Page 76 of Hotter than Wildfire

She’d essentially spent a year in war, under fire.

Soldiers had access to shrinks, had understanding buddies if they lost it, and at least they were trained to fight back.

Fuck with a US soldier and a world of hurt came raining down on your head. She’d been alone and vulnerable, every second of every fucking day.

This was a beautiful woman with an unworldly talent the world should be celebrating and instead that fucker Montez made her scuttle around in the darkness like a cockroach.

She had every right to weep.

The crying jag was winding down, more because it had exhausted her than anything else. She finally heaved a huge sigh and settled more fully against him.

Thank God she was curled up on his lap and not over his groin, so she couldn’t feel his boner. Though it would be a miracle if she didn’t feel the heat from it. Shit, it was burning him up alive, like a hot poker some joker had stuck down the front of his pants.

If there was one trick he’d learned having nearly died twice and having twice made that long long trek back to life, it was the ability to shut off signals from parts of his body.

Last year, he’d shut out the pain of the surgeries and the shattered hip. He’d just blanked out all sensation from his waist down. He tried that now, because at the time it was been a neat trick to cut off the pain. Helped along with a little alcohol and some Eve from his speakers. So now that he wasn’t feeling any pain at all, you’d think he’d be able to pull that no-feeling-below-the-waist thing.

But no.

His dick was actually screaming at him to get going. To get inside Ellen as fast as he could, now that the crying jag was over and she might be a little amenable to some belly bumping.

No. Harry didn’t do this.

He knew men who equated sex with pain. Who loved fucking women in distress, even better if they were the ones to make them hurt. Women’s pain was like an aphrodisiac to them. He’d seen that a lot, his mom had fucked a lot of men like that.

Harry was better than that. He’d spent his whole fucking life proving that he was better than that.

Sex between consenting adults was one of the great pleasures of life. Mutually satisfying fun. Making love with someone you cared about, loved—that was holy.

And Harry loved Ellen. Maybe he’d loved her before he even met her. The instant he’d seen her—a beautiful, frightened woman in his office—it was as if something in the universe slotted into place. Something real, something necessary.

So getting a boner while she wept desperately in his arms shamed him, disgusted him. It made him no better than fuckhead Rod. It made him a monster.

He’d get Ellen a cup of tea and go and take a cold shower and see if he could jerk off, get the boner back down. Or if that didn’t work, put ice on it, hammer it down, do something.

He shifted on the couch, preparing to lift her off him when she sat up, swivelled her head and looked him in the eyes.

And—fuck—her hip landed straight on his cock. Oh, shit.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he said miserably. “I just⁠—"

She made a shushing sound, placing the palms of her hands against his cheeks, forcing him to look into her eyes.

Oh God, how could she be so beautiful after weeping for half an hour? Most women looked like shit after crying. Eyes and face red and swollen. Ellen simply looked rosier than the icy white she’d been before, her eyes lustrous with tears, a sadness on her face that cut bone deep.

Hell, even seeing her like this, why wouldn’t his fucking boner go down?

“Harry?” she whispered.

“Yeah?” he whispered back.

“Will you do something for me?”

“Anything you want, honey. Anything.”

She leaned forward, her lower belly right against his cock, lips touching his. Against his mouth she whispered, “Take me to bed and make love to me.”

She needed this like she’d needed the sunshine this morning. A celebration of life. A celebration of the fact that Nicole and her baby were okay and so was she, for the moment.