Page 34 of Deadly Strain

A soft, feminine hand slid over one of his to squeeze and stroke. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have saved him.”

“Not your fault. The assholes who shot our aircraft down are to blame.”

She stroked his hand once more before pulling hers away. “Sounds like we’re both going to need therapy when we get out of this mess.”

“That’s my girl.” She wasn’t his. He had to keep telling himself that, because the second he didn’t, he was claiming her in his head.

Kissing her.

Taking her on the dirt.

Get a hold of yourself, asshole.She was a career officer, and a damn good one. This was not a woman he could romance and see when he was on leave. Right now, they were working together, a collaboration of the BRRT and Special Forces. Though she wasn’t in his chain of command and he wasn’t in hers, it was made clear that forming a relationship would be frowned upon.

He had to stop creating X-rated fantasies of her in his head. What happened today was a onetime thing born out of the stress and danger they were in. That was all. He was a professional, damn it. She was a fellow soldier and a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

She sighed, shook her head, got up on her knees and opened her pants. She had to wiggle a little to get the waist down over her butt, then she sat down in the dirt and pulled her left leg out.

Her panties were pink.

The panties his hands had just been inside werefucking pink.

Holy Mother of God, he was going to go to hell. He couldn’t take his eyes off the scrap of fabric between her legs, and he could almost feel the wet heat of her against his fingers again. Then she let out a pain-filled groan, and his gaze jerked loose to land on her bloodied calf. It was still oozing blood.

“Damn it,” Grace hissed between clenched teeth. “I think I just tore the scab off.”

He should shoot himself in the foot for lusting after a wounded woman. “What made the wound? A piece of shrapnel or a bullet?” Sharp scooted over until he could get a good look at it. He reached into a pocket on his right thigh and pulled out a small LED flashlight covered by red translucent tape. He turned it on and shone it at her leg.

“Shrapnel probably. During the crash,” she answered.

He palpated the skin around the wound, trying to discover if anything was in it that shouldn’t be there. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Close it with a few Steri-Strips and bandage it up,” she ordered, sounding much more like her normal, businesslike self. “I can get it properly cleaned out when we get to a base.”

He had a few of those small, but useful bandages in another pocket, but he didn’t want to use them up until he had to. “We got extras of those?”

She reached into the backpack behind her and pulled out a compact first-aid kit. It had everything he needed inside.

He cleaned up her leg first, using a few iodine swabs. He waited for that to dry, then closed the jagged-edged wound with four Steri-Strips, covered it all up with a nonstick dressing pad, then wound a self-adhering bandage around her calf until he was certain it wouldn’t come undone.

She watched him silently throughout the whole operation, but as he finished, she said, “Nice job. Ever thought of going into medicine?”

“Not really, though adding medic to my skill list wouldn’t be a bad idea. Uncle Sam likes us special soldiers to have as many skills as possible.”

She snorted at that, got to her feet, tried to stand on one so she could put her pants back on, but wobbled badly.

He surged up and caught her, wrapping both arms around her waist and back before she landed in the dirt. “I’ve got you, you’re okay,” he whispered.

Her whole body shook once, then she pressed her face into his neck, took a deep breath and seemed to completely relax. “Oh.”

Since she wasn’t screaming or trying to get away, he was going to go on holding her, earning himself another decade or five in hell. A few seconds passed before he asked carefully, “You okay?”

“Yeah, you just smell good.”

“Finally, a use for my dirty, stinky laundry.”

“Oh no,” she said, her elbow in his ribs telling him to let go. “You’re not turning me into your laundress.”

“Laundress?” he asked, loosening his hold on her until he was sure she wasn’t going to fall over. “Who uses the wordlaundress?”

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