Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

He dreamed he was home. The soft body beside him was warm. Toasty warm, like embers-in-a-fireplace warm. And sweet, like a shot of whiskey, if handled gently. But a killer bee that would kill you, if not. And willing, with the same qualifiers. His woman was tantalizingly addictive. Her taste. Her smell. All a man needed. Everything he wanted. A little bit of golden sunshine with a splash of red-hot cayenne pepper. Asher's nose automatically sought Marlowe's unique scent.

He buried his face in the fragrant cleft of her neck. He'd found it, the secret place where no other man's nose had ever been before. Caught between Marlowe's shoulder and skull, her neck was the most vulnerable part of her body. If a woman wasn't careful, it could easily be snapped, twisted, and broken. Life could be ended in a second, intentionally or accidentally. Once a neck broke, there was no putting it back together. Life didn't work like that, and Mother Nature wasn't kind. Yet there he was, trusted and welcomed to the one place on earth where he was king.

Screech. Squeak. Oomph.

Warning! Discord! Error! Error!

Hold the damned phone. Not king. God, no. Never king or boss. Not team leader or lord or any sort of superior being. Certainly not Big Brother. Just…

Panicked, Asher opened his eyes, needing to see. To know.

Ah-h-h-h. There she is. The best thing in his world. Marlowe. Curled under his arm like a kitten, her back to his side, and her hands fisted below her chin. Sound asleep and purring. True and faithful. Fierce but willing. A little too brave, too courageous sometimes. But…

"Mine," he whispered, his good hand instinctively wandering beneath her shirt. Around her ribs to there. Right there. His chest heaved with male satisfaction the instant his fingers slid over her breast. His mouth watered at the extra-warm gift in his hand. Not large. Just right. A handful of tender heaven come to earth.

My honey. A smile stretched his face at the notion that maybe this was why his dad called his mom honey. Coincidence? Probably not. More like an awakening. A connection of sorts, to all the men throughout time who had ever treasured a woman the way Asher treasured this one.

He'd dated in high school. Ran with a pack of wild ones before enlisting. Hadn't bonded with a woman, though. Hadn't wanted to. Army Rangers had higher priorities than marriage and family. He was driven by ego and pride then. Full of himself. An invincible idiot. One of the few, a proud warrior, and a dead-eye sniper, who got things done.

Then along came Somalia…

Asher closed his mind against the internal damnation that came with that piece of his past. In less than a few hours in Somalia, he'd been reduced from mighty hero to mere mortal. A frail creature who hadn't been able to save himself. Who should've saved Alissa. But didn't. Couldn't.

They'd been within feet of each other in those long final hours. So close. Not close enough. She was around ten; Asher didn't know for certain, he'd never asked. Shy, dark eyes, and always a smile for him because he gave her peppermint candy.

When the building above them blew up, he'd been caught in a triangle of crossed beams and dirt. The supporting timbers of that shabby basement room had sheltered him from the full weight of its collapsed walls. Not Alissa. She was caught, engulfed. No timbers lessened the weight suffocating her. No timbers to shield the bones in her tiny body to keep them from breaking. Alissa and her father. Both buried. Him beneath her. Her possibly still sitting on his shoulder when she breathed her last.

Crushing syndrome. The effects of a ton of dirt on a trapped human body. Lungs, heart, bones, kidneys, and every other organ are crushed and squeezed until the body's organs burst in upon themselves. Capillaries. Veins. Nerves. Kidneys. Lungs. Nothing could withstand that final hug from Mother Earth.

Like Asher, Alissa had been buried up to her chin. The difference between their situations was those lifesaving beams and the volume and density of the dirt where they'd landed. And the fact that he was an adult American male in his prime, sustained by a lifetime of good nutrition that made his bones and musculature stronger.

Alissa hadn't had those same opportunities. Hunger had stalked her short life and ISIL ensured she'd never be free to choose for herself. During her last panicked moments, she hadn't been able to draw enough air into her poor compressed lungs. Her teary brown eyes had relayed her panic and desperation. She'd wanted him to save her. The image of her suffocating never faded. There'd been pleading and terror in her eyes. Guilt in Asher's. His most relentless, most awful, rebounding nightmares.

He faced the truth for the first time since Heston's grimy face had peered down at him through the dusty rubble shortly after that collapse. He'd jokingly asked if Asher wanted a hand up or if he was going to lay around all day, a hero's way of greeting an injured comrade. Heston hadn't known that Alissa and her father were there. Couldn't see her from his vantage point. But facts were facts. She was already gone by then, and Asher wasn't. Heston couldn't have saved them anyway.

Heaving a shuddering breath, he closed his hand around Marlowe's breast. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, since his good arm was around and partially beneath her shoulder. But he managed. Her body was soft, made for better things than war and tragedy. But then, weren't most women made for better things?

With a sigh, she rolled onto her back. Determined to let the past finally rest, to let go and move on, he ducked under the blanket and sucked the tip of her breast into his mouth. Marlowe was his new life. He needed this.

She stirred. He suckled harder, drawing the now rigid nub deeper into his mouth. Breathing in the vanilla cookie scent on her skin. Inhaling every intoxicating pheromone. Everything Marlowe. Wanting to eat her up and swallow her whole. Two working hands were all he needed. Two hands to better love this woman. One for each breast. Was that asking too much?

Awake now, her fingers slid into his hair and over his scalp. A full-body shiver whispered through him. Goosebumps prickled his skin. The race to get her out of her clothes was on. And him without ten fingers. Damn, he was fumbling this first. Their first. There'd never be another and he was all thumbs.

Until Marlowe, his fierce but willing partner, pushed her weight carefully against him, and left him no option but to ease flat to his back and protect his injured shoulder. She didn't stop there. Straddling him like a horse, Marlowe pulled her gown up and over her head.

Sweet Jesus. Asher stopped breathing. He needed to see. To touch. Clothed, she was gorgeous. But naked? There was enough ambient light to see she was dazzling. Trim. Fit. Muscled. Yet feminine. Small-breasted, yes. But a mouthful and a handful, what man needed more?

He reached for her, but she reached first. Down between their bodies. Damn, she was quick and her fingers were strong. Asher closed his eyes and let the drumbeat roll.

Marlowe didn't quite know what to do with him, now that she had him. But getting a man's attention wasn't rocket science. If she kept working him—and she was a fast learner—that stiff, smug thing in her grip would go off like a rocket. It was primed. Ready to blow. Asher was wondering how the hell he'd explain the mess when—

She slipped him into her tender folds, and he gasped at the warm tightness of her sheath. If she didn't back off and slow down, it would be over before she knew it. Not good.

"Marlowe. H-Honey. I…" That was as far as he got.

She loved like she lived. Headstrong and charging. Always charging.

Asher had no choice but to take firm hold, albeit one-handed hold of her hip, and work with her. She was breathing hard. Her palms were now planted on his pecs. Her nails were dug in. When she slammed down, grinding against him, he thrust up, filling her to the hilt. Seemed like he only thrust a couple times when…

God, yes. Her body squeezed around him. All of him. Her thighs, her core, her legs. Her nails bit deep. He thrust harder and—

Marlowe threw her head back and exploded in what he hoped was her first orgasm. Sure felt like it was his. Exquisite release poured out of him as quivering micro-orgasms danced out of her dripping core. He held on with one hand to that sweaty hip. Not ready to let her go. Not yet. It'd been a long time since he'd come that strong. Holy shit. He'd never orgasmed so hard before. Talk about a wet dream come true.

Blowing out a full breath, she face-planted against his chest. They were both sweating and sticky. Both panting and still very much connected. In his living room. Without protection, damn it. But what a ride.

Her heart was racing. Like his. He smiled, wondering what signals the monitor she'd stuck to his chest was sending back to TEAM HQ.

Smoothing his hand over Marlowe's bare ass, like some stone-age Neanderthal, tapping his fingers to a drumbeat he'd never heard or felt before, Asher told her, "This is mine."

Hmmm. Maybe he was part caveman. As long as Marlowe was Wilma to his Fred Flintstone, he could live with that.

It was time to face the music. "My fault. I didn't use protection. I should have."

"I have an implant. It's good for years."

"When did you get it?"

She fluttered her lashes at him. "Before I went overseas."

"And that would be…?"

Her lips pinched and her eyes widened. "Three years ago. Shit. I might not be protected any more. What will I do?"

Taking hold of her shoulders, Asher said, "First of all, there is no ‘I might not be protected.' Only ‘we might be pregnant.' Understand what I'm saying?"

She shook her head and romance was over.

"Honey, what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm in this with you."

"But babies are inconvenient and noisy and messy. Men don't like that stuff."

"All men are not like your father, honey. Would Harley leave Judy and his boys? Would Alex leave Kelsey, Lexie, and Bradley?"

"No, but…" Marlowe's gaze focused on something behind him.

"Honey, most men are hardworking, regular guys. They love their kids, and they adore their wives."

She ran her fingers over her lips, still not looking at him.

"Sweetheart, I'm not your enemy." He tugged her hands back down on his chest. "Feel that? It's me, Marlowe. Just me. I'm here with you. Talk with me. Tell me what's going on."

"I…" She swallowed hard, then swallowed again. "It's not that I don't want a baby. It's just that…" Her fingers fluttered on his biceps. "Do you really want them? Kids, I mean. We're not even married, and we really just met, and you're a guy, and guys always leave, and…"

Asher kept quiet, giving her time. Didn't rush her. Wouldn't put words in her mouth. Her pulse was already beating hard. Poor thing was panicked. She didn't need to be bullied or shamed. She was doing a bang-up job of that all by herself. He offered a smile, hoping that was enough of a hint.

"Aren't you mad at me? I mean, shouldn't you be mad if I'm pregnant? If my implant doesn't work and, umm…" There went her fingers again. "Would you, would you want it?"

" It ? You mean our baby ?" His mouth widened into a smile all by itself. What he wouldn't give to have both hands and all ten fingers. "First." He raised his only working index finger. "It's ‘if we're pregnant', not ‘if I'm pregnant.' Got that? You're not the only naked one here. I'm as responsible as you are for what we just did together."

Another finger joined the first. "Second, only losers turn their backs on their woman and children, and I'm not a loser. Your dad was, Marlowe. He left you and he let you down. I'm guessing every other man in your life did the same, right?"

She shrugged, too stubborn to admit it.

"And third…" Asher waited until he had her complete attention. "I love you with all my heart. If we're pregnant, we're in this together, and we're going to be spectacular parents. If we're not…" He tugged her face down to his and all-out assaulted her mouth, kissing the ever-loving heck out of her. Nipping her lips. Licking her fear away. Kissing his love and devotion into her. By the time he pulled back, her lips were glossy-wet. She was dewy-eyed and breathless. "If we're not pregnant, we'll practice till we get it right."

She nodded again, her blue eyes wide and too big for her face.

"Pregnant or not, I'm the luckiest son of a bitch ever. I want to howl at the moon and celebrate with you. Only you. Now tell me, do you want this baby that we still don't know you might be carrying or not?"

"I want it," breathed out of her mouth. She looked down at his chest and damned if his cock didn't spring into action. "But I don't know how to be a mom. I don't want to hurt her. I mean it. I mean… him."

"Aww, honey, look how you mothered the women you rescued. You put your life on the line to save them, right?"

"Sure, but that's different."

"It's not. That's what good mothers do, Marlowe. They fight to protect the people they love, like I know you'll protect our baby." The more Asher tried to persuade Marlowe, the more he liked the idea of her being pregnant with his child. "Motherhood and fatherhood is what happens when you're carrying your heart outside your body. Like you might be."

She looked down at where their bodies were connected. "Are you…?" Her brows furrowed. "Do you feel that?"

Ah, he loved the wonder shining in her eyes. Proudly, Asher thrust upward. "Yes, I are, and yes, I do. Sorry, but I'm a guy and that's how we roll. Practice makes perfect." He gave her a way out. "Unless you're not ready. No stress, honey. If you'd rather—"

She reached down and circled what she could reach of him with two fingers. "Shut up and kiss me."

Yup. Bossy. His kind of girl.