It’s a blatant distraction tactic. Calculated seduction. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows I’m dangerously close to whatever she buried in the dark.
It works too well.
The Thunderbolt hits me.
It doesn’t announce itself quietly. It detonates in the center of my chest.
A visceral, agonizing snap of pure connection. The primitive, undeniable realization that the woman in my arms is mine.
The claiming instinct overrides every logical thought in my brain. My blood roars. My vision narrows until she is the only thing left in the world.
My hands move without my permission.
I grip her waist. I haul her flush against my body, my hand tangling in her hair to tilt her head back at a punishing angle. I crush her heavy breasts against my tactical rig, the friction of the Kevlar against her nipples making her let out a sharp, broken moan.
She arches her back, grinding her soaking pussy directly against the thick, aching ridge of my cock.
The friction is pure torture. I’m hard enough to rip through my pants, my balls tight with the need to bury my seed inside her.
I lower my head, acting on a predator’s instinct to mark what is his. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the localized scent of her arousal mixed with that rose perfume.
I open my mouth and sink my teeth into the junction of her neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. I want my brand on her skin before the fire takes us both.
She gasps my name. Her fingers dig into my shoulders.
Her fingernails scrape across the thick, raised burn scars hidden beneath my shirt.
The physical pain hits me like a bullet.
The memory of the fire detonates across my vision.
Flames licking the warehouse walls. The crushing heat. The sickening smell of burning flesh. Kowalski’s dead hand slipping from my grip. The soul-crushing agony of total loss.
Caring equals losing. Connection equals death.
The primal terror of the past collides with the sudden, terrifying bond of the Thunderbolt.
I reject it.
I tear myself away from her.
I shove her backward. My hands are rough. Two feet of hard distance between us in a split second.
She stumbles slightly. She catches her balance against the doorframe. She looks at me in shock. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wide and confused.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl.
My voice is a feral, vicious bark. I’m furious at her. Enraged with myself.
I failed the test. I let the target compromise my operational focus in less than five minutes. I let a mafia princess make me forget the smell of the fire.
“Rafe…” she starts. She reaches a hand out toward me.
“I said don’t touch me.” I widen the distance between us.
My chest heaves. The scars on my shoulder burn like fresh acid. The Thunderbolt still throbs in my blood, demanding I pull herback into my arms. I fight it. I fight the instinct with everything I have.
She drops her hand. The Costa mask slams back into place. Her face goes blank.