tend to end up in body bags. But when she looks at me like that, when her hand spreads across my chest and I can feel my heartbeat pounding against her palm, all those reasons dissolve.
"I don't want to rest," I admit.
"Neither do I." Her other hand slides up my neck, fingers threading through my hair. "Then don't."
Permission. Invitation. Everything I've been trying not to want for the past few hours.
I kiss her hard, no hesitation this time. No careful distance or professional boundaries. Just hunger and need and the knowledge that tomorrow might steal this chance forever. Sierra responds with equal fire, her mouth opening under mine, body pressing close. She tastes like coffee and determination and something uniquely her.
My hands find her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as I pull her flush against me. Her body collides with mine and she gasps—a sharp inhale that cuts off mid-breath. Her right handflies to my shoulder for balance while her left arm stiffens, held slightly away from her body.
The bandage. I'm pulling on her injured side.
I loosen my grip instantly, sliding my hands to her lower back instead, supporting rather than gripping. "Sierra?—"
"Don't you dare stop." She rocks her hips forward deliberately, erasing the space I just created, her mouth finding mine again. "I've had worse than a shoulder wound."
"So have I." I nip at her lower lip. "Doesn't mean I want to hurt you."
"Then touch me." Her hands are already working at my layers, yanking up my thermal shirt. "Touch me like you mean it."
Heat floods through me at the demand in her voice. I help her strip the shirt over my head, then reach for hers. We move toward the sleeping bags as we shed cold-weather gear and tactical vests and base layers in a tangle of fabric and zippers and desperate hands. The cave's chill bites at newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, but the heat between us drives back the cold. Each piece that hits the cave floor feels like armor falling away, leaving only skin and truth.
Sierra's fingers trace across my chest, mapping the constellation of scars that mark my years in the field. Old bullet wound near my collarbone. Shrapnel damage along my ribs. Burns on my left forearm from surviving a fire that got out of control in Afghanistan. Her touch is gentle but unflinching, acknowledging each piece of damage without pity.
"You're beautiful," she murmurs.
"I'm a mess."
"You're alive." She kisses the scar near my collarbone, her lips warm and soft against the puckered tissue. Then lower, tracing the path of shrapnel across my ribs with her mouth. Eachkiss sends heat pooling low in my gut. "Every mark is proof you survived."
My throat tightens at those words. I frame her face in my hands, studying her in the lantern light. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Eyes that see too much and never look away. "You're the most stunning woman I've ever seen."
Color rises in her cheeks. "Chris?—"
"It's true." I kiss her slowly this time, savoring the taste of her, the way her mouth opens under mine. My tongue traces the seam of her lips before delving deeper, exploring. She tastes like coffee and determination and something uniquely her that makes me want more. "And not just because you shoot as well as you kiss."
She laughs against my mouth, the sound bright and genuine. Then her hands are on my belt, fumbling with the buckle. The laughter fades into something darker and infinitely more compelling. I help her, shoving my pants down and kicking them aside. The cold air hits my overheated skin for a moment before she's pressed against me again, nothing but thin fabric between us.
I walk her backward toward the sleeping bags, careful of her shoulder, cataloging every gasp and shiver as my hands explore her body. My palms slide down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Her skin is impossibly soft, marked with its own history—a thin scar along her ribs, another on her hip. The curve of her waist fits my hands like she was designed for my touch. I trace lower, fingertips grazing her hipbones, and she trembles.
"Cold?" I ask against her neck.
"No." Her voice comes out breathless. "Opposite of cold."
The sleeping bags are zipped together into one large cocoon, spread over thermal mats that block the cave floor's chill. We collapse onto them together, heat and friction building as weshed the last barriers between us. Sierra's breasts fit perfectly in my hands, the weight of them satisfying as I palm them, thumbs circling her nipples until they tighten into hard peaks.
She arches into my touch, head falling back, throat exposed. I take advantage, kissing down the column of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. Her pulse hammers beneath my lips, rapid and strong. When I close my mouth around one nipple, she gasps my name, fingers threading through my hair and gripping tight. I work the sensitive flesh with my tongue, alternating between gentle suction and teasing flicks that make her squirm beneath me.
"Chris." My name is a plea and a command. "Please."
"Not yet." I move to her other breast, lavishing attention there while my hand trails down her stomach. Her muscles quiver under my touch, jumping as I trace patterns across her heated skin. "Want to make you ready."
"I'm ready." She spreads her thighs, making room for me between them. The scent of her arousal hits me, musky and intoxicating. "I've been ready since you tried to kill me with that snare trap."
The admission makes desire spike through me, hot and urgent. I slide my hand between her legs and find her slick and wanting, wetness coating my fingers. She moans when I stroke through her folds, hips bucking into my touch.
