What the hell is wrong with you?
It didn’t matter whether he wanted a relationship with her or not. He’d hurt her, and he needed to apologize.
He’d almost reached the bathroom door when he heard the water turn on. She wouldn’t be able to hear him now. He’d have to wait until she finished with her shower.
Mierda.
He straightened up the bed—they had more or less fucked the covers off—put on his boxers, and picked up the condom wrappers. In a few minutes, the room was as organized as he could make it. He sat on the bed, turned on the TV, and surfed for news.
The water turned off, and the hairdryer came on. A short time later, she stepped out of the bathroom, her dark hair silky and shiny, her curves hidden beneath a towel, the sight of her hitting him in the solar plexus.
She glanced around. “You’ve been busy.”
“Hey, Gabriela, I’m sorry.” He searched for an excuse but came up with nothing. “You shared some real stuff with me, and I was an asshole.”
“Thanks.” She dropped the towel, and he saw to his disappointment that she was wearing her panties, which were apparently now dry. “I know it’s hard for most people to understand, so don’t worry about it.”
Ouch.
He didn’t like being lumped in with most people. “Actually, I do understand, at least in part. I didn’t leave the SEALs because I was ready to go. I left because I no longer trusted the guys on my Team.”
Her slender brows drew together in a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Trust is everything to operators. You need to know that your guys have your back. If they don’t… Yeah. Hell. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Bare breasts swaying, she reached for her T-shirt and drew it over her head. “‘I’m sorry’ was good enough.”
She shut off the light on her side of the bed, set the Glock he’d given her on her nightstand, and knelt to pray.
All Dylan could do was stand there, watching, a strange ache in his chest.
14
Gabriela awoke to a kiss.
“That’s how it works in the movies, too.” Propped up on his elbow, Dylan smiled down at her. “Good morning, gorgeous.”
“Good morning.” She reached up, cupped his stubble-rough jaw. “Sleep well?”
He kissed her forehead. “I dreamed about you.”
“What was I doing?”
“This.” He kissed her again, soft and slow.
She could refuse him. He’d made a point last night of letting her know that he preferred being single—his way, perhaps, of making sure she knew this meant nothing. Not that she’d expected more from him. There was no way the two of them could be together. A few days from now, maybe even tomorrow, they’d go back to their lives.
She ought to refuse him, but she wanted him.
After almost two years of no sex, she deserved a little crazy pleasure.
She slid her arms around his neck, gave herself over to his kisses, his lips doing wicked things to hers. Then he rucked up her T-shirt, his mouth moving to her breasts.
It was heaven.
She ran her hands over his biceps, his rock-hard shoulders, the shifting muscles of his back, the hard feel of him arousing her almost as much as the sweet tug of his lips on her nipples, heat building between her thighs until it was a fire. “Dylan.”
He reached down, pulled off her panties, and got to work, bringing her quickly to the edge with clever fingers, making her writhe.