Page 9 of Double Take (Cosmic Mates #5)

Bragg sensed Faith’s discomfort, so he turned his back to give her privacy. Clothing rustled as she disrobed. Taking his blanket, he sat in a chair to remove his shoes.

Shoes off, he tugged his wet, clingy pants down his hips and hung them over the chair with his shirt, leaving the other chair for her. Listening to her progress, he wrapped the blanket around himself and secured it. He hesitated but then slipped his briefs off and set them out to dry. Covered by the blanket, his hard-on wasn’t that noticeable, and the candlelight and fire left the cottage more dark than illuminated.

Fabric rustled and whispered, and then she said, “Okay, I’m decent.”

Her blanket covered her from armpit to ankle but left her shoulders and neck exposed. Heat sizzled into his groin.

She hooked her slacks over the left side of the chair’s top rail, and her shirt and a camisole bralette over the right. He swallowed, trying not to think about naked breasts.

I’m acting like a horny high school student. Or what he’d imagined one would act like. He’d never been a teenager, nor attended school; his education, such as it was, had been accelerated tutoring. And he’d become somewhat of an autodidact.

There was nothing he could study to help with this situation. He flew by the seat of his pants, making it up as he went along, unwilling to squander a second of this serendipitous opportunity. Hammond had enjoyed years with her; Bragg had less than three weeks. He never would have wished for a vehicle accident, and he regretted she’d miss the craft fair she’d counted on, but a selfish part of him celebrated the turn of events. He had her all to himself for a night.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

They sat on the edge of the bed and faced the fireplace, Bragg positioning himself to conceal his hard-on. They ate directly from the pot, using jar lids to cut the potatoes into bite-sized chunks and then scooping them out. He couldn’t remember a more enjoyable meal than this candlelight dinner getaway in a romantic cabin with the woman he loved. The potatoes were starchy and bland, the cabin musty, dusty, and cold, and his attire itched and scratched, but none of that mattered. He was with Faith.

He ached to touch her. At times, he sensed a reciprocal awareness, spied a glint of arousal in her eyes, but wariness and distance remained in evidence, too. While he had loved her for years, she hadn’t known he existed. And when she met him—she’d mistaken him for her late husband. She wasn’t pining away, nor had she been fooled by Hammond’s glib patois, but she had loved him once. She might still harbor vestiges of tender feelings—or, perhaps worse, residual animosity. He didn’t want her to hate or love him because he reminded her of Hammond.

Bragg tried to be his natural, authentic self around her. But that was the problem with trying —it automatically turned natural into artificial. Wishing to convince her of his unique personhood, he preferred to distance himself as much as he could from his rival. Then she asked to see his impersonation—the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

She’d insisted. He’d caved, unable to refuse her anything, even if it was to his detriment.

In shock, she’d crashed the vehicle.

But now, here they were.

He snuck a glance at her. Firelight becomes you. She was so damn beautiful—large, expressive eyes, smooth skin, soft and full pink lips. A stubborn little chin and a pert nose. But dark smudges marred her shoulders and upper arms—the formation of bruises. Her safety harness had broken mid-tumble. She’d gotten knocked around; he’d heard the smack of her head hitting the doorframe.

I’m such an ass! He’d been so preoccupied by her nearness, reveling in his good fortune to be alone with her, he’d completely forgotten she could be concussed! She could have been seriously hurt or even killed.

“How do you feel—” he said.

“This is rather rom—” she said at the same time.

They laughed.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“No, you first.”

“How’s your head? Any dizziness? Headache?”

“Minor.” She rolled her shoulders. “I expect to have aches and pains in the morning—as well as some colorful spots.”

“You could have been badly hurt.”

“But I wasn’t. And it would have been my own fault for not paying attention.”

“I distracted you.”

“I insisted. I asked you to show…him to me.”

But she really hadn’t understood what she was asking. He had. “It was my fault.”

“In that case—you take the last potato,” she said nonsensically.

“We can split it,” he said.

They bumped hands as each reached for the potato with their scoops. His heart thudded. “What were you going to say?”

She drew her brows together. “When—oh.” She averted her gaze for a moment then looked at him again. “I was going to say that all of this”—her wave encompassed the cottage, the fire, the candlelight, their proximity—“is rather, uh, romantic.”

His mouth dried. “Is that good or bad?”

“Depends on whether or not you’re going to kiss me.”

Everything stopped. His heart. His breathing. Time. He’d swear the fire stopped flickering and froze in place. “Kiss you?”

“Forget it. I’m sorry. I misread the situation.” Her face flushed, and she averted her head.

“No. No, you didn’t. God, no, you didn’t.” He cupped her cheek and turned her face. “I was afraid to hope. I know how confusing this must be. I don’t want you to have regrets—”

She planted her lips on his. Noble resistance caved to longing and desire. He kissed her, tempering need with softness. She sighed against his mouth and melted against him. Her lips parted, and he sought entry, his tongue twining with hers. She tasted like potatoes and hope, sunshine and promises.

He pulled her closer, and she curled her arms around his neck.

For years, he’d dreamed of her kissing him , the real him. The previous time they’d kissed, she’d believed him to be her husband. No pretense this time. She’s kissing me, not him. He reeled from the glory of it all.

Light and slow became deep and hard, fantasy becoming reality. He paused, and her eyelids fluttered open. She smiled against his mouth and nibbled at his lower lip, her tongue teasing.

He brought her hand to his chest where his heart thumped. “This is what you do to me.” You always have . Such a confession might scare her. The depth of his emotion was too great, their acquaintanceship too brief.

“You do the same to me.” She pressed his hand to her chest. Her heart raced as strongly.

A thrill rushed through him, but an insidious little voice tempered the joy. But can she love me? Sexual desire isn’t love. No one knew that better than him. He hadn’t been celibate. Just the opposite—he’d tried to forget her with other women. It had failed miserably, the sexual congress causing him to ache all the more for her.

Her eyes glowed with arousal—or was that the firelight? Did he dare trust that she desired him as much as he wanted her? And if she did, what did that mean? What was he to her? She’d asked him to imitate Hammond. Did she wish to compare the two of them in bed? Insecurity paraded that horrible thought.

She wouldn’t do that. She’s not crass. He gave his insecurity a hard shove and sent it tumbling away.

She leaned in and kissed him, and he was powerless to resist her invitation and the urgency of his own longing. He covered her breast with his palm. Through the blanket, he touched her hard nipple. His cock throbbed. If she hadn’t been aware of his erection before, she couldn’t not notice how the blanket tented.

Sensation stormed his body, but his operative mind remained calculating, cognizant of the clock tick, tick, ticking away the moments, the possibilities. He had to report to HQ in less than three weeks. Unless he could extend his leave…

An extension only postponed the inevitable. He had to return to Earth. If he didn’t go to Dark Ops, they would come for him. That could not happen! If they learned about him reaching out to Faith, they would eliminate the problem by eliminating her. The organization did not leave loose ends.

He had tonight, plus almost three weeks, and would make the most of it. But, however fast time flew by, he didn’t wish to rush her into something she would regret.

“Maybe we should…finish our dinner. Eat some peaches.” His breath sounded ragged in his ears. His pulse raced. His cock ached.

She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Maybe after”—she leaned in—“I kiss you again.”

He gave her the kiss she asked for then summoned his willpower and reached for the jar of peaches on the hearth.

“Okay.” She mock-pouted and took the jar, scooping out a slice then chewing it slowly.

He riveted on a bead of peach juice on her lip. He stifled a groan. “How is it?”

“See for yourself.” She licked the juice off her lip and passed him the jar. Firelight danced in her eyes, and her lips curved with a sly smile that left no doubt what was on her mind.

“I would hate for you to have regrets,” he said.

“Until you came, I didn’t think I was ready to…see anybody. You’ve made me realize five years of solitude is enough.” She shrugged. “I feel a connection to you. Maybe it’s because you look like Mark—”

He felt like she’d kicked him in the nuts.

“But I honestly don’t think that’s it. First, that would be a turn-off, not a turn-on, and second, you are your own person. You are you, not somebody else.”

He could breathe again.

“I know you can’t stay, but I’m hoping that while you’re here we can make the most of the time.”

Her words echoed his thoughts, but she’d gone from fainting when she saw him to reluctantly agreeing to coffee to desiring his company? Could he trust that? “What do you think we should do?” he asked. His cock had a rock-hard suggestion, but he tried to think with his rational brain.

She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’ll tell you what I don’t want.”

“What’s that?”

“Peaches.” She took the jar and set it back on the hearth.