Breaking Danger

  His drive to become a soldier just as soon as humanly possible came straight from the horrors of his childhood. From his visceral understanding, learned well before he had the words to express it, of how dangerous and violent the world was. Particularly to the small and weak.

  He hadn’t even formulated to himself his desire to sign up. It had seemed as natural a next step as breathing. The military, with its emphasis on teamwork and structure, had seemed God-given at the time. Not to mention the fact that he relished the training. The harder, the tougher he became, the better.

  His every waking thought had been to make himself strong and never be a helpless victim again. And to make sure there were as few people like his parents and Popper as possible in the world.

  But—just supposing that hadn’t been his obsession because he’d been safe and loved as a child. It was hard to fathom, but just suppose. It might very well be that without all that darkness in his childhood he’d have gone to MIT or Stanford, become a computer expert, founded a company. Met a lovely woman like Sophie, marry her, even. Why not? Have kids. Other people had kids. Just because he panicked at the thought of children of his in this world didn’t mean the other Jon, AltJon, would panic.

  He’d love and protect his wife and their children, who would grow up in turn happy and healthy. Maybe in a house just like this one, which emanated love and happiness in every corner.

  The images bloomed bright for a moment, then faded. Because the real Jon, and the real world, were right there in front of his eyes. There was no rosy future for him with Sophie as his wife. He’d been cut off from that practically at birth. How the fuck was he supposed to know anything about creating a happy marriage, a happy family?

  His parents had been so damaged, they could barely stand upright. Their blood flowed in his veins. No, he was genetically unsuited for a happy family life. This was a brief moment in time in which he indulged in a flash fantasy, but the truth was, Jon wasn’t mate material. He was damaged inside, broken. It wasn’t his fault, but there it was. He lacked everything, every instinct, that would allow him to marry and stay married. He was too used to lying, to being undercover, to knowing he was moving on. To the next op, the next mission.

  And what the hell was he thinking anyway?

  Monsters were running around the streets. Civilization had fallen. Mac and Catherine were going to bring a child into a world that might be reverting right back to the Stone Age at the speed of light.

  The future was dark, as bleak as it had ever been in the history of humanity . . .

  His hand in Sophie’s was suddenly warm, the warmth creeping up his arm. He lost his train of thought, trying to put it all back together again, but he couldn’t. All he could think about was how warm his hand in Sophie’s was and—

  “That’s a fabulous song!” Sophie exclaimed and stood up, pulling him up with her. “Let’s dance.”

  The song was familiar. He couldn’t have named it, though his cell phone could. But his cell was in his backpack next to one of the sofas. Never mind, what difference did it make that he didn’t know the name of the song? He never paid attention to music, knew nothing about it, but you couldn’t avoid it. It was everywhere—in restaurants and shops, elevators and airports. He’d never paid the slightest attention to the song, but he could actually hum along if he had a voice, which he didn’t.

  “I warned you, didn’t I, that I can’t dance?” He looked uneasily down at their feet. Her pretty feet were bare. He’d put his boots back on. “I really don’t want to step on your toes, so maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  She was humming the tune, moving smoothly into his arms. “Tut-tut, Jon. Big bad warrior, scared of a woman’s feet. Scared of a little music.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “I can’t believe this. You, a coward.”

  He opened his mouth to answer her, a little shocked. No one had ever called him a coward before. He was just about to shoot off a response when he realized . . . he was dancing! She’d just moved them into the rhythm while he wasn’t paying attention. He was dancing! The real thing, too, not the miserable two-step that was basically shifting his weight from one foot to the other, which was the best he’d ever achieved before. He was moving, doing real steps. And it was all Sophie. She wasn’t exactly leading, but every move she made was so natural, fit the music so well, and left a little opening where his body naturally fit, that they were dancing with some real moves.

  “I’m dancing,” he said. He sounded as stunned as he felt.

  “Good going, slick. Now let’s kick it up a notch and make a turn.” And by God they did, together. Totally naturally and gracefully. They turned again. It felt like flying. Her legs moved easily against his and they were thigh to thigh, hip to hip, breast to chest. She had to feel his hard-on, but she just kept on dancing and he kept on following her.

  It was magic. Unlike anything he’d ever felt or done before. He and Sophie were like one person, led by the music. Moving together, breathing together. He’d swear their heartbeats were synchronized. She moved closer because the closer they were, the better they danced. It was one of the very few moments in his life in which Jon simply let go and let someone else take over. But it was okay because this was Sophie.

  The beat was seductive, fast enough to be lively, slow enough to allow him to keep the beat, the music so familiar it was in his head already before it reached his ears. Sophie’s entire body was alive under his hands. She danced with her shoulders and her breasts and—oh God!—with her hips against his, brushing against his hard-on in a natural way, without being provocative, though of course she was. This was Sophie. All she had to do was breathe and he was there.

  Normally a woodie that wasn’t going anywhere hurt. Was ridiculous, a waste of energy. But this one was okay. They’d be on that big bed soon enough and, in the meantime, crazy as it sounded, they were basically making love. Okay, technically his dick wasn’t inside her but now they were so close that if they weren’t both dressed, it would take just a second. Lift her up, position her legs around his waist, and there he’d be—balls deep in Sophie.

  But as a second best, this wasn’t bad. Wasn’t bad at all. His hand had drifted down from the small of her back to her luscious bottom, and he was holding her tightly against him. Each movement opened up the lips of her sex against him.

  The sweat suit pants were cotton and she wasn’t wearing any underwear. His cock had surged upward when he realized that. Against him, beneath the top and the sweatpants, there was no barrier, nothing but warm woman. So with each sway and whirl, her soft breasts moved against his chest and his cock was more firmly lodged against the lips of her sex. Each movement made him swell, but it wasn’t just his cock.

  Every bit of him grew, became supersensitive. Every cell of his body felt attuned to the woman in his arms, to the music, to the very air. The room glowed with early morning sun, but the woman in his arms glowed even more. She was like sunlight in his arms, light in every sense of the word.

  The music rose, the soft undertones of the beat now prevailing, heavy and insistent, echoing his heartbeat—rising, rising, then stopped. Somehow Sophie had coaxed him with her body into a series of twirls, stopping exactly with the music, up on tiptoe at the end of the last twirl, fully against him, breathing hard.

  He was breathing hard, too, but not from the exercise. The entire dance had been a form of foreplay, the best in his life. Foreplay to a beat. Shit, he was going to have to remember this moment, because it was never going to get better.

  The morning light caught her face and it was glowing, radiant, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, full mouth open, lips slightly pouting. God. Irresistible. He didn’t even try to resist.

  Her mouth tasted of fruit and honey, the most incredible delicacy that had ever touched his. No light kisses, not after that dance, which had been pure sex, everything but penetration. He plunged into her mouth, starving for that taste and even after they stopped moving, his heart continued that fast beat of the music, as if
he were running. It felt like they were moving only they weren’t, it’s just that the world spun around them.

  Sophie went even further up on tiptoe, arms tight around his neck, breasts arching against his chest. Her hips moved, sex rubbing hard against his dick and he swelled even more. She felt it, moved against him harder, moaned into his mouth.

  The temptation to drop to the floor, pulling down her pants and his, sliding into her fast and start fucking her hard, was enormous. She wanted it, he wanted it, the floor was right there. But . . . this was Sophie.

  “Bed,” he gasped when he lifted his mouth slightly.

  “Bed,” she repeated and kissed him hard. She was lifting herself slightly so that she was riding his cock instead of rubbing it back and forth.

  Jon gasped for air. He was on fire.

  Bed. Right now. The fastest way there was to carry her because the bedroom was about a mile from the kitchen, and carrying her was more romantic than dragging her by the hand at a dead run. He picked her up and the moment her head was cradled against him, she kissed him, mouth hot and sweet.

  His knees buckled. He managed to stiffen them at the last second before falling in a heap right onto the light-colored hardwood floor. All of a sudden the distance from here to the bedroom seemed like a chasm, an impossible distance. Sophie was kissing him and kissing him and he felt weak and rubbery, completely different, right down to his core.

  Jon never felt weak. He’d once taken a bullet. It had gone right through him without hitting major organs or a bone or an artery, and he’d been patched up. He’d been mostly angry and a little sheepish because he hadn’t zagged fast enough. But weak? Fuck no. He could run as long as he had to, he could march with a hundred-pound pack for as long as he had to, but right now, carrying Sophie into Robb’s bedroom just seemed impossible. He wanted to get there as fast as possible, but someone had nailed his boots to the ground.

  “Bed,” Sophie whispered against his mouth again, and it was as if someone had released him from bonds. He took off at a sprint, carrying her.

  Special Ops soldiers are taught to run in a special way, so they can run and shoot straight at the same time. It came in really useful right now because he wanted to run and carry and kiss Sophie at the same time. It was a funny, short-stepped gait that looked weird to outsiders, but it got the job done. And Sophie wasn’t looking at his feet, her eyes were closed.

  And damned if his eyes didn’t close too. Which was crazy, of course. He was running with a woman in his arms through unfamiliar territory with his eyes closed. Any drill instructor he’d ever come across would have screamed in his face and ordered him to drop and give him five hundred push-ups.

  But Jon had really good spatial awareness and a really good memory. He knew where everything was. He wasn’t going to fall down with Sophie in his arms. Not now, not ever.

  In seconds they were in the master bedroom that looked east, the sun halfway up the sky filling the room with light. It blossomed under his eyelids because his eyes were still closed, kissing Sophie. All he saw behind his closed eyes was gold.

  She slid down his body to her feet. He was holding her still for his kiss with one hand behind her head, the other feverishly pulling down the sweat suit pants, unzipping the hoodie, and then Sophie was naked in his arms. He held her so tightly she gasped and he loosened his hold a little. It was amazingly hard to do.

  “You now.” Jon opened his eyes to see Sophie half smiling up at him. She was aroused. Her high cheekbones were flushed, her eyes wide and sparkling, her mouth full and red from his kisses, dark hair tousled from his hands.

  She’d said something but he hadn’t understood. He was beyond understanding words—all he understood now was body language and his body was telling him, Get into Sophie as fast as you can. And her body must have been telling her more or less the same thing. Her nipples were hard, deep pink, the left breast trembling with her heartbeat. She was flushed down to her breasts as if she’d already had an orgasm.

  Maybe she had? Maybe she’d climaxed while they were dancing. Man, what a turn-on that idea was. There was one way to find out. His hand moved from her back down the delicate curve, over her luscious ass, all the way down. He waggled his hand and her legs obediently opened and he touched her there, right there, where he wanted to put his cock.

  Soon.

  He ran his fingers down her slick opening from behind. He all but sighed. Her lips there were puffy and wet, like pouty lips waiting for his kiss.

  “Take your clothes off, Jon.”

  Sophie was talking. He heard the noise and could even feel the puff of her breath against his neck, but the words made no sense. No words made sense just now. The only thing that made any sense at all was the feel of Sophie against him, his fingers sliding in and out of her soft wetness. He slid a finger in and she clenched around him, like the beginning of an orgasm. Oh yeah . . .

  And then she was moving away from him, sliding out of his arms, his hand sliding out of her. He felt cold and bereft. Why was she moving?

  “Jon!” She slapped his chest.

  Jon rubbed it. Not because she’d hurt him—she couldn’t hurt him if she tried unless she had a firearm—but because something inside his chest felt inflamed, almost painful.

  She’d called his name. He made a sound. If you were charitable it could be considered a huh? But really, it was a grunt.

  Sophie rolled her eyes, then tugged on his shoulder, pulling him down. He went willingly. He was more than willing to do whatever Sophie wanted. She wanted him to bend over? Hell yeah! He bent over, waiting for whatever she wanted.

  What she wanted was to pull off his long-sleeved tee. And when he straightened, pull down his pants. His dick sproinged out. He toed off his boots, stepped away from his pants, and they both looked down at his dick, flushed with eagerness, shiny with pre-come at the tip, so hard it was practically flat against his stomach.

  She looked up at him. “That’s quite something.”

  He had no air in his lungs to answer her and even if he did have some air, he had no words. He just looked at her dumbly, like an animal hoping for a treat.

  Sophie smiled at him. Her face was beautiful in repose, but when she smiled, it was like the sun coming out, brighter than what was shining down through the windows.

  Her fingers curled up in a come to me gesture.

  Oh yeah.

  For a second, it had been as if he were under a spell. Her looking at him, staring at his dick, had somehow paralyzed him. He was waiting for whatever she wanted, only she hadn’t let him know what it was. Now, with that curl of her long, slender fingers, she made it explicit. She wanted him.

  Now he knew what to do.

  He was nearly shaking with excitement, as if he’d never had sex before in his life. And really he hadn’t. Not like this, anyway.

  If he’d had some blood in his head, he’d have been ashamed of himself. He was super cool in bed. He had a strategic mind that extended itself to sex. He could catch the smallest clue, like broken breathing, a slight flush. Give him ten minutes, and he’d become the world’s greatest expert on what kind of sex that woman wanted and he’d oblige. Fast, slow, hard, soft. He could do it all.

  His entire repertory had simply fled from him now. There was only one kind of sex he was capable of with Sophie and that was the desperate kind. But she deserved better than that.

  So he took a deep breath, and with superhuman discipline he calmed himself down a little. Tensed his muscles to make them go slow. There wasn’t anything in the world he could do about his dick, though. Nothing could make it go down just a little so it looked more like a human organ and less like a caveman’s club. It felt like it would never go down again in his lifetime. Like an erection was a permanent state.

  “Make me go slow,” he pleaded. He reached his hand out, slowly, pushing it through the air as if through a hard barrier. He touched her shoulder, palm completely open. He had strong hands and he was unsure he’d be able to regulate his stre
ngth if he cupped her shoulder. “I don’t have too much control now, so make sure I don’t overdo it.” He closed his eyes, swallowed. “Don’t . . . hurt you.” That last came out of a scratchy throat. He felt scratchy, all over, buzzed with anxiety. Not a good feeling. Man, the idea of hurting Sophie . . .

  He opened his eyes again. He’d been half expecting a look of triumph or at least pleasure, because he’d just put all the power in Sophie’s hands. He’d told her how excited he was, that he didn’t have much control. In any other woman he’d expect coy smugness. But Sophie’s look was sober, tender. It was as if she could see that he was suffering and couldn’t bear it. She touched his cheek and again there was that weird warmth, that feeling of well-being.

  “I won’t let you hurt me, Jon. You think you might hurt me, but you couldn’t. Trust me on this.” Keeping her hand on his cheek, she lifted herself on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  A kiss on the cheek. Considering the image that had been buzzing around in his head—holding her still with his hands while he hammered into her—a kiss on the cheek was nothing. Not even scratching the itch.

  But—it worked, somehow. The buzzing in his head and the almost-violent sexual images floating around inside it slowed, disappeared. What was left was a soft humming and images of gentle kisses and slow, tender movements.

  Yeah, that was it.

  Before that nasty buzzing could get going again, Jon moved forward and she shuffled backward until her knees touched the edge of the bed. “Lie down, honey.”