Page 16 of Baring it All (Men in Charge)

“Oh God, time better fly because there is no way I’m going to be able to keep my hands to myself,” she admits while gathering the hem of my white shirt in her fingers. I watch as each inch of skin is bared to me, smooth and silky. My fists clench and unclench. Never a-fucking-gain am I going out of town without her, mark my words.

“You touch your pussy while I’m not there or on the phone with you, we’re going to have problems,” I grunt as she shows me her bare pussy, lips glistening with wetness, and damn if I don’t wish I were there to wrap my lips around her pretty little clit.

“Then you can’t take care of yourself either. Fair is fair,” she replies. Little minx. I don’t respond, too busy watching as she keeps lifting her shirt up until her tits are in my view.

“Goddamn it, I should have canceled this weekend.” In no way was I prepared to be away from her this soon. “And, baby girl, you don’t have to worry about me taking my fist to my cock, remembering how you look at this exact moment.” Her breath hitches, legs tremble while she presses her thighs together. Damn, this is going to kill us both. It’s going to take everything I have not to pull up this memory when I’m in the shower late tonight and paint my cum on the shower walls. I readjust myself, take one last glance at Stormy. Her hair is tousled from sleep, cheeks flush with color either from sleep or being turned on. I’m going with the latter. She’s standing there with my shirt up to her damn neck, tits firm and a handful, nipples tight like rosebuds, hourglass figure where her stomach slopes inwards before flaring out to her hips. Hips that I love leaving my fingerprints on from holding her while I fuck her. Even when she’s riding me, it’s me lifting her up and pulling her down. No way do I allow Stormy to do the work, and fuck if she doesn’t like it.

“Christ, my baby girl is so Goddamn beautiful,” I tell her.

“Yo, Griffin, we gotta roll out!” A knock interrupts our time together. Exactly why I didn’t take this a step further. It’d be just our luck her fingers would be buried inside her tight cunt, and she’d be on the edge of coming. My cock would be in my hand, fucking myself as she does the same, and this shit would happen.

“Be right there!” I tell one of the guys through the door. Each race, it’s a different team, so there’s no telling which one is which, not that I give a single fuck at this moment.

“You’ve got to go,” Stormy says, worry in her tone.

“Yeah, baby girl, I do. You take care of my boy and stay out of trouble,” I tell her, not doing anything to alleviate her worry. There’s no reason to talk about what-ifs.

“Of course. Stay safe and come back in one piece. No more busted lips or bruised jaws from any job, please.” A smile tugs at my lips. This woman, she’s got me wrapped around her damn finger.

“I will. See you soon. I’m not sure I’ll have a chance to call again, but I’ll text you.” Stormy swallows, nodding her response.

“Griff, man, we gotta go. They’re in the truck waiting.” I hear another knock, and I know it’s not the time to say what I want. It’ll have to wait until I get home and have Stormy in my arms.

“Promise, Stormy. I’ll be okay.”

“Go. Don’t worry about me. I’m being ridiculous. Talk to you soon.” This time, she’s more together with her emotions.

“Talk soon.” I hang up the phone, grab it from its place on my bed, and head for the door. I’m re-thinking a lot of fucking things, this job being one of them. It doesn’t give me the adrenaline rush it once did. My thoughts are wrapped up in Stormy. I’m wishing the fucking days away until I’m back home with her, and right now, the last thing I need to be doing is thinking. I need to get into work mode, stat.

19

GRIFFIN

This fucking weekend can’t be over fast enough. There hasn’t been a moment with this crew that’s felt natural. The guys are younger. Fucking idiots is what they are. They love to hear themselves talk about the rescues they’ve done and the tail they pick up when the day is over. Their words, not mine. Even if I were in my twenties and single, no damn way I’d be talking about women like they’re pieces of meat. I’m just glad today is the final race and the second I’m out of this helicopter and my gear is turned in, I’m out of here. There’s no way I’ll be going back to the house, getting a few hours of sleep only to leave in the morning. It’s not like I’ve gotten a whole hell of a lot of sleep anyways. We finish our day, they go out, I grab a quick bite to eat, and head to my room. The only thing I want to do is talk to Stormy for a while, grab a shower, and pass out only to start over again. I’d no sooner fall asleep only to be woken up from them coming in for the night, running into walls, laughing it up, drunk off their asses. The trust you have in your crew is gone when you realize they’re working while hungover the next day and it’s been repeated each night. Specifically last night. I was on the phone with Stormy when she heard the shitbags come in, and I saw the worry on her face through our FaceTime call. It took me a few minutes to calm her down, but the die was cast, and I know she wasn’t going to sleep well afterwards. Maybe it is time to hang up doing these side jobs. No amount of money is worth an accident to occur because your crew is worthless. I text Stormy one last time to let her know my plans.

Me: See you tomorrow. Keep the bed warm for me. I’m leaving as soon as we’re done here.

I hit the send button, drop my phone in my dry bag we keep on the helicopter, and get to work. No sooner we’re up in the sky, my eyes are on the water and the first race is under way. Things have been going smoothly with the boats and races, almost too smoothly. There’s never not been an incident each time I work on a race, and I know it’s still too early to have a quiet day. I watch the second race; this one has my hackles raised. The boat in the left lane is choppier, not under control compared to the boat on the right side. I’m ready to rock and roll when I see one boat hit a wave at the right angle and go airborne, hitting the other.

“It’s go-time,” I hear Smith say in my ear. I block him out unless it’s necessary to communicate. Hopefully fucking never again after this weekend. I’m ignoring him. Its’ me and the rescue mission. Not the dumb fuck who thinks he’s got everything under control.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, watching as the racer is ejected into the water. “Get up,” I tell him silently, hoping he’s able to recover without needing a rescue. He’s not, and that means it’s time for me to go.

“Hawk, you’re up,” Smith says in the comm we have in our ears. He’s shortened my last name from Hawkins to Hawk, and while it doesn’t bother me, the fucker acts like we’ve been friends when that’s the last thing he is to me. I heard the snickers and the bullshit talking about me being locked in my room. Biting my tongue and not knocking him off his ass was hard. The dumb fuck probably has nothing waiting for him at home with that mentality.

“10-4.” I get myself locked in, ready for them to lower me down in the water. Matt has already been lowered to work on a patient, and now I’m being sent to work on the other. The guy is face first in the water, not moving, which isn’t the greatest situation, but it could be worse. Him not wearing a life jacket is one of those. Some of these guys think they’re invincible, which they’d have to, going over one hundred sixty miles per hour. Goddamn these crazy bastards.

Smith lowers me. My hands stay clear of the trail tine. The cable that comes down from the helicopter is charged with static electricity, and I’m not trying to get injured. I’m hovering above the water, ready to disconnect at a moment’s notice. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins, worried about an explosion that could and will happen. The fuel running in race boats is high octane and highly flammable. My feet hit the water, and it’s time for me to get to work. I disconnect from my line, leaving it swinging in the wind.

My arms pull and push through the water, legs kicking to move as swiftly without using too much of my energy while swimming toward the patient. The ocean isn’t for the weak, that’s for sure. I’m a few feet away when I notice the man is still face down, completely unconscious. The lack of oxygen has me kicking into high gear until I get to him, immediately flipping him onto his back while treading water.

“If you can hear me, this is Griff Hawkins,” I tell the racer even though I know he’s down for the count. Blood is gushing from his face. My hand goes to his neck, feeling for a pulse while I wait for Smith to bring the basket down. That’s how it goes—you lower the medic, disconnect, bring the line back up, and hook the basket in, and then the racer is lifted. Another boat will come around and pick me up while they assess the patient in whether he can be taken care of by the crew or needs to be flown to a hospital. What feels like a lifetime later, I see the basket being lowered from the helicopter. Too fucking long, which means these asshats aren’t on their A-game.

“I’m going to lift you in the basket,” I tell my patient, who has a thready heart rate and shallow breathing. Most of the time, there’d be another guy in the water with me, but since there’s another racer who needed help, it meant going solo. I swim the short distance to the basket, one arm around the patient, my lightweight life jacket allowing me to work easily.

“We’re going to take good care of you, buddy,” I tell him. His eyes still aren’t open, and it doesn’t take me long to hoist him into the basket before lifting myself up. Only things don’t go as planned. I’m almost in when the helicopter dips. I look up, unable to use my comm at the moment. I wouldn’t be able to hear them, and they wouldn’t be able to hear me over the blades. Another dip occurs, and the grasp I have on the basket is lost. I’m a tangle of limbs trying to keep the patient steady while maintaining my own balance, but it’s too fucking late. A tailspin happens, I’m falling backwards, and instead of holding on, I let go, unwilling to let the patient feel anything more than he already has. Karma or luck, whatever the fickle bitch wants to be, is not on my side. The basket comes charging back at me, and I’ve got barely enough time to get my face out of the way. My shoulder takes the brunt of the weight, and then I’m going down.

“Goddamn it!” Fire consumes me, and I’m left seeing stars. The last thing I see is the helicopter maintaining its balance, finally, and the basket making its way up. After that, I close my eyes and brace for impact. The only thing going to break my fall is the water. Even still, it’s a long way to go. A vision of Stormy pissed as fuck, ready to kick ass and take names is what I’m holding on to when I plunge into the deep water. My feet are already kicking, the life jacket doing its job and helping propel me upwards. My non-injured hand goes up in the air. The medic boat crew will see me with the other spotters. One thing’s for sure: I’m hanging my hat up with this shit. I can feel the dislocation in my shoulder, and that’s going to be a bitch to explain to Stormy. It’ll be even harder to hide wearing a damn sling for however long it’ll take to heal.

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