Chapter 822
She unconsciously licked her lips, the slight sting bringing her back to reality. A small, complaining sound, half-groan, half-purr, escaped her.
“My lips…” she mumbled, her voice husky and slurred from the kiss. “You’ve bruised them.”
It wasn’t a real complaint. It was the intimate, petulant accusation of a well-loved woman.
Jarrod froze for a second, then a low, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was a sound of pure, masculine satisfaction, dark and rich, and it vibrated through her, leaving no room for doubt about what it meant.
He ducked his head, his nose brushing hers in a gesture that was surprisingly playful. No hand guided her. No fingers tilted her chin.
Then, with deliberate, punishing gentleness, he nipped the corner of her mouth, right where it was the most swollen.
“Oww,” she hissed, pulling back slightly to glare at him, though there was no real heat in her eyes.
He looked down at her, at her flushed face and glittering, water-bright eyes, and his own gaze darkened with a fresh wave of desire. His eyes dropped to her bruised bottom lip, lingering there like a touch he could not physically give.
“Good,” he growled, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.
“Now, everyone who sees you will know who you belong to.”
The raw, possessive certainty in his voice sent a jolt straight to her core, a thrill that was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
And then, a beat later, the reality of his words crashed down on her.
A wave of pure, unadulterated panic washed through her.
The barracks. The other women. Brenna. Beatrix.
How in God’s name was she supposed to walk back in there with a mouth that looked like it had been thoroughly, brutally, and very recently ravaged?
The panic was a cold shock, instantly extinguishing the warm afterglow of the kiss. Caroline stepped back from Jarrod’s nearness, putting space between them before the heat of him could make her forget the problem he had just created. There was no embrace to break; his right arm was still locked in the medical brace, and his left hand remained trapped in its splint. She scrambled across the small room to the tiny, military-issue shaving mirror hanging on the wall.
The reflection confirmed her worst fears.
Her lips were a disaster. They were swollen to twice their normal size, a deep, bruised red, with a tiny break in the skin at the corner where he had nipped her. It looked less like she’d been kissed and more like she’d gone a few rounds with a heavyweight boxer.
There was no explaining this away. A clumsy fall? Biting her lip? The excuses were so flimsy they were insulting.
She spun around, her eyes blazing with a new, frantic anger. “Are you insane?” she hissed, her voice a furious whisper.
Jarrod was standing near the wall, the brace distorting the line of his modified jacket, his left hand rigid in its black splint. He looked far too entertained by her meltdown, but his arms were not crossed. They couldn’t be. “I thought you enjoyed it.”