Page 77

I grin. “This way.”

I lead him into the armory, and I swear the man actually makes a reverent sound in the back of his throat when he sees it. Racks. Ammo. Tactical gear. Organized like a bunker-themed gun nut’s Pinterest board.

“I brought yours,” I add, walking to the shelf where his rifle, sidearm, and gear pack are neatly laid out. “Because I know what that kind of thing means to a man like you.”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just walks to it and runs a hand along the stock of his rifle, fingers it like he’s touching a lover. Then he turns back to me, eyes darker now, more focused. Less wary. “You still don’t know what a man like me is.”

“No,” I admit, taking a step closer. “But I’ve got a pretty good idea what a man like you needs.”

We stand there.

Breath between us.

Tension high.

And if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I might cuff myself to the damn ammo rack just to get his attention.

The silence in the armory is thick now.

He hasn’t touched me. Not yet. But everything about the way he’s looking at me says he’s going to. And that when he does, it’s not going to be sweet, or slow, or romantic in any traditional sense.

It’s going to be real and mine.

I’m still standing by his weapons, arms loose at my sides, shirt still half-worn and buttoned wrong, Evan’s, I think, though I’ve completely forgotten how many of my boys have put clothing on me tonight.

Brock takes a step forward.

Then another.

Like a wild animal that’s finally made up its mind.

I don’t move. I want to. Every cell in my body wants to press into him, against him, under him, but I wait. Because I want to feel what it’s like when a man like Brock decides I belong to him.

His fingers graze my jaw first. Just a brush. A test.

I breathe in sharply and hold. I don’t blink. I don’t dare.

His thumb runs across my lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape. Then he curls that same hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him, slow but sure, no hesitation. Like this moment was inevitable from the second I chained him to that bed.

Our mouths meet like pressure building in reverse. Not a crash. Not a spark. But a slow, heavy roll of heat, steady and firm, like we’re pressing secrets into each other instead of kisses.

His lips are dry, then warm, then hungry. His stubble scratches, his breath hits mine, and suddenly I can’t remember how to stand without leaning into him.

I don’t kiss him back so much as offer myself up to the moment. I open. I melt. I give.

And he takes.

One hand fists in my hair, not cruel but firm. The other slides around my waist, anchoring me like a storm’s coming and I’m the only thing that matters in it.

When he pulls back, just a breath, he says it so low I feel it in my spine. “You planned for everything.”

My pulse skips. “I tried,” I whisper.

He leans down again, brushing his mouth along my jaw. “Even brought my guns.”

“I know what they mean,” I say.