16. Backward Hats And Lady-Boners

Backward Hats And Lady-Boners

Terra

I 'm woken by a gentle touch on my shoulder, lips at my ear. "Terra. Gotta go, babe."

I blink and grumble. "Mmmmm?"

Fingers trace hair away from my face, behind my ear. "We have to get moving."

I wriggle and slither to a sitting position, stretching. "Time's it?"

"Just before six."

He's dressed in black military-style pants with cargo pockets, laced-up black combat boots, and a plain black crewneck T-shirt under a bulletproof vest. A handgun is adhered to the front of the vest, with several magazines beside it.

Fuck. Fuck me.

Backward baseball cap. Why, on some men, does that look inspire an immediate lady boner? On some men, it has the opposite effect—on them, it says this is a guy who never outgrew being the cool hot guy in school. Other dudes? Sexy as fuck.

No male, past or present, has ever been hotter in a backward cap than Saxon Cabot.

I clutch the flat sheet to my chest. "I'm up. Now, you need to get away from me. Posthaste."

He smirks. "Why? Not like I haven't inspected every inch of what you got under that sheet."

"Because," I say, my voice prim and arch. "I happen to have a debilitating condition at the moment."

"And that would be?"

"You, and that fucking backward hat. Instant, involuntary lady boner. I'm exactly one-fifth of a heartbeat from jumping you and having my wicked way with you at least seven times. So, if you want to get out of this room and go get this jackass Jarrod—who by the way, I'm extremely fed up with—then you'll vacate the premises so I can get dressed."

He grins. "Instant, involuntary lady boner when I wear a backwards hat? Good to know." He rakes me with his green eyes, and then tips me onto the bed, covers me with his body, and claims my mouth in a scorching kiss, one full of meaning and promise. "You…" a kiss, "are…" another kiss, " so…" and another, "fucking…" one last kiss, "gorgeous."

My stupid eyes water. "Saxon, dammit—damn you. Damn you. You're always making me cry."

His thumbs brush tears away. "Let 'em flow. As long as they're good tears, right?"

He slides off me, off the bed, and onto his feet, where he bends and scoops something off the floor at the foot of the bed: a big black duffel bag.

I sit up and glance at it, then at him. "What's in there?"

"Your clothes—the non-fancy stuff, at least."

I blink, puzzled; upon unzipping the bag, I discover his statement to be true—all of my underwear, all of my bras, all of my leggings, T-shirts, socks, tank tops, camisoles, rompers…any and all clothing that doesn't go on a hanger and isn't, as he put it, fancy.

"I have several questions."

"Apparently our fair host predicted our needs and sent Ambrosia in a helicopter to your place in Boston. She packed up all that stuff, and…" He grabs another bag, like the first. "This."

Shoes. All my shoes.

He shrugs. "Apparently he also hired professional movers to pack up the rest of your stuff—everything—and sent it home, meaning, Club Sin, in Vegas."

"My sewing stuff?"

He shrugs. "Apparently, yes."

"Why?"

Another shrug, a shake of his head. "Hell if I know. But, honestly, it seems like a good thing. It's what you wanted, right?"

"I mean, as long as my projects aren't fucked up, and my sewing machine was transported safely, yeah. It's just…weird."

He just lifts his palms up. "It's Jean-Paul."

And, I suppose, that does sort of answer the question.

Saxon dons his vest again and snags a long black rifle from where he'd leaned it against the doorframe. "Dress sensibly. Time to end this."

"Hey," I say, stopping him before he exits.

He turns. "Yeah?"

"I hope you understand that I'm gonna get you back for that. One day you're gonna wake up tied to your bed and I'm gonna do sinful, wicked, delicious things to you until you beg me to let you go."

He just grins. "Baby, I'm counting on it." he winks. "I'll have coffee and something to eat for you when you're dressed."

I dress in a matching set—my tightest, most supportive black sports bra and tight, stretchy, supportive black briefs—not sexy, maybe, but comfortable. Supportive. The kind of underwear that signals to my brain that it's go time—I mean business. No shenanigans. Let the ass-kicking commence.

Black leggings, black T-shirt. Combat boots, with good tall socks. In the duffel bag I also find my very small collection of hats—I'm not really a hat girl, for the most part. I have a couple though, which I generally only wear to the gym, including my favorite: a black Lululemon one that fits like a glove, has a brim curved just right, with a big enough back opening for my braided hair to fit through.

Thus attired in my most badass outfit, I haul the bags to the door. "Where'd you get your clothes and the guns?" I ask, trotting to catch up to him.

He slows his pace for me. "Borrowed from his guards. The pants are a little short—I wouldn't normally blouse them like that."

I glance down and see that he's tucked the hems of his pants into the boots, blousing them. "Do I get a vest?"

We reach the end of the hallway—last night was a blur, and I only have vague memories of coming to the room. Apparently, drinking a whole decanter of ultra-rare, priceless wine is a fast way to get tipsy.

"Also, why was I sleeping naked?"

He chuckles. "You stripped naked, got into bed, and passed out."

I sigh. "I didn't mean to get drunk. I'm sorry."

He bumps me with his shoulder. "No worries. We were safe, at that point, so the pressure was off. Besides, you earned it." He smirks down at me. "It was a rough night for me, though, you naked in bed with me."

"You could've woken me up," I say.

This gets me a snort. "You were down for the count. I'm teasing—I slept like a rock. In fact, I sleep better next to you than I ever have. You being naked was just a plus."

The hallways are a maze, but he seems to know his way around, somehow. It's deserted, silent. The house is lavish, the stone walls lined with tapestries and lit with faux sconces, the floors lined with plush carpet, stained glass windows letting in the dawn light.

Down a flight of stairs to a landing where we can go left into a huge industrial kitchen bustling with staff, or right, through another doorway. We go right, through the doorway, and into a huge garage.

Limos, sports cars, SUVs, classics, concept cars…the collection boggles the mind.

Saxon laughs and hauls me by the hand across the garage. "Focus, gearhead."

We reach our car, the rose-gold armored Range Rover. "And, to answer your question, yes. You get a vest." He opens the trunk, tosses my bags in along with the rifle, and snags another vest. "But I warn you, I've heard they're quite uncomfortable for women with larger busts."

"You know what's uncomfortable? Getting shot. Or so I hear."

A dark, sarcastic laugh. "Yes, honey, getting shot is uncomfortable."

He helps me into the vest, tugs it down into place, and tightens it. And oof, he's not kidding—it's not made for a woman with tits as big as mine. Or, any tits, of any size.

Also, it's heavy as fuck.

I'm immediately hot.

I refuse to complain, though, but I can't help tugging on it, adjusting it, wriggling in a vain attempt to make it fit better.

Saxon laughs. "Yeah. It's ballistic body armor with ceramic plates thick enough to stop a rifle round. It's heavy, hot, and uncomfortable—and I don't have boobs being smashed by it."

I square my shoulders. "I'll be fine." I adjust it again, futilely. "But I do have a newfound respect for female police officers who wear this shit all day every day."

"Well, you don't usually wear it with the plates, on a normal patrol. You only put in the plates if you think you're gonna face someone with a long gun. Most standard-issue vests will stop most handguns, but you have to wear this shit with the plates to have any resistance against anything else. And make no mistake, it'll still hurt like an absolute motherfucker if you do take a round."

"You act like it's nothing."

He shrugs. "Been wearing this shit for years. Used to it." He closes the trunk. "Let's get going. Coffee and muffins are in the front."

I climb in and buckle up. "Shouldn't we just take the vests off and put them on closer to the place?"

"Normally, yes. When riding in an armored vehicle, normally, yes. But this is Jarrod. I'm not taking any chances. Best to leave it on." He shoots me an apologetic look. "It's not a long drive."

I adjust the belt, adjust the vest. "Well then, step on it. This asshole is really on my nerves."

He just laughs. "You and me, both, sweetheart. If it wasn't for him, I'd still have you spreadeagle on that bed, and I wouldn't be finger-fucking you."

I point at him. "Don't. DO…NOT . You're still wearing the backwards hat, and the whole fucking uniform look? Fuck. So just…don't reference sex. Okay? We need to focus, and I don't know if you realize it or not, but we sort of have an issue with getting sidetracked by sex. As in, we look at each other crossways and suddenly we're fucking."

He turns the hat forward. "Better?"

I growl. "No. I just can't look at you or you'll be getting roadhead."

Another laugh. "Well fuck, don't threaten me with a good time."

"Just drive. We'll fuck after we've completed our mission." I turn to look out the window as we exit the garage and into a brightening gray day, dawn making itself known over the horizon.

There is coffee, fortunately, which distracts me. And chocolate muffins. I devour one, washing it down with sips of piping-hot coffee. Saxon tries to eat a muffin while driving but only succeeds in making a godawful mess of himself.

I laugh and take the muffin from him. Unwrap it. Pinch off a piece and cup my other hand underneath as I bring the piece to his mouth. "Open."

He shoots me a look. "You're gonna feed me?"

I arch an eyebrow at him. "You want the muffin or not?"

He opens his mouth, and I pop the piece in. Bite by bite, I feed it to him.

It shouldn't be hot. But it is.

It shouldn't be so intimate, but it is.

It's surprisingly easy, being with him. Even while driving to what very well could be our deaths, being with him is easy. At first, he seemed like your average grumpy alpha hot guy. But the more time I've spent with him—which, granted, isn't very much in the grand scheme of things—the more he's opened up. He hasn't softened exactly, just…let me see the real him.

I'd love to think it's me that brought that out of him. Maybe I have. But…he's brought it out of me, too. Something in me instinctively trusts him, and he's definitely earned my trust. Which isn't easy.

He's protected me, but he trusts me to handle myself. He doesn't act like I'm some flimsy damsel.

I've jumped in with both feet with this guy. Zero to a hundred in no time flat—just met him to ready to move in, within forty-eight hours? Am I fucking nuts?

Maybe.

But if there's one thing I've learned, it's to trust my gut. This has been a tricky lesson because my heart falls hard and fast and my head gets confused.

But my gut? Never fails.

I had red flags, with Travis. Things that set warning bells jangling in my belly for weeks if not months before he did what he did.

Saxon is so different. The polar opposite. He gives and, I think, often believes himself not worthy of receiving. He thinks more of me than himself.

Travis thought nothing of me, and everything of himself.

Travis took what I wasn't offering.

Travis took. And took. And took.

Saxon gives, and gives, and gives.

I look at Saxon as he drives. His already considerable bulk appears even bigger due to the vest. His face is tense, lost in thought. Focused. The scar looks white, against the golden hue of his skin.

"Why are we doing this in the middle of the day?" I ask. "Aren't ambushes better at night?"

"Can't see shit at night. Even with night vision, night ops are tricky. This isn't a Navy SEAL infil-extract, right? Jarrod believes he's meeting Jean-Paul's lieutenant for a briefing and updating of his orders concerning me. He thinks Jean-Paul is getting tired of the lack of results, I'm guessing. Such a meeting wouldn't happen at night. It's not a drug deal or an arms deal. And for that matter, most of that shit happens during the day, too. Because at the end of the day, it's all just business. And most business happens during the day. I know in movies and TV shows, this shit happens at night, in some shipping yard. Super dramatic. And that shit does go down like that, but not as often as you'd think."

"How will it go, do you think?"

He glances at me, rolls a shoulder. "Plan is to isolate him, get him away from his posse. I probably have to do a lot of very careful shooting. I'll need you ready behind the wheel, engine running and in gear so when I get his ass tied up and tossed in the trunk, we can get the fuck out. I'm not planning on letting this turn into a prolonged firefight."

"Saxon?"

He hears the concern, the depth in my voice, and turns to look at me. "Yeah, babe."

"I know Camilla wants him alive. I know you took a vow to not kill. But…we have to both come out of this. No matter what it takes. Yeah? I feel like we found each other—we got thrown together, and I…I'm not ready to let go. I'm not moving on. So…just…"

He takes my hand. Squeezes. Smiles. "This is what I do."

I squeeze back.

What I don't say, though, is that it's what he used to do. He's not the Bloody Viking anymore. He's… changed. Everyone who knew him says he's not that man—he says he's not that man.

But…I can't help wondering if this situation needs the Bloody Viking.

I'm in love with the man he is now. I doubt I'd have been able to love the man he was. And if he becomes who he needs to be to get us out of this, will he go back to being the man he was?

What a fucking conundrum.

I twist and reach back into the bag of hardware. Find a pistol. I've watched him enough and remember my lessons with Ricardo—eject the magazine. Full of bullets. Slide and tap. Hold the big, heavy, cold piece of metal.

And wonder if I can use it.