Rawls.
Somehow over the past two days, his smile, his drawl, his humor, and his patience had filled her mind and heart so full she felt diminished without him beside her.
Empty.
More than anything in the world, she wanted to get up and go to him, step into his arms and lean into his kiss, and explore this hunger simmering between them. The mission she’d agreed to was dangerous. Nobody was downplaying the risk. She knew full well she might not come back, and the thought of dying down there, in San Jose, without knowing the heat and tenderness of Rawls’s embrace, the beauty of his body on top of and inside of her . . . the thought of not knowing him in every possible way a woman could know a man was . . . distressing.
Depressing, even.
But the memory of the last time she’d seen his face held her prisoner on the bed.
He’d been icy, detached, and furious. When Wolf had dropped them off in front of the sleeping quarters they’d been assigned, he’d vanished inside his without a word.
She wanted to believe the strength of his reaction to her inclusion on this mission indicated he had equally strong feelings for her. She’d never seen him so angry—or so grim. But what if the emotions driving him weren’t as passionate as she hoped? What if he was being driven by a sense of responsibility instead? What if all the recent touching and light kissing meant nothing—or at least nothing serious?
Or even worse, what if she had killed whatever they’d been building toward when she’d ignored his advice and dismissed his wishes?
Her escalating list of what-ifs was cut short by a knock at the door.
With her heart in her throat and her mind full of hope, she got up to answer the summons, only to jump back with a gasp.
“Sorry,” Rawls said, his hand still raised and fist clenched for knocking. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“That’s okay.” Faith’s pulse picked up speed again, only the rapid rhythm had nothing to do with fear. At least not fear of his hand, more like fear of his heart.
He took her response as an invitation to come inside. As he closed the door behind him, he cast a quick look over her robe-clad body and heat kindled in his gaze. A moment later he broke eye contact and glanced around the room. “I see we got the same decorator.”
She forced a smile along with the small talk. “At least they’re letting us stay. I got the distinct impression Wolf wasn’t supposed to bring us here.”
“Yeah,” Rawls agreed.
And that closed that particular topic. An awkward silence fell.
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
Faith cleared her throat and took the bull by the horns. “So are you still mad at me?”
“Hell.” He raked a tight hand through his hair. “I was never mad at you, Faith. I was concerned, not angry.”
She tilted her head and considered that. She didn’t doubt for a second he’d been—was still—concerned for her. But there had been definite rage there as well.
“You were angry too,” Faith contradicted him quietly.
He studied her, and his face softened. Lifting his hand, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Yeah, but not at you.”
She quivered beneath the caress. “Then who?”
“At Wolf. At Mac. At all of them. They’re usin’ you.” He stroked her cheek again and then his fingers trailed down to her chin and tilted her head up. “I won’t have you in danger.”
She quivered harder, her skin so sensitive it burned beneath his touch, her insides all warm and tingly. There was a hot look in his eyes. A hungry look. She hadn’t been with many men, and the last had been a lifetime ago, but she recognized the look he was giving her—and responded to it on the most primitive level. Without giving herself a chance to analyze or quantify, she gave in to instinct and went up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck.
Instantly his arms locked around her, dragging her against his body, sealing them together from shoulder to thigh. His mouth came down, found hers, and hot, hard lips forced hers apart. The kiss started off rough, marauding, but then he seemed to catch himself, and his mouth gentled. He backed off, brushed her lips with his, and started to pull back.
Except she didn’t want him to stop. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, at a subconscious level, she’d been waiting for this moment since that kiss in the kitchen . . . anticipating it . . . wanting more . . .
Instinctively she stretched up, pressing her mouth to his. Driven by some deep, primitive urge, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gently bore down.
He jolted against her and then grabbed her butt, lifting her and grinding her against his crotch in the most graphic display of sexuality she’d ever been subject to. Her legs went weak. Her brain foggy. Her skin tightened.