Page 95 of Red Line

Stepping into the shower, with warm water and soap, her hands moving over her skin, Red’s mind went to the bed. She knew Nomad wouldn’t make a move on her.

It was fine. Sex, for her, was stress relief. She didn’t have the luxury of a relationship that would make the experience anything more than moving body parts.

She’d had her orgasms.

She’d faked a few because—yeah, sometimes she just wasn’t going to get there no matter how long that SEAL could snorkel.

There was always a conscious emotional distancing, the understanding she and her lover were ships in the night.

Nomad was, too. Red reminded herself.I don’t know his name. I’ll never know his name. And I won’t see him again once this mission is complete.

She steeped in the flow of hot water, feeling her heart squeeze with grief at that thought.

It had been a lot in a week. And her asset had died. She shouldn’t feel an emotion right now and assign it a definition. Yes, she liked Nomad. She liked him in a way that was surprising and intense. But it wasn’t love.

It wasn’t.

It was … something else.

She remembered the airport when Nicholi said goodbye to Cassie, “Love you.” If only that wasn’t make-believe, that might actually be really wonderful.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Red

Red began dreaming the dream again. No helper-woman was pointing Red toward the rollercoaster train. This time, the dream jumped right to the car crash, the holding of hands, and the blood.

In her semi-awake state, she wondered if this was all just a metaphor for what had happened to Moussa.

Trying to rouse herself, Red found her face tucked into the curve of Nomad’s neck. She must have woken him because he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her against the length of his body.

Tears ran thick and hot and silent down her cheeks.

He didn’t ask her for anything—not an explanation, not that she move back to her own side of the bed. He stroked her hair and held her tightly against him with enough force that she knew that not only did he want her there, but it felt like he needed her there.

She remembered this feeling. He did this when she moved from the hotel to the shore, from the shore to the sea.

The strength of his arms meant she could relax and allow. That she didn’t have to be strong all the time. He not only could care for her, but he chose to.

And she remembered the devastation of losing the feeling of comfort when he placed her in the rescue basket and let go. Relief flooded through her when his voice was in her ear, and she knew he was back beside her on the helicopter.

Relief, that’s what Nomad’s arms brought her.

In the dark, her lips sought his. Her hands painted over his skin. Her fingers worked his clothes free, then hers.

Nomad’s kisses traced her tears from lid to cheek down her neck to her breasts.

The ease of him, the utter rightness of this moment, was what struck Red.

For the first time, she felt like she was the focus of someone who intuited her desire. Red hoped Nomad felt the same because everything that felt natural to her seemed to bring him pleasure.

Was intimacy really this easy?

That was the thought she took with her when, wholly sated, she fell back asleep.

A dreamless and restorative sleep.

Red and Nomad, still holding each other, woke to the call to prayer intoned from the minaret with a rich baritone.

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