Page 20 of Delta (Alpha #12)

We reach yet another intersection. A taxi sidles by, and Rush flags it down. Nudges me to get in first and slides in after me, rattling off something in French that’s as rapid and excellent as his German.

"German and French, huh?" I ask.

He nods, twisting to look behind us, and then settling against the seat. "My French is better than my German. I can speak Italian passably well, but I wouldn’t call it very good."

I huff. "I have a lot of honorary aunts and uncles, and they're all fluent in like half a dozen languages, and here's me who can only speak English. I feel stupid, sometimes."

"What's an honorary uncle?" he asks.

"Someone your parents are so close to you grew up calling them Uncle or whatever, even though they’re not actually related to you."

"Oh. And you’ve a lot of them, 'ave you?"

I nod. "Yeah, I do."

He glances behind us again, briefly. "Not knowing a language doesn't mean you're stupid.

It just means you didn't have a reason to need it.

My best mates from the streets growin' up were lads who spoke French and German and not much English, so I learned them that way.

Then, when I joined up, I had reason to keep current on it, professionally.

Trainin' exercises, joint operations, shit like that.

Now I'm out, I do work in France in Germany and use both a lot. "

"This may be an insensitive question, but—"

He laughs, cutting me off. "Nah, love, I can't read or write in either language. Shit, I'm barely literate in English. I speak and understand, but put a newspaper in front of me or whatever? Nah. Not a word. May's well be Swahili."

"Did that affect your career in the military at all?"

He shrugs, nods. "A bit, yeah. My best mate in my unit, Reg, found out I was dyslexic and he'd cover for me. Help me with paperwork, sit near me in briefin's and tell me what was on the board, shit like that. I'd do anything for him, I would."

"Good to have friends like that. Rin is that for me."

"Rin?"

"Yup. Short for Corinna. She's basically my sister."

Rush leans forward and says something to the driver—we make a sudden turn, accelerate, make another turn, and then pull off to the side. Rush watches our backtrail for a few moments, and then tells the driver we can go.

"Someone's following us?" I ask.

He nods. "Think so. Not a hundred percent sure, but best not to take any risks." He growls wordlessly—a sound of irritation. "Best not approach my friend, yet. Not till I'm sure we’ve lost our tail."

A funny thing I've noticed: he refers to friends from his youth as mates, and his teammates from his unit in the SAS as mates, but this contact here in Lyon is always his "friend." I wonder what that's about.

He gives the driver more instructions, and we pull onto the road. A few minutes later, we're braking to halt under the portico of an upscale hotel in what Rush informs me is the 6th arrondissement, one of the wealthiest areas of Lyon.

In the lobby, he approaches the clerk and strikes up a friendly conversation, keeping me tucked against his side with an arm slung low around my waist, one hand casually resting on my hip.

I figure I'd better play along, so I lean into him and gaze at him like he hung the moon.

I don't follow the conversation, obviously, but it ends up with Rush forking over a stack of euros and receiving a single keycard.

Which, it turns out, is for a suite near the top of the building.

It's not a penthouse, but it's close. There's a big seating area furnished with white leather couches on three sides around a glass coffee table decorated with a bowl of wicker balls and giant candles on antique wooden candleholders.

A print of a famous Degas painting occupies the space over the electric fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling curtains frame acres of massive windows.

The bedroom is huge, with a king bed draped in high-thread-count linens and a luxuriously appointed bathroom.

"You sprang for a nice place," I remark, taking it all in.

He grins. "No point slumming it. Plus, we're close to where we need to go tomorrow." His eyes morph to green as he glances at the windows. "I've not forgotten what I said, Bryn. You can't get windows like that in a pay-by-the-hour motel in the red-light district."

"No, I don't suppose you can." I glance at the window as well, trying to imagine being pressed up against it, Rush behind me…

His eyes blaze, his grin widening. "Yeah, you're thinkin' about it, aren't you?"

"About what?" I ask, eyes wide and innocent.

His grin shifts, becomes that cocky, heated smirk—full of teasing promise and arrogance.

"Oh, I dunno." He moves into my space, and even though he's only got four or so inches on me, he seems to tower over me, all broad shoulders and hard chest. "Didja forget what I said I'd do to you once I had you alone? "

"I've got a terrible memory," I lie, my voice unintentionally breathy.

God, this man affects me. My pulse pounds, hammering in my veins, roaring in my ears. My thighs press together as he occludes the world around us until there’s nothing but him. His eyes are fiercely green, now, sparking fire.

He takes a step, forcing me backward. "You're a shit liar, Bryn."

"No I'm not."

He unzips my jacket, slides it off. Tosses it carelessly aside. Forces me another step backward.

"You remember. I see it in your eyes, love. And you want it. Don't you?"

"Want what?"

"By all means, carry on playin' dumb. It's cute, but I know better. You're razor sharp, and make no mistake about that. Much smarter than me, I'd wager." He presses me backward another step, two, three.

He bends down, nipping my earlobe in his teeth, breath hot, body hard against mine. His hands grasp my ass, squeezing hard enough that I squeak in protest.

"This fuckin' arse, Bryn. Jesus. Taut as a fuckin' drum." He yanks my pullover fleece up and off, hurls it one way. Shirt next, gone like the other. "You need a reminder of what I said I'd do?"

Another step backward, and then I catch up against cold glass with a hollow, echoing thump. "I…I might need a brief refresher, yes." I'm proud of how casual I sound, when inside, I’m anything but.

Nervous, excited, maybe a little afraid. Desperately shielding myself from thinking about anything or anyone that might pull me out of this moment, I run my hands up his chest, palming the firm swell of his powerful pecs. Brush his leather off, let it flop to the floor.

He toes the jacket aside. Kneels in front of me, lifts my foot, and tugs my boot off. My sock. The other foot. Rises to his feet and runs a fingertip down my centerline from throat to navel.

"Fuck, you're beautiful, you know that?" He hooks a finger behind the button of my jeans.

"It's nice to be told," I answer. "Remind me what you said, though. I really don't remember."

He opens my jeans. Steps back. "Take 'em off for me, Bryn."

In just a maroon Henley, his arms cross over his chest, thick and rippling in the tight sleeves. His chiseled jaw is hard, eyes burning with erotic promise.

I wiggle my hips to shimmy out of the jeans, which I toss to him. "Shirt off, Rush."

He lets the jeans hit his chest and drop to the floor, that damned cocky smirk on his lips. "I don't think so."

He steps into me, framing me with his huge, powerful arms, hands on the glass beside my ears. His lips touch the side of my neck, and I tip my head to offer him better access. "Take off your bra, Bryn. I need to see those perfect tits."

"Shirt first."

He rumbles a laugh. "Funny, you thinkin' you're in charge." He nips my earlobe, sending heat shimmering through me from chest to core, making butterflies flutter in my belly. "You want to do what I say."

"Do I, though?"

I do. I really fucking do. But I'm not about to let him know that.

He touches his lips to my breastbone. The swell of my breast. "Yeah, love, you do. Wanna know why?"

"Yes," I breathe.

"What I promised you back on the train was I’d get you naked, press you up against this very window, and fuck you until you don't remember your own name.

" His voice is dark and rough and heavy with arousal, a hoarse, raspy, rumbling growl that makes me shiver and shake.

God, I could almost get off just from the shit he says in that low, throbbing voice of his.

"Fuck," I whisper—the epithet ripped out of me at his dirty promise.

"You want that, don't you?" He cups my sex over my panties.

"Maybe."

"I like this game." He trails a fingertip up my seam over my underwear.

"What game?" I breathe.

He tips my head up with a finger to my chin, kisses my throat. With his other hand, he teases my pussy over the fabric, finger sliding up and down, up and down, always lingering over my clit, reminding me what he can do to me with just one finger.

"You wanna play?" he asks, his voice rife with amusement. "Fine, then, we'll play. But you don't get what you want until I get what I want."

He sinks to his knees in front of me and presses his mouth to my seam, huffing a hot breath over my flesh. I wiggle, biting down on a whine. He reaches up to cup my ass, nips the tender skin of my thigh with his teeth. Breathes on my pussy again.

"Rush,” I whisper. "Fuck."

"That's the idea, yeah. I could be inside you right now, but you're playin’ games."

I feather my hands in his hair, but he grabs my wrists and presses my hands against the glass.

"No touching. Not till I get what I want."

"What do you want, Rush?"

"Take your bra off."

"You do it."

He shoots to his feet, a sly grin on his face. His hand flashes, blurring with blinding speed. There's a snap, and the dull back of a knife is cold against my sternum, the tip of a wicked, black, serrated, folding knife nicking the bottom strap of my bra.

"Your way, or mine?"

I’m tempted to call his bluff, but I know damned well he's not bluffing. I hold his eyes as I peel the sports bra off; my nipples pebble into hard little nubs as his eyes take in my bare chest.