The raw emotional exposure feels infinitely more dangerous than a physical pat-down.
He reaches out slowly, eliminating the final sliver of space. His large, warm hand brushes against my bare forearm.
The contact sends a current straight through my skin. My lungs stop working. Professional distance demands separation.
I lean closer instead.
Heavy combat boots slam against the hardwood floor of the sitting room.
The fragile moment shatters.
Nick stalks into the light of the kitchenette.
His massive chest heaves. His dark, furious eyes dart from Jude’s hand on my bare arm to my flushed face. He takes in the easy set of my shoulders, the softness in the room, the way my body is angled toward his team member. His jaw goes hard.
Territorial possession ignites in his stare.
“Team meeting.” His deep voice is harsh. “Gala security prep starts right now in the war room.”
Jude drops his hand. The withdrawal rebuilds the professional wall. The vulnerable man vanishes.
“Understood, Commander.”
The sleek weapon disappears from the counter. Jude walks past Nick without a word. The sitting room swallows him whole.
Nick plants himself in the arched doorway. Possession radiates from every line of his body.
“Go to sleep, Principessa.”
“I am not tired.”
“You need your rest.” Nick steps forward. He invades my airspace. He boxes me against the sink. He leans down until his firm mouth is mere inches from my ear.
The sharp scent of cold rain and dark leather overrides my senses. My pulse hammers against my throat.
“We are going to secure the perimeter,” Nick murmurs darkly. “We are going to lock this entire compound down tight.”
His blazing hot breath brushes the sensitive skin of my neck. A shiver moves through me.
“You are going to need all your energy for tomorrow night,” Nick whispers. The dark promise scrapes against my earlobe. “Because once that Gala is over, we are finally going to discuss exactly what you want to do on your knees.”
6
NICK
I stand in the dead center of the velvet trap.
The sitting room occupies a massive chunk of the East Wing Suite. It belongs on the cover of an expensive architectural magazine. The floors are polished dark mahogany. The walls are painted a soft, sickeningly innocent cream color. Gold accents catch the dim amber light spilling from the streetlamps outside.
It smells exactly like her.
Rose. Dark amber. A sharp hint of pure, unadulterated female panic.
An intoxicating, highly dangerous scent. It coats the inside of my lungs. It scrambles the logical pathways in my brain. It makes a man want to strip off his tactical vest, drop his weapons on the floor, and forget his goddamn orders.
I refuse to forget my orders.
I reach into my heavy assault pack. I pull out three encrypted digital tablets. I dump them onto the delicate glass coffee table.