18

Evangeline

"I have a lock on the door to the apartment," I demur.

He follows me up the stairs, which creak. The scent of food lingers in the corridor. The sound of a woman yelling reaches us as we pass the apartment on the second floor. We reach the third floor, and I fit the key into the lock and push it open. I walk in, and Q follows me. I drop my handbag on the breakfast counter and turn to find him surveying the paintings I’ve stacked against the wall.

He walks over to them, begins to peruse them, and it feels like he’s touching my body. I didn’t feel this exposed when Zara looked at them. I wasn't worried she was cataloging my soul the way Q is.

My paintings are personal; each of them contains a bit of my soul, but not everyone can see that. I'm afraid he's one of those who can. He continues to glance through them, and when he doesn’t say anything, I bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t say it, don’t say it… "What do you think?" I blurt out.

Without replying, he continues to survey the canvasses. When he’s done with the last one, he turns to me. He gives my words careful consideration then nods. "They have potential."
I blink, wait, but he doesn’t say anything more.

"That’s it?" I stare. "That’s all you have to say?"
"I’m no expert, but there are flashes of brilliance in what you’ve done. I think you could be better. In fact, I’m sure you’ll get better the more you paint."
Why do I feel so deflated that he didn't effusively praise my work? I should appreciate his honesty. Especially since he's right. And his observation cut straight to the crux of what's been bothering me. Time. I need to carve out more time to paint.
The more you express yourself, the better you get. That’s all there is to it. Again, he’s right. And now, I am more pissed-off, both at him and myself. Why does he always have to be right? Is it because he’s older than me and has more experience? Why does that make me feel unsophisticated? Ugh. I spin around and head to the bathroom, with him at my heels.
By the time I retrieve the first aid kit from the shelf below the sink and turn to him, he’s perched at the edge of the tub. I grab the roll of cotton and the antiseptic. I wet a clean washcloth with hot water from the tap and walk over to him.

“Take it off,” I nod toward his blood splattered T-shirt.
Only when the words are out do I realize how suggestive they sound. He notices it, too, for his eyes gleam. “Bossing me around, Obsidian?”
“And if I am?” I tip up my chin.

Our gazes connect again and I’m sure he’s going to tell me off for taking the lead, but he must be more hurt than I realized for he doesn’t protest further.
He pulls off his T-shirt, and I gasp. The area around his ribs has turned a mottled-green. Blood oozes from the wound. He must have been in pain all this time, but the ease with which he carried me… I never would've guessed.

Without meeting his eyes, I step between his legs. When I touch the cloth to his wound, the muscles bunch under his skin. And when I begin to clean the wound, he exhales sharply.
“Sorry, I... Did I hurt you?”

I look into his face to find blue fire in his gaze. The muscles at his jaw flex, and I know he’s grinding his teeth.
“Are... Are you okay?”

“Just get on with it.” His voice is terse.
Oh god, it must be hurting him more than I realized. I increase my pace, while also trying to be gentle. I dab the cloth around the edges of his wound, and he flinches. When he doesn’t pull away, I continue to soak up the blood with the cloth. I lean in closer to get a better look, and his breath ghosts over my cheek. I shiver. My hair brushes over his torn skin, and he groans.
“Oh, shoot. Sorry, sorry, I’m going as fast as I can.”
My hand slips, and his entire body jolts.

“Ugh, I’m such a klutz." I blow on the wound, and a low groan rumbles up his chest. Instantly, I’m wet. My nipples peak. Shit, shit, shit. The man is in pain, and I’m worried about him, but touching him, taking care of him, being this close to him, and knowing he’s just as affected by my nearness spikes the air between us with an eroticism that escalates the level of horniness I feel to thermonuclear levels.

I follow the cuts and bruises to one that dips under the waistband of his jeans. It feels right to be on my knees in front of him, so I sink down, my skin on the cool tile the only thing keeping me from overheating as I run the washcloth across his torso. The noise he makes thrills me. I want him to make it again and again.

I slide the cloth under the waistband, and he swears. His thigh muscles ripple like there are waves trapped under his skin. Also, there’s a boat between his legs. No, make that a cruise ship as big as the titanic, after it hit the iceberg and is now sinking in a vertical fashion. He’s aroused, and it’s because I’m touching him. Exhilaration dampens the triangle between my legs further. A giddy sense of power courses under my skin. That... that... thing at his crotch is nothing to sneeze about. If he... If he puts it inside me... Assuming it fits, I’m sure to feel it at the backs of my eyes. My pussy begins to weep.

The sound of him clearing his throat cuts through my reverie. Heat sears my cheeks.
“Are you done?” His voice is like gravel.

“Almost.” I jump up to my feet, then raise the washcloth to pat at the cut on his forehead. This, of course, puts my face in front of his, my lips in front of his. Our noses almost bump. Our eyelids almost tangle. I’m aware of his gaze scalding me, but I don’t dare look at him. A cloud of heat spools off his big body and tightens around me. Sweat beads my upper lip. His breath singes my cheek, and I almost moan. It feels like I’m touching a predator that, at any moment, might open its mouth and consume me whole. And oh God, I'd like that so much. I swallow hard, then I incline my head to get a better angle; his nose brushes my neck.
Goosebumps sprout on my skin. He takes a deep breath and I freeze.

“Did you sniff me?" I whisper.
“Fucking roses.” His voice has dropped a few octaves. “Why do you always smell of roses?”
“M-my... body wash.”
He makes a strained noise at the back of his throat. Then, he slides his hand between us and adjusts himself.

“Are you... Are you... aroused?” I squeak.
“You’re standing between my legs with your tits pushed into my chest, and I can feel your bullet-shaped nipples straining to tear through your blouse and stabbing into my skin, so forgive me for not being very disciplined,” he growls.

“My boobs are not—” I glance down to find my ample bosom is, indeed, squashed against the planes of his chest. I was so caught up in cleaning his wound, I didn’t notice. Or maybe I did and didn’t pull back because I wanted to be a brat and provoke him into reacting. Maybe it’s because being able to provoke a reaction from him, knowing how affected he is by my nearness excites me even more?

I jump back and toss the washcloth into the sink. Then, snatch the antiseptic spray and hold it by his forehead with the nozzle pointed at the wound, my hand cupped around his eye to protect it from overspray. "Ready?"
When he doesn’t reply, I squeeze down on the nozzle. A hiss of air escapes from between his lips.
“Oh, my god, did that hurt? Should I blow on it and make it better?”
I rise up on my tiptoes to do that, and he snaps, “Don’t.” Then he clears his throat. “I mean, there’s no need to do that.”
The brat in me makes me say, “No, really, it’s okay. It’ll make it better.” I blow on his forehead, then do it again.

He stays perfectly still. Doesn’t make a sound. I look down to find his gaze is fixed on my cleavage. A nerve pops at his temple. His fingers are curled into fists at his side. The tendons on his throat stand out in relief. A chuckle wells up, but I manage not to laugh. It feels good to hold the power, for once.

“Are. You. Done?” He bites out the words.
“Almost.” I lower back to my heels, then mop up the blood from the wounds on his side. With the blood wiped off, the wounds are not as deep as I’d anticipated. His chest planes ripple. He grunts, but there’s no other reaction from him.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "It’s okay if you want to groan or cry out. It won’t take away from your macho-ness."

I look up to find he’s watching me with an intense look in his blue eyes. The kind that makes me feel he’s gleaned all of my secrets.
"Is this your way of getting back at me because you weren’t happy with my answer about your paintings?" He arches an eyebrow.
"What? Of course not. I would never?—"
His lips quirk.

I scoff. "I walked into that one."
"You did," he agrees.
I set the antiseptic spray aside and grab a few bandages. I begin to dress the wound on his forehead, but he wraps his thick fingers around my wrist. “There’s no need for that.”
“It’s either that, or I take you to the emergency room.” I meet his gaze with a challenge in my eyes.

He searches my features, and one side of his mouth quirks. “Enjoying being in charge?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.” I flutter my eyelashes at him.

“You’ll pay for that, you know?” he says in a mild tone.
The goosebumps on my skin transform into heart-eye emojis. I’m counting on it. Outwardly, I toss my head and tease, “I’m sooo scared.”

A sly look comes into his eyes. “I hope so. I always follow through on my promises, baby.”
Ooh, why does him calling me baby, feel both tender and erotic, and so, so, hot?

“So do I, baby.” I lean in close enough that our mouths almost brush.
Then he swears, “Fuck.”
“That, too, baby.”

Both of us glance down to where I’ve slapped the sterile gauze over a wound on his chest—this one, right over his heart. Symbolic? Maybe.
Perhaps that thought crossed his mind, too, for we both fall silent. Then I step back and finish dressing his wounds.

"There, all done." I begin to move away, but he stops me with a hand on my hip. It’s a proprietary grip. The kind that conveys he feels ownership over me. The kind I feel all the way to my toes.

When I raise my gaze to his, his eyes are heavy with lust, but his expression is one of tenderness. "Thank you.” The tendons of his throat move as he swallows.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper.

He draws in a slow breath. "Rayden thinks I’m responsible for his wife being killed in action." He takes the roll of bandage from my grasp and sets it on the counter.
“What?” I gasp. “What do you mean?”
“Rayden’s wife was on my team. I sent them on a mission that was compromised. I had to make a snap decision which ended with her being killed. They never found her body.”
“Oh, my god.” I press my knuckles into my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Q.”

The band around my ribcage tightens. I forget, sometimes, that as a Marine, he’s seen death up-close. It’s a word that’s not part of my daily parlance, like it would have been for him.
It brings home, once again, how much more of the world he’s seen.
"I’ll never forgive myself for what happened.” He lowers his chin to his chest. His eyes are bleak. There’s a coldness to his demeanor that signals he’s withdrawing into himself. I can’t let that happen. Not when he’s begun to open up.

"But she was a soldier, too. She had to know it was a possibility that she might not return from the assignment.”
He tilts his head.

"And surely, Rayden must know that when you run missions, the chance of losing your life is high."
"It’s why there are checks and balances in place. We've managed to bring down the chances of losing someone on a mission. It’s rare that it happens."
“But it does happen?”
He jerks his chin.

“And you go in, knowing there’s a chance you won’t return?" Why is it so important that he believe me? Why am I trying to get him to go easier on himself? I don’t want to examine the answer to that too closely.

His features twist. "Tell that to their families."
I take in the tortured expression on his face, and my heart squeezes in empathy. "It must be difficult for you to go on, knowing you played a role in what happened,” I offer.
He looks at me with an expression of surprise on his features.

“I imagine it was also trickier because she was Rayden’s wife. She was family.”