Defending Hearts. Rebecca Crowley

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СКАЧАТЬ in turn. “These are for movement, so this is to crouch, this is to run, and this one jumps. These two are for your weapon—you can switch, or reload. The ones on the edges…”

      His words devolved into a fuzzy hum as every one of her senses homed in on the details of his proximity. The long, slim fingers brushing against hers as he indicated each button. The warm press of his hard triceps against her shoulder. The scent of eucalyptus, sharp and clean and bright and so intoxicating she could barely think.

      Tremendous pressure settled on her chest, threatening to collapse her lungs as she fought off overwhelming, alien impulses to touch him. To kiss him. To thread her fingers through his hair and close her lips around his tongue. She tried desperately to swim to the surface, kicking and thrashing at the base instincts clasping at her ankles.

      Had she ever been this desperate before? This helpless?

      Never. Not once.

      “Got it?”

      His voice was an unexpectedly cold shower from frozen pipes on a winter morning. She jolted back to herself, shaky and disoriented. “Ready,” she lied.

      He started the game, and their character-selves roamed the snowy Soviet landscape, apparently hunting an enemy sniper. Kate barely managed to keep her soldier moving, occasionally—and comically—transposing the buttons for running and shooting. Oz was enthusiastic nonetheless, making suggestions, letting her character open the door to a barn where they found a clue the sniper was nearby.

      “Nice one.” He elbowed her jovially, eyes on the screen. “We should check outside the barn. Maybe he only just left. I’ll cover you in case he fires.”

      “Great,” she muttered as her heart sank with an all-too-familiar revelation.

      They were just friends. She was one of the guys. Again.

      An unwelcome lump rose in her throat as she struggled to maneuver her character to exit the barn. She should be flattered, not on the verge of bawling like a weak, oversensitive baby. A professional athlete with thousands—tens of thousands, probably—of fans wanted to hang out with her. She was fun. Easygoing. Friendly. Like a sister. Isn’t that what countless numbers of would-be boyfriends had told her, year after year after year?

      At least she knew where she stood, and it was comfortable, familiar, easily navigable ground. No pressure. No stress. She could concentrate on being the friend Oz clearly wanted and shelve her silly, fantastical attraction without ever having to face it head-on, or worry about it diverting her focus from rediscovering herself as an independent, self-sufficient woman with no Army safety net beneath her.

      She risked nothing, would lose nothing. It was the best possible outcome, really.

      And the disappointment dragging down her shoulders—she’d get over it. Eventually.

      Their soldiers moved to the door. Oz’s crouched in readiness, weapon drawn. She fumbled to get her own rifle more or less in position, then sent her character forward into the wilderness.

      Her hand hovered over the button to shoot but suddenly the screen froze. The bare trees on the horizon became odd-looking stalks of pixels and she turned to Oz with a frown.

      “Is it broken?”

      He shook his head. “I paused it.”

      “Why? I was about to kick some sniper ass.”

      He turned to her with a concerned expression. “I think I should kiss you.”

      Her jaw practically hit her lap. After a second or two of stunned silence she managed to yank it back up, realign her teeth and force her mouth to form words.

      “What did you say?”

      “Spoiler alert.” He raised an apologetic hand. “There’s some pretty serious fighting up ahead and I don’t want either of us to be distracted.”

      “So you want to—”

      “Kiss you.” He smiled and, hot damn, he was delicious. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I think we’re both wondering if it’s going to happen, when it will happen, should it happen… It’s drawing attention away from this mission, which is, frankly, pretty important to the eventual victory of the Allies over the German military forces.”

      “You want to kiss me,” she repeated dumbly, struggling to wade through the shock and disbelief muddying her mind.

      “It’s up to you. I’m just saying, there are ten million Soviet lives at stake.” He shrugged.

      “Okay,” some distant, detached part of her responded.

      And then it happened. He put two fingers beneath her chin, tilted her face toward his and pressed his lips against hers.

      She stiffened, her mind and heart vying for the fastest pace.

      She shouldn’t do this. Getting involved with anyone was the last thing she needed right now, not to mention a client—oh, shit, was this a violation of her terms of employment? Had she even signed terms of employment?

      Her boss wouldn’t care, surely. She saw Rich, his crew-cut, his oversized belt buckle, his habit of spinning a tobacco tin in his hands during meetings. Would he fire her? Not if her sales figures were good. That’s all he cared about. But if they slipped, she bet he wouldn’t hesitate to…Mentally she slapped herself. You’re making out with a guy you really like—the first time you’ve gotten any action in years. Stop thinking about your job. Stop thinking about the bigger picture. Enjoy the goddamn moment for once.

      She wrenched her awareness out of her brain and shoved it into her body, forcing herself to be present, to experience his touch.

      God, he tastes good.

      Peanut butter. Chocolate. Something else, something hot and sweet and exhilaratingly masculine.

      She found the back of his neck, the warm, soft skin, the brush of his hair against the edge of her finger. She raised her other hand to his shoulder, trailed her thumb along his collarbone. The pressure of his mouth was gentle but encouraging. Patient. Confident.

      Her breathing quickened as she parted her lips cautiously. Too soon? Too fast? She didn’t want him to think—

      He hummed his approval low in his throat, pushing his tongue between her teeth.

      The intimacy nearly stopped her heart.

      Her temporarily silenced brain whirred into motion again. When was the last time she’d been touched like this?

      She remembered the last guy she slept with, while she was still in the army. A bored, drunken capitulation to impulses that had left her unfulfilled and annoyed. She’d heard his oblivious snoring, felt the bite in the Midwestern spring air as she crossed the apartment complex to her front door, recalled her limp, drained sense of defeat as she shoved her vibrator back into its box.

      She remembered the year in Saudi Arabia. Days spent cloaked in a shapeless abaya, drifting around the periphery of her client’s life. Nights alone in her room in a house she shared with three male security guards whose opposite schedules meant she barely knew them. At first she’d enjoyed the privacy, the isolation, the absence of romantic pressure. СКАЧАТЬ