“Relax,” I murmur.
An impossible order. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight. The urge to claim her roars in my ears.
I drag my hands slowly down her arms. I check for hidden weapons. I check for concealed drives. I track the soft, flawless skin from her shoulders to her elbows. I wrap my fingers around her delicate wrists.
Her pulse hammers against my thumbs. Frantic. Terrified. Highly aroused.
I drop her wrists. I move my hands to her ribcage.
The emerald silk provides zero barrier. I trace the rigid underwire of her lace bra through the thin fabric.
She sucks in a sharp breath. Her chest expands. The soft, heavy weight of her breasts presses against the back of my knuckles.
My jaw clenches until my teeth grind together.
I slide my hands down. I map the narrow dip of her waist. I press my thumbs into her stomach. Her abdominal muscles jump beneath my touch.
I grip the dramatic flare of her hips. The curve fills my large hands.
This is no longer a tactical search. We both know it.
The professional boundary evaporated the second I touched her skin.
I drag my hands down the thick, soft outsides of her thighs. I kneel in front of her.
She looks down at me. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder in a messy cascade. Her lips are parted. Her eyes are blown dark and dazed.
I drag my rough, bare palms up the plush insides of her thighs. I don’t stop until the heels of my hands crush against her soaking pussy.
The raw, heavy scent of her arousal is staggering, the musk of a woman who is ready to be claimed. Her pussy is practically vibrating against my callouses, dripping thick, sweet cream that coats my fingers.
I don’t just search; I claim. I hook my thumbs into the edges of her emerald silk and spread her wider, my eyes locked on hers as I witness her body’s betrayal. I squeeze the sensitive meat of her thighs firmly, marking her with the pressure of my grip before I stand in one fluid motion.
I tower over her again. The air between us is thick and heavy with unspent adrenaline.
“Clear,” I state roughly.
I drop my hands. I turn toward the open closet door.
“Now I check the rest.”
She moves.
She steps directly into my path. She blocks the entrance to the closet with her body.
“Rafe.”
She says my name softly. Desperate. Calculated.
She steps right into my chest.
She abandons her defensive posture. She slides her delicate hands up the heavy, rigid Kevlar plating of my tactical vest.
She leans her body weight against me. The soft, plush curves of her chest press into the hard armor.
“You don’t need to search the closet,” she whispers.
She tilts her head back. She exposes the long, pale line of her throat. She offers herself.