Backblast by Candace Irving (miss read books TXT) 📕

in around her waist, coming to rest at the small of her back as he eased her the rest of the way in.

"Rae? You sure you're ready for this?"

"Are you?"

His laugh was short and satisfyingly frustrated—for her. "Honey, I've been ready since the moment I woke up in that bed in Germany and realized you weren't in it."

That earned the man a kiss. She pulled his head down as she stretched up.

"Wait. I need my bag."

His bag?

"Access to the internet isn't all I managed today. I've got condoms—"

"You don't need them." And she hoped to hell Tulle hadn't purchased those little gems along with the cover-story rock on her hand, or she'd never be able to face the staff sergeant again, much less look him in the eye.

But John was already reaching up to ease her hands from his neck. "I'm serious. I am not playing roulette with your life again. Ever."

He wouldn't be. "Gil gave me a shot a few days ago. I was annoyed that I'd started my period while I was stuck in the hospital. It was light, but still. Anyway, he reminded me that they'd likely stop if I got on the shots. And, well, there are other benefits." Benefits she'd already been thinking about with John back in her life.

Benefits that eagerly resumed as he guided her hands back up, so that she could link them behind his neck as he brought his forehead down to touch hers.

"So, no condoms…ever?"

"Nope." Just another birth control shot every three months. "Of course, if you really want—"

His swift kiss answered that one, but then he pulled away to finish removing his clothes. He probably intended for her to do likewise, and she did get her suit jacket and holster off. Even got her slacks unzipped. And that's when and where she got waylaid—standing there, watching him do the same.

He finished his mouthwatering striptease in under a minute.

Socks, shoes, slacks, shirt and underwear, they were all gone now. What was left was simply glorious. Even with that horrific collection of scars and occasional stretches of mottled flesh, the man's body could grace the cover of any muscle magazine.

And, yet, there was no vanity in him. Not about his body.

Like that scarf, those condoms and the nest of weapons on the desk—and even that paranoid habit he had of securing her seatbelt for her in cars—John's extreme physical conditioning was simply the embodiment of his personal, deep-seated motto.

Control what you can; be prepared for the rest.

His brow rose. "You plan on joining me?"

"Why?" Her brow mirrored his. "You did that so well, I thought you might want to put those particular skills to use again…over here with me."

Instead of answering, he stepped forward and let his hands and that smile do it for him. Her socks, shoes and slacks followed. But when his fingers slid down to her waist to begin unbuttoning her dress shirt, she flinched.

"Hon?"

He'd whispered it, because he knew. Even before her eyes began to burn. That flinch wasn't due to him. Or her shirt. It was what was beneath.

The scar.

Given the plethora of marks that crisscrossed his entire body, including the one that started at the left side of his torso and cut rudely all the way down and around his ass to end at the base of his calf, it was crazy to be worried about what he'd think. But the scar he was about to see, it didn't belong to him or even to her. It belonged to them.

He might've even seen it back at Campbell when she'd been unconscious in the ICU, and he definitely had to have seen it last night when he'd pulled her out of the shower on the Griffith. But she'd never shown it to him. Shared it.

Much less the pain.

Whether she was ready or not, she was sharing it now.

His fingers returned to her shirt, dwarfing the buttons as he released them from their holes one by one. It still amazed her how this man and these hands could be so nimble and gentle, but they were. And so was he as he opened her shirt and slid it down her shoulders. He turned to lay it over the rest of their clothes on the desk, then came back to peel away her bra and underwear just as slowly and gently.

Those too were carefully set aside.

And then he was smoothing those callused fingers down her abdomen. Tracing. Absorbing.

The more he touched, and the longer he stared, the more his eyes glistened.

By the time he'd lowered that enormous body down and settled onto his knees, they were spilling freely over his cheeks and onto her.

He kissed every inch of the scar, just as she'd kissed his many, many marks that night in Germany. When he finished, those powerful arms slid around her body, quaking softly as he pulled her close. She threaded her fingers into his hair and held him there for some time. How long, she couldn't be sure. Holding. Soothing.

And then his grip changed.

It became softer and lighter, and yet, somehow firmer. Determined.

Passion had gradually overtaken his sorrow, and he was intent on sharing that with her too. He slowly kissed his way up her curves, feeding the desire between them until it was alive and electric, and had begun to arc between them.

He gripped her waist and lifted her as he stood, his smoky murmur filling her ear. "Wrap your legs around me."

She laughed. She had to. It was what he'd said that first time, as he'd pressed her into the wall. But there was no wall close by, and the bed was across the room.

"Now, you're just showing off."

"Not yet, baby." That gorgeous dent cut in. "But I will be."

His hands dug into her ass, anchoring her to him. Before she could draw her next breath, he was crossing the room and pressing her down onto the bed to make good on his promise. The man was relentless. He used those callused palms and nimble