Page 43 of Silent Comrade
“Can’t.” He rolled his lips together andclosed his eyes. Neck muscles tightened. Hands fisted in her hairand released. Chest rose and fell, over and over. Like he tried toregain control.
An irritated prickle that had nothing to dowith passion and everything to do with being left out of the loop,built in her gut.
“Can’t or won’t?” she said. This was not aconversation she wanted to have while pressed up against him.
“Both.” He sighed. “You don’t understand,and that’s for the best. It’s not you, Britt.”
“Whoa. For real, did you just attempt the‘it’s not you’ line on me?”
“Uh.”
Bright stings of light popped in herperipheral vision, and her face burned. God, how could she be sostupid. This was his job, for crap’s sake. “You can take that lameline and shove it.”
“What? No,” he sputtered, pulling back.
She instantly missed the pressure of hisweight on her, his heat. She shivered.
That revelation spoke volumes about whereBritt’s head was. She studied his narrowed eyes and furrowed brow.Ah yes, she’d almost indulged in a stress-relieving bang. Noconnection, only fleeting comfort. Like therapy, but with moreinstant gratification. Great. He probably threw in some sympathykisses. “You were being nice to freaked-out girl. I get it.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“Then what?”
“I—” His mouth opened but no other wordsexited.
“Can’t say?” More prickles, like a millionmosquitos biting her. Irritating. Like Al’s non-answers.
“Yeah.” The intense glint in his eyes wentdull. Flat. Empty.
“Okay.” She pushed at his chest, as if shecould move him. As if she could ignore the brick-hard muscles underher palms. “We’re done here.”
“Britt.”
A hot wash of shame caught her off guard.Nope. She wouldn’t feel embarrassed. She had gone for what shewanted in the moment. Nothing wrong with desire. They were bothconsenting adults. He was here as part of his duty. A job. She washere, going to … well, now she needed to avoid making a connectionwith someone who would leave after his mission was completed. Thepattern: connection, trust, bonding, then the bonds being broken.Her fears, repeated again. Nope. Not going to risk it again. Betterto avoid step one, connection.
Her stomach churned. “Please move.”
“Sure.”
Too easy. In a flash he stood next to thewall, the bed still recoiling with his weight suddenly gone.
His eyes hooded, he said, “About today’sschedule.”
She crossed her arms over the quilt shetucked around her. “What about it?” She peeked at her phone. Damnit. She had work in an hour and then an afternoon class. And Godhelp her, but Britt needed to log time in the fashion lab,completing outfits before the fittings next week. See? No time fora tall, shadow operative who saw her as duty.
“I need you to stay here. In the apartment.”He crossed his arms, making it clear how much muscle was in eachbicep.
“Nope.”
He reared back, like refusal wasn’t anoption. “Huh?”
More barbs of anger poked at her, driven bysexual frustration, residual fear from last night, prior mentalhealth demons, and sore muscles. Britt was over this wholesituation. Done with being told what to do and when. No morelonging to connect with someone who was here only out of duty andwho would leave soon. Everyone she cared about left. That was theone constant in Britt’s disorganized existence.
“Was I not clear enough last night?” sheasked. “Let me expand. I am going to work and then to school, likeI do every Thursday. I have a life I need to live,” she hissed.“I’m not in the habit of missing work or school.” She rubbed herface. “Then I have to complete my collection. Which means I’ll bein the lab today. It’s for the fashion show coming up. Which I planon participating in next week. In person. I’m sick of beingunderestimated. I’m sick of things I cannot control changing thecourse of my life.”
“But this—”
“You said your job is my safety, right?”
