“If you ever suck on another woman’s ear again, work or not, I will not be held accountable for my actions.”
Nathan couldn’t hide his elation at her possessiveness.
“Understood.”
Nathan and Emma sat cross-legged on the floor of his office, the remnants of Carnegie Deli pastrami sandwiches between them. Nathan had just finished telling her the story of his Bronze Star, under the proviso that Emma did not include it in the story. She hadn’t taken notes, just sat and listened, rapt, as he told the story of how, from ten miles away using comms and satellite maps, he had guided a SEAL squad out of an ambush in Afghanistan. The SEALs had just rescued a group of captive women and were about to be surrounded by hostiles. Nathan calmly and carefully led them through mountain passes and cave systems to the exfil site. It was how he had earned his call sign “North.” He had been their compass.
“I ran out to the helo to help with the women. They were dazed, probably drugged. I started pulling off their headscarves and they were terrified. Some were western. Some were... young.”
“Why were you pulling off their scarves?”
“To show them we weren’t like their captors. The scarves weren’t meant as a religious observation—they were to conceal them. These women were slaves, Em, I was trying to show them we were getting them to safety.” He paused for a moment, lost in thought. “Also, I was looking...” he changed tack, and they both knew it, “. . . to see if they were injured, if they could travel.”
She chewed on the end of the pen and looked up into his haunted green eyes. He was just staring at her. Tell him. The thought gnawed at her.
“Come here.”
“Whatever for, Mr. Bishop?”
“Em, come here.”
She started to crawl over to where he sat. It was sexy as hell. She prowled onto his lap and looped her arms around his neck.
“I thought you said no hanky-panky at the office.”
“No, I said no funny business at the office. Hanky-panky is within my discretion.”
“And what about shenanigans?”
“Absolutely.”
“Dipping your pen in the company ink, Mr. Bishop?”
He kissed his way down her neck. His hand gently cupped her breast, and when she didn’t pull back, he squeezed, sending a jolt of arousal right between her legs. She arched into him.
“Technically, you’re not company ink, but I have every intention of dipping my pen. Although come to think of it, ‘pen’ is rather insulting.”
He paused for a moment and brushed the backs of his fingers on her cheek. “Do you remember me?”
She nearly passed out.
She wanted to scream yes! and hug him and tell him what had happened to her, but she had been trained to be careful, to never show her hand.
“Remember you?”
“I saw you once. A couple of years ago at a bar. I thought maybe... I’d made an impression. You certainly did.”
Emma felt a stabbing sadness at the misunderstanding and having missed a moment with him. When her gaze met his, it was clear, and her smile was bright.
“Sorry. I go into defense mode at bars sometimes. I don’t like handsy guys. Present company excluded”
“Understandable. You are beautiful. And I don’t mean on the inside. You’re beautiful on the surface where it counts.” Emma laughed, and Nathan returned to kissing her neck.
“Then we’re not even. You’re beautiful on the inside and the outside. I’m a mess on the inside.” His hand ran over her breast and she stiffened. He stilled.
“First of all,” he paused to brush her hair from her face, “I’m not as pristine on the inside as my widely exaggerated tales of naval valor might suggest. Secondly, why do you say you’re a mess?”
Emma felt the need to, if not confess, at least prepare him for the minefield that was her inner life. She didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. She went against every bit of training she had ever gotten, rested her head on his chest, and said, “Something happened to me.”