Page 4 of Flash Bang
Conan had just spanked her!Oh, hell no.Rather than being subdued, Ro’s temper flared white-hot. No one had spanked Ro since her beverage container of choice was a sippy-cup. And Conan the Barbarian with the camo-painted face was not getting away with it. Ro wished for the acrylic claws the Mistress of Evil had for nails. The ones she’d trailed down Ro’s cheek in that über creepy way that made Ro struggle not to projectile vomit. The memory made Ro shiver.Focus on now. I am not helpless. Not then and not now.So Ro did the next best thing she could think of. She bit him.
“Motherfucker!” Graham wanted to rage, but the word came out as a low growl. Operational security required silence. The bitch and her bony elbows and vampire canines weren’t going to fuck up Graham’s simple mission.
He smacked her round little ass again, harder this time. She squeaked and jabbed his back with one of those pointy little elbows. At least she couldn’t yell with her teeth embedded in his back. That had actually kind of hurt. Not that Graham would ever admit it. He probably should have been more pissed about the bite mark that he was going to be sporting, but he found it a little hard to condemn the girl when she was probably scared out of her damn mind, and her instincts were ricocheting between fight and flight. It didn’t take much combat experience to become intimately familiar with the human instinct to survive. How many combat virgins had Graham seen run at the first sounds of live fire? Or duck when they heard mortar rounds whistling into camp? Too many to count.
But still, Graham wasn’t a fan of teeth marks on his back. Fingernail scratches sustained during a marathon three-way? Perfectly acceptable. But teeth marks while fully clothed he could do without. Thoughts firmly in the gutter, as usual, Graham’s cock twitched. Little fucker didn’t know or care whether now was the appropriate time to stand up and take notice. Graham slipped back through the gate and turned to make sure it was latched.
He started a brisk jog toward the walled compound that housed their living quarters, which was located about forty acres in from the southwest corner of the spread. Her struggles ceased in favor of gripping Graham’s back to hold on. Graham still had no idea why she’d ended up near his fence, but he was damn curious to find out.
From her upside down vantage point across Conan’s back, Ro watched another man close, bolt, and bar a small porthole-like door in a giant steel wall topped with razor wire. It closed silently, but it might as well have slammed like a cell door. Panic rose as Conan strode farther into the camp.
Ro renewed her struggles. And she didn’t keep quiet this time either.
“Put me down! Let me go! Umpf—” Ro’s words were cut off as her still-stinging ass landed on a picnic table bench.
Conan got in her face. “You’re in no position to be giving orders. And until you answer my questions, you aren’t going anywhere except where I put you.”
Ro opened her mouth to let out a scathing reply, but snapped it shut when she realized she could see the angles and planes of his painted face in the glow of artificial light. She hadn’t seen any working lights in the last week and was shocked to see one now. It was amazing how quickly things she used to take for granted became oddities. But back to the face in front of hers. He had lowered himself into a crouch in front of her. He looked like G.I. Joe come to life. But even bigger than the Channing Tatum version. His face was covered in smears of brown, black, and gray, and a black long-sleeve t-shirt stretched tightly over linebacker-esque shoulders. He looked as if he was easily twice Ro’s size. The bulging muscles and defined pecs briefly distracted her, but the rifle held casually in his grip, barrel pointed in her general vicinity, caught and held her attention. An M4, the smaller, more compact version of the M16, if she remembered her dad’s lessons clearly. Her eyes darted between his face and the gun, trying to figure out her best course of action if he decided to unload the thirty round magazine in her direction.Nothing. There wasn’t a damn thing she’d be able to do if he decided to use her for target practice.And the look on his face wasn’t inspiring any confidence that he wasn’t intending to do just that. His piercing dark eyes cataloged every detail of her appearance. Thinking it was best to present as small a target as possible, Ro wrapped her arms around herself and shrank back until the edge of the picnic table dug into her spine.
Under the camo paint, his dark brows furrowed, as if he was confused by her actions. He followed her eyes to the gun and lifted his dark gaze to hers.
One brow arched sardonically when he said, “You do know that I’m not planning to shoot you.” Ro couldn’t help mentally tacking on a “yet” to the end of his sentence.
She decided it was time to unearth her lady balls and stop acting like a scared little girl. Decision made … Ro couldn’t stop her snark.
“No, as a matter of fact, I was not aware that you weren’t going to shoot me when you’ve got the barrel of a gun less than twelve inches from my face. And after you mentioned snapping my neck, I’ve developed the impression that my continuing to breathe isn’t exactly a priority of yours.” Ro held his stare, unwilling to show any more weakness or fear by breaking first.
Wasn’t there some animal you were supposed to stare down to show you’re not afraid? Or was that what you were not supposed to do? Yet another instance where law school failed to teach her practical skills. Like how to stare down a giant, camo-painted man who comfortably held an assault rifle as if it was a part of his daily uniform. A man with too-long, dark brown hair that curled over his ears and the base of his neck, making him look unbelievably sexy.
Wait. What?
Ro must have hit her head when she’d fallen. That was the only logical explanation for the errant thought.
Standing, he propped the gun against a four-by-four beam that supported the porch covering the area surrounding the picnic table. He lowered the barrel and resumed his crouching position in front of her.
“Point taken.”
He looked like he was about to say something else when a tall, nearly as broad, man with longish golden brown hair sat down right next to her on the bench as if they were long lost friends.
“Don’t worry, doll. He’s all bark. He won’t bite unless you ask for it. Probably.” His drawl was as smooth and potent as Tennessee sippin’ whiskey. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Zach. Zachariah Sawyer.”
Ro automatically stuck out her hand to shake his. The habit was too ingrained to stop. Because that’s what you do when someone offers a hand. Shake it. Even if you’re in an end of the world nightmare scenario and the man offering his hand is beyond gorgeous.
Good Lord. Where was she?
But instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it. In a move that Ro was certain no man outside of the 19th century could pull off without looking like a complete tool. And yet, he made it look sexy. And feel sexy. Heat began to swirl low in her belly.Seriously, body. Timing more than a little inappropriate.
His eyes reminded Ro of whiskey, too. Golden amber and flaring with what appeared to be interest; as if he knew the effect he was having on her body. An irritated throat clearing broke the moment.
“Sawyer, if you’re finished eye-fucking the shit out of her, I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
Zach tossed Conan a bandana and rested his arm on the picnic table behind Rowan’s shoulders.
“Clean the paint off your face, G, and calm down. I’m just getting acquainted.”
Turning his gaze back on her, he asked, “What’s your name, doll?”
Ro scooted down the bench to put some space between them and grasped her lady balls tight in an attempt to sound tough. “It sure as shit isn’t doll. Could you back up off me?”
