Chapter 471
[ 547 words ]
Chapter 471:
A low, guttural sound was torn from his throat. He captured her mouth again, but this kiss was different. It was no longer about reconciliation; it was about possession, a raw, primal claiming. He did not lift her. He couldn’t. The brace held his right arm pinned to his ribs, and his left hand was still splinted, swollen, and useless for anything requiring grip or weight. Instead, he backed her carefully toward the edge of the command table, using only the pressure of his body and the command of his mouth.
She let out a startled gasp, which was swallowed by his kiss. The backs of her thighs met the table. A stack of tactical overlays slid beneath her palms as she caught herself, maps whispering and shifting under the sudden pressure. He stopped immediately, jaw tight, waiting for her to choose.
She looked at him, breathless, and made the choice for both of them. She climbed onto the edge of the command table herself, careful not to disturb his brace, while the intelligence reports beneath her rustled and scattered in uneven drifts across the floor.
“You said,” he rasped against her ear, his voice thick and hoarse, “that I lost my temper with you. I don’t believe I’ve been properly punished for that.”
Her mind was still reeling from the sudden shift. She tried to inject a note of reason, her hands braced against his chest. “Jarrod, we’re in…”
“We’re in my territory,” he interrupted, his voice a low growl.
And then he proceeded to prove it. The temperature inside the tent climbed, the air growing thick and heavy with the scent of their passion, mingling with the dry, papery smell of maps and official documents.
Much later, when her strength finally gave out and the reality of where they were returned with a brutal clarity, Jarrod did not pretend he could carry her. He stood over her, breathing hard, his brace stark against his chest and frustration cutting a hard line through his mouth. Then he stepped to the tent flap and called for K.C. in a voice that brooked no argument. A field wheelchair arrived within minutes, along with a blanket and two soldiers discreet enough to look at nothing but the ground. Jarrod walked beside her all the way back to the medical tent, close enough that his shadow never left her, but he did not touch what his injuries would not allow him to support.
The next thing she knew, she was waking up in her own cot in the medical tent. The early morning light was filtering through the canvas, and every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck, then put back together incorrectly. Vague, hazy memories surfaced of being settled into the wheelchair, of Jarrod’s low voice ordering everyone else out of her path, of him walking beside her through the dead of night with the rigid, furious restraint of a man who hated needing help and used it anyway because she mattered more than his pride.
𝖩𝗼і𝗻 𝘵𝗵𝗼𝗎𝘀𝖺ո𝘥ѕ о𝗳 fа𝗻𝘴 𝘰ո 𝗀𝗮l𝗇𝗼𝗏е𝘭ѕ.𝖼𝘰m
She shifted, a sharp, stinging sensation pulling at the skin on her neck. Wincing, she struggled to sit up. She fumbled for the small hand mirror in her supply kit. Angling it, she looked at her reflection.
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