Dr. Bond Bergstrom fights to save the life of a man shot near the lakeside path where he jogs. Later, when the hospital where Bond works as chief of surgery learns the shooter attempted to kill him also, the board insists on assigning security protection to him 24/7 until the killer is caught.
Bond is furious with the decision. Former Navy SEALs, he argues, can protect themselves better than anyone in the world. Not so, counters former Delta Force operative Rory O’Shea. He’s the hot, sexy Irish-American who owns the agency providing the hospital’s routine security.
Bond grudgingly gives in, unaware that O’Shea has an ulterior motive in assigning himself to spend nights with the doctor as his personal bodyguard. Will O’Shea prove he has what it takes to satisfy Bond -- both in and out of the bedroom?
Pulling into its lot, Bond searched for and at last found an open parking place on asphalt pitted by years of salting to remove ice. He slid out of his red Jeep Cherokee and headed for the door. As he approached the store, a man crouching on a patch of grass near a wooden ranch-style fence, forearms on his thighs, caught his eye. His dirty jean jacket displayed an American flag patch over his heart, his regulation armed forces boots were scuffed and worn, his desert cami pants stained and dusty. Dark, long hair almost hid his face under a black hat with a crumpled crown and a brim whose edges were tattered. Unexpectedly, his hands and long fingers were clean.
Is he waiting for me? The ridiculousness of the idea jolted Bond. He’d never seen the man before. Then he remembered the news reports and hoped the stranger wasn’t looking for the fake hero in them.
The boots and camis indicated he might be a homeless veteran. One third of all the homeless men on any given night in the US were vets and, having fought for his country in the horrors of combat, that statistic made Bond’s gut ache with the injustice of it.
He turned to approach the man. He wouldn’t give him money, which could be used for drugs or booze, or offer a lift, which might put Bond in danger, but he always carried free tickets for a meal and a drink at the Subway up the road. It was a habit similar to one he’d developed while working in a hospital in the heart of an LA high crime area, where the air was heavy with despair. The area had its share of vets who lived in their cars or on the streets. After retiring from the SEALs and returning to civilian life, he’d resumed the practice.
One step into his approach, the man looked up. Stood. He was taller and more slender than Bond, yet the seams of the jacket could’ve burst under the stretch of the broad shoulders it covered. The jacket ended at narrow hips where the camis began. The natural bulge below them was full but not aroused.
He no longer seemed deadbeat; he looked capable and strong. Dangerous even.
Bond slowed. Now, at some intense and deeply personal level, he thought he knew him. He shook off that idea. He’d never seen him before. He prepared to be asked for money.
The stranger smiled, and out of a face framed by greasy hair and smudged with grass stains and earth, two stunningly arresting emerald eyes caught his gaze. They took his measure, head to toes. And they invited him for sex.
The look said it all. The man hadn’t spoken a word or made any gesture, but there was absolute certainty in his posture that this would happen.
The hairs rose on Bond’s neck and arms and his pulse kicked up.
It was a look beyond any Bond had recalled ever experiencing with any other man. Not even the initial one from the man who had once been his lover. What he’d felt for that partner and what they’d had together instantly faded from his thoughts as if it had never been.
Good Lord, you’d think I was young again. And still a virgin.
He might have scoffed, but instead he stopped. His mind imploded with visions of being in bed with this man, tangled in sheets damp with sweat, their bodies naked, wet, and slippery with their cum, the scintillating smell of sex pungent in the air.
He knew this man’s touch on his arousal would bring searing heat and pleasure beyond bearing.
Bond’s every nerve ending flooded him with sensations and with the knowledge that fucking this man would be primal, rough and primitive. Cataclysmic. More satisfying than any encounter with any other man had ever been. They would make love and then they would do it again. Simply being together would set off the need, the urgency.
Bond’s dick threatened to surge in response. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as his breath caught in his throat.
The look also said, I will have you. I am your man. You are my destiny.
The promise and the vision warred with his surgeon’s grounded, rational mind. He definitely did not believe in Vulcan mind meld, so where these thought came from he didn’t know.
Veteran or not, the man was nothing more than a hustler. Like ice water on an open flame, disgust killed the sexual fire in Bond’s belly and cock.
With a slight shake of his head, he went up the steps into the market two at a time.
The man didn’t follow.
Bond could’ve sworn he chuckled.
He found that very annoying.