At Your Command

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Winding her arms around Zachariah’s neck, she skimmed her palms against the prickly grain of his hair, slipping her fingers up beneath his hat and tossing it aside so she could cup his head and drag his mouth up to hers.

She paused only long enough to meet the hungry desire blazing in his verdant eyes, long enough for him to see that same hunger reflected in her own. “I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad you’re with me. Welcome home.”

Then their lips met. His, hard and demanding. Hers, soft but eager to make some demands of their own. He took. She gave. She begged. He delivered.

She got his shirt off him, his belt undone. Her skirt and half-slip were on the floor. She grasped at the hem of his T-shirt and he reached for her panties.

“Do you have protection handy?” he rasped against her ear before nipping at the lobe. “Mine are in the bottom of my duffel.”

Becky nodded, pushing the T-shirt up over ridges of muscle and a scar that hadn’t been there eighteen months ago. Touching the puckered skin at the flat of his stomach, she glimpsed a similar scar cutting through the eagle’s wing tattooed on his bicep. “What are these?”

He tongued the side of her neck, ignoring her concern. “We need condoms. Quick.”

Right. Stay in the moment. Ask questions later.

“Okay.”

Weak with desire, Becky stumbled to the desk, where her overnight bag had landed. The shock of losing his heat and his determined touch left her breathing uneven, her fingers uncoordinated. By the time she’d unzipped her bag, spilled the box of condoms, cursed and fished out one of the shiny silver wrappers, Zachariah was naked and looming in the mirror behind her.

Oh, my.

Taller than she remembered. Bigger. Harder.

Her body wet with an instant female response to the potently male sight.

“I’m hurrying,” she whispered, her throat not working any better than her clumsy fingers.

“Now, darlin’.” His arousal nudged against her bottom as he easily reached over her shoulder and plucked the wrapper from her hands.

Fine. While he ripped and rolled, she could use the extra minute to take off her blouse and unhook her bra.

But Zachariah didn’t give her an extra minute.

He poked her again as he closed in behind her. He looped his right forearm around her waist to absorb the blunt of the desk’s hard edge as he pushed her up against it. “I need this.” His left hand slipped between her thighs and parted her. “I’ll make it good for you the next time, I promise.”

Becky automatically braced her hands on the polished mahogany surface as his chest met her back and they leaned forward together. “It’s okay. I’m read—”

He entered her in one deep, sharp thrust. Becky gasped as the tip of his cock nudged at her G-spot. “Ah-h…” She couldn’t speak as tendrils of pain melted into the prelude to pleasure.

He held himself still inside her for several endless seconds, filling her, stretching her as her body adjusted to accommodate him. She felt the vibration of every muscle he held in check, from the open mouth wetting the nape of her neck to the engorged member buried inside her.

“I’m sorry,” he panted against her skin. “Next… time…promise…”

Zachariah quickly withdrew. He widened his stance, adjusting his hips to cup her bottom. One hand slid to her breast, the other down toward her clit. She looked up into the mirror and found his green gaze locked onto hers.

Becky nodded.

With only one sleeve off and a bra strap riding down her arm, Becky fancied herself a wanton woman as Zachariah plunged inside her a second time. He ground his hips into her bottom, lifting her toes off the carpet as he bent her forward and rammed himself in to the hilt, roaring with his release. As he pinched her nipple, rubbed hard at her swollen nub, she writhed helplessly, suspended between his body and the desk, trapped between his hands and cock.

On a short fuse of desire herself, the pressure building inside her detonated.

Becky cried out. Her arms went weak.

Good? It didn’t get any better than this raw, overwhelming need.

Next time? Oh God, yes.

And when she collapsed against the desk in the sheer exhaustion at being so desired, so taken, so satiated, Zachariah picked her up and carried her to bed.

4

“…VIOLATED THE RESTRAINING order, then call…slap his butt in jail.” The distant voice spoke threatening gibberish and disjointed phrases in Zachariah’s dream. “I don’t care what Sligh told you. I represent you now. He’ll pay it, Dimitra. That’s what I’m here for.”

Zachariah rolled over onto his side and nestled his rough cheek down into a pillow of softness with a smile. Yeah. He hadn’t generated a fantasy like this one for a while. It was a woman’s voice in his dream. A sexy woman, judging by the blend of confidence and huskiness in her tone—some tough chick who wasn’t taking any guff off anyone. He liked a woman who could stand up to trouble. That meant she could stand up to him.

“Call the cops. Yes, I know. But that’s my problem, not yours…check on you as soon as I’m back in Richmond. Sometime this…call them. Or I will.”

The woman went away for a while, but when the hushed tones returned, he realized it was Becky’s voice. Zachariah grinned as he dozed. Definitely a sexy woman. Unexpectedly beautiful in ways that made his hormones crazy. “Dad? Yes, it’s me again. Now tell me exactly what…”

Becky was a tough chick. Oh, she might class up the exterior with tailored clothes and ten-dollar words, but there was nothing but steel running through her graceful backbone.

Zachariah pushed aside the covers and flipped onto his back, keeping his ear attuned to the fading voice, hoping she’d issue a command to him like she had before they’d fallen asleep. “Touch me here. Kiss me.I need you in me. Now!” Or maybe he was cooling off his body, which automatically heated up as fantasies turned into memories of Becky and the afternoon and night they’d shared.

Yeah, that first time, he’d shown all the finesse of a rutting bull. It had been a catharsis for him—a blinding expression of long-denied hunger and a driving need to find acceptance and humanity and healing. The second time had been a little more civilized. It had involved the bed and some champagne and using each other as wineglasses before rolling her onto her back and burying himself inside her. By the time he’d carried her out of the shower and they’d done it for a third time, Zachariah had been well and truly exhausted. Time zone changes and sleepless nights and mind-numbing sex had all caught up with him and he’d crashed. The bed was clean and comfy; Becky was warm by his side. His physical needs were sated enough for the time being that he could fall into a deep, long slumber.

Maybe that heavy, restorative sleep was what made him so groggy now as he tried to rouse himself enough to understand Becky’s urgent whispers. She must be on her cell phone, pacing, judging by the ebb and flow of volume. Talking softly, but not talking to him—unless his sleep-addled brain was translating her words into things that didn’t make sense. “Is she okay?”

Was who okay? The king-size mattress shifted as she sank down onto the opposite edge. Becky was all right, wasn’t she? Even though he’d been rougher than he’d intended that first time, she hadn’t complained last night.

In fact, the only one he knew definitely wasn’t okay was Lance Corporal Watson. And a half-dozen rebel insurgents with murder on their minds.

Watson.

Shit.

Dreams of a busty blonde in his bed vanished in a poof of harsh reality as the familiar nightmare crept out of a dark corner of his mind and seized control of his thoughts. Zachariah twisted on the bed, but he wasn’t conscious enough to scare it away.

“Where the hell…? Watson! Fall back! Fall back!”

“I can reach it, sir!”

“Negative! We regroup now!”

“Just one more second.”

“Get your ass out of there, Marine! It’s gonna blow!”

“I almost—”

“Watson!”

All at once, Zachariah was gritty and greasy, slick with sweat. His nostrils burned from the fiery heat raining down around him. His gut and shoulder burned even hotter. The rebels were neutralized, civilian casualties, zero. A successful mission by top-brass standards.

Gutsy kid. A real Marine. A real hero.

Stunned from his own wounds, Zachariah dragged his feet, carrying what was left of Darrell Watson’s body back to the checkpoint.

It should have been him. Not this green kid with the stupid jokes and a picture of his mom in his pocket. It was his bomb to disarm, damn it! His responsibility! Watson shouldn’t have taken the risk. If only the kid would have waited five seconds as he’d ordered. Five seconds! He shouldn’t have been there. Zachariah should have wrestled the corporal’s skinny butt to the ground and blown the charge himself before the timer ticked down on them. Watson shouldn’t be dead. Zachariah should have kept the kid safe.

Ah, hell. He couldn’t get away from the fire and the guilt. He couldn’t escape. Ah, hell.

“Zachariah?”

A distant voice blipped through his imagination as Zachariah fought with the haunting shadows. Sequestered together like this, nothing should be able to get to him or Becky. Al-Bazan was thousands of miles away, yet it had somehow invaded this very room.

Darrell Watson was dead. He should have kept him safe.

But all he’d been able to do was stand guard over a closed casket and watch Darrell’s mother cry.

“Zachariah. Can you hear me?”

He felt a warm touch at his face, another pressed against his heart.

“Zachariah. Wake up.”

Clinging to the lifeline of that commanding voice, Zachariah struggled to obey. His subconscious mind sorted reality from nightmare, and he woke with a start.

With every muscle locked on guard against the terrors of that night, Zachariah opened his eyes to find Becky’s face hovering above him. Her rich, cobalt eyes were lined with concern. She’d climbed onto the middle of the bed to shake him out of that dark place where he’d gone.

“Are you okay?” Those unblinking eyes were daring him to deny the truth.

Zachariah sat up straight and sucked in a deep breath that nudged his shoulder against her. She quickly jerked away as if the contact had singed her. What the hell?

He must have said something in his sleep, done something that alarmed her—hell, he could have scared the crap out of her for all he knew.

“I was having a bad dream,” he admitted, keeping any details about post-traumatic stress to himself. He kept silent about his survivor’s guilt, and his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, which the unit psychologist had discussed with him at his hospital discharge meeting. Hell