Page 85 of Missile Strike

Her chin lifted, the gold in her eyes darkening to amber. “Do you want me?”

He stared down at her, memorizing the shape of her face. Her curves. Her beautiful eyes. “With every fucking breath. But I’m here to protect you, not hurt you again.”

“I know you’re going to leave.” Her hands slid up his chest, heat trailing in their wake that threatened to override his control. “But this isn’t something I need protection from.”

She gripped his shoulders. Rose onto her toes. Pressed her body against his.

And destroyed him.

“Stop trying to be noble and make love to me.”

Chapter Twenty

Danny stood frozen in Bella’s living room, the scent of honeyed jasmine and citrus surrounding him as Bella stared up at him.

He’d been a Navy SEAL, for Christ’s sake. He ran toward danger.

Thrived on it.

Staring into Bella’s stormy eyes, he realized a hard truth. This pint-sized woman scared the hell out of him. There was only one time in his life when he’d run away—the first time he’d laid his hands on her and buried himself deep inside her.

But he wasn’t running this time. Even if it would be better for Bella.

He was done being noble.

Done doing the right thing.

His arms came around her, securing her firmly against him so she could feel his answer.

“Are. You. Sure?” He enunciated his words.

Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “Yes.”

No hesitation.

He fought the instinct to claim her mouth, his body trembling with the effort to go slow. Instead, he bent and scooped her into his arms.

Trip bounded ahead of him as he took the stairs two at a time.

Bella gasped. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not fucking you in your living room, honey.”

Her pupils flared.

“This time, we’re doing it the right way. In a bed where I can take my time.”

“Sorry, buddy,” he told Trip. “We don’t need an audience.” Danny closed the door with his foot, leaving the dog on the other side.

Then he laid Bella on her bed and straightened slowly, taking her in.

The tousled ponytail. The short-sleeved blue knit shirt that hugged her breasts. The jean shorts that exposed smooth, tanned legs. And those toes painted a hot pink.

Damn. Maybe he had a foot fetish.

That’s where he’d start.

Sitting on the bed, he cupped her foot, his fingers ghosting across her toes. She giggled, trying to pull away. But he held on, kissing each toe before putting his mouth on her ankle and dragging his lips across the satiny skin of her calf up to the soft underside of her knee. He licked her there, and she gasped.