Hard Way

1

Captain Liam Dash Christiansen sped his Evo X sports coupe around the exit ramp. He gripped the leather-wrapped wheel. Gunned it. The tires squealed, though the car absorbed the curve without fault. He grinned tightly, enjoying the g-force and the tiny tremor of danger. There wasn’t much else to enjoy about the afternoon.

Keep it under Mach two, please.

No problem, he said.

At the red light at the base of the ramp, Dash slammed to a stop. He was normally a much more graceful driver, but he was making a point.

Sunita, his wife of eight years, sat rigidly in the passenger seat. Elegant fingers tipped with chocolate-brown polish were clasped in her lap. She hadn’t responded to his fit of pique by clinging to the armrest and bitching him out. Nope. Nothing had changed. She fired off brittle silences as ably as Dash flew fighter jets.

The light turned green. Dash floored it and powered through the last Sunday-quiet turn leading to his house. Their house, although her increasingly frequent, increasingly lengthy trips to DC made that more of a technicality. A little less than two years before, a job offer to serve as legal advisor to Representative John Rueland had been the making of Sunny’s hard-earned career. They’d indulged in a lavish dinner, made love for hours and welcomed the dawn with a familiar, confident promise.

Time apart wouldn’t affect their marriage.

But it had.

Why, Dash couldn’t say. He and Sunny had waded through some thick shit. They’d been in love since the age of twenty, when a blind date in their hometown of Portland first united an Air Force Academy cadet and an aspiring lawyer attending Berkeley. Semesters apart. Then internships and deployments. They’d triumphed over it all, even her Indian family’s objection to getting married before graduation.

If he and Sunny knew anything, it was how to survive separation. They knew how to sacrifice for a shared vision of the future.

Now, they didn’t even know how to talk to each other. Sunny’s only words since leaving the airport parking garage had been to politely criticize his driving.

After three weeks apart, Dash had expected more than a hug and a quick kiss. Too bad. That was all she’d permitted.

He pulled to a stop in their driveway, threw it in park and gunned the engine one more time for good measure. It did fuck all to ease his tightly wound nerves. This was combat-worthy anxiety. Sunny pointedly ignored him. She opened the passenger door and got out before he’d turned off the ignition. She carried her attaché toward the front door, with her luggage still in the trunk.

God, she was breathtaking. Barely five-foot-two, she never wore exaggerated high heels to lend extra height. She was too clever and strong-willed to need that. Instead she wore beaded silk flats that complemented her sari-inspired business suit, which looked immaculate even after the cross-country flight. Coffee-and-gold fabric curved against her pert little ass. The color utterly suited her deeply tan skin tone. Stockings showed off slender, petite legs—perfection from the backs of her thighs to her dainty ankles.

And her hair. He joked on occasion that he’d fallen in love with her hair before Sunny herself. So thick. So dark and lustrous. When unbound, it fell well below her waist. At the moment it was pinned in an elaborate maze of swirling silk. Dash had come to anticipate the point during their reunions when Sunny would smile, lift her arms and begin unraveling the braids. It was the simplest foreplay—revealing to him what she showed no one else.

But he sat in the car. Fuming. That eroticized ritual looked about as likely as a manned Mars mission by spring.

He switched off the ignition and jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Pushed hard. What the hell was happening to them? Building and building…and still, it had no name. A rough patch? A course correction? Something more serious?

He shoved out of the Evo and followed where Sunny had disappeared into their rental. Tidy and compact, the tan stucco bungalow on the north side of Vegas, not too far from Nellis Air Force Base, had been their home for two and a half years. Dash’s assignment to the 64 th Aggressor Squadron had been another of those career high moments. All their plans coming to fruition. Clear skies ahead.

More like a sandstorm.

He shut and locked the door behind him.

In law school, Sunny’s colleagues had referred to her as the Ice Queen of Bangalore. Privately, she enjoyed the compliment—as long as they got the city right. She’d usually shared her amusement while curled naked against Dash, their limbs a tangle. Dash had always relished the contrast between his sweaty, debauched wife and the cold-ass lawyer everyone else knew.

Sunny stood dead center in their living room. On occasion, he had been on the receiving end of her Ice Queen glare. More often of late and full-on right then.

We need to talk.

Although she’d been born in the US, her voice was tinged with the graceful melody of her parents’ languages.

You could say that. He stalked past her and into the kitchen, grabbing two bottles of water. She declined the one he offered. So. Talk.

Liam, you know what this is about. Don’t play ‘dumb as shit’ Dash with me.

This is not me playing dumb. This is me being ticked off and confused as hell. He took a swig of the water, wishing it was straight whiskey. What’s going on, Sunny? Emails and voicemails, but you don’t reply.

I’ve been busy.

Now you’re home after three weeks, and I get a peck on the cheek? Seriously?

Her shrug looked forced, but she kept her chin up. Sorry. Just tired. And we both have to go to work tomorrow.

Dash grit his teeth together. Work. Christ, they didn’t fight about much else. Or talk about much else.

Something dark and nasty was pushing out from his skin. Stronger and stronger. Each calm blink of her deep brown eyes stoked his most basic, most devastating fears. He was losing her.

That fear was rapidly boiling into venomous anger.

So spill it. I’m through with twenty questions.

When they shared free time in the same zip code, he and Sunny were both avid practitioners of various martial arts styles. From jiu-jitsu to Krav Maga to Kalaripayattu, an Indian fighting style Sunny’s father had taught her from childhood—they loved it all. Incorporating new moves into their sparring sessions bordered on the obsessive. There was always victory to be had in a takedown.

She stared at him that way now, as if they were on the verge of a sparring match. Her eyes blazed with dark defiance, not any need for rational discussion. Her lips always rested in a placid half-smile, no matter her mood, which only heightened her apparent calm. Mystery and challenge. A stellar mind tucked inside a petite, apparently defenseless body.

Dash knew better. She dished it out as well as she could take it.

That infuriating half-smile never changed when she said, I want a divorce.

He might as well have taken a roundhouse to the face. Flinch. Stagger. Boil with rage. That was on the inside.

In truth he stood as mountain-still as she did.

What did you say?

I want a divorce. We’ve known this has been a long time coming.

"We? Bullshit."

It’s true and you know it. Things are…broken. She had the emotional courtesy of appearing pained. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes before she blinked them away. There’s no sense in dragging this out.

This. As in our marriage. He carefully capped the water bottle. Then he hurled it against the wall, where it cracked and spun on the tile floor.

Sunny flinched, but neither of them moved. Still on the sparring mat. You can put that temper away or I’m leaving.

You seem ready to leave anyway, he sneered, his head buzzing and thumping. "It’s a marriage, Sunny. It’s supposed to be dragged out. Till death do us part, if I remember right."

Things change.

So, what, no counseling? No…I don’t know, sitting down and talking it through? He was pacing now. The energy ballooning in his bloodstream needed an outlet before he smashed something more than a water bottle. "Three weeks gone and boom. All settled in that million-dollar brain of yours. Did you have an epiphany on the goddamn plane?"

It hasn’t been that simple.

Oh, glad to hear. Do elaborate.

No wonder she was such a damn good lawyer. Nothing read on her heart-shaped face. Only long years together gave Dash little hints that his wife was still in there somewhere. Her feet were positioned side by side. Primly. Symmetrically. She always stood that way when greeting her parents after a long absence. And her fingers were knitted together at her waist, fidgeting.

When was the last time we laughed, Dash? Like old times? Her words started out almost accusatory, but they slipped toward wistful as she continued. When was the last time we dressed up and headed down to the Strip? Or ate somewhere that didn’t do takeout? Or shut the phones off and stayed in bed all weekend?

You say that like it’s something I haven’t wanted.

Funny way of showing it. I come home and get the cold shoulder about how much time I’m spending in Washington.

Dash stopped, glared. I’ve supported your choice from the start.

"My choice? Now it’s my choice?"

Two years is a long time.

So was waiting for you to come home from each tour. Her mouth tightened. Gloss shimmered there, as perfect as the rest of her. You haven’t shown me anywhere near that level of support and reassurance.

You are so far off the mark—

And then there’s sex, she said with more force. Generally, it’s right before I leave, when you realize I’ll be gone soon. It’s an obligation like packing my toiletries bag.

A headache exploded across his brow. Sex…an obligation? That he didn’t support her career? He supported it every time he watched her print new boarding passes and didn’t shred the damn things.

It’s so bad you wanna throw it out? Just like that?

I said it hasn’t been a snap decision.

She swallowed. The flash of worry on her face tightened his spine. A shiver crawled over his skin. Something big was coming. For the first time in his life—combat and all—he didn’t know if he could handle it.

And now, she whispered. Well, I’ve met someone.

His temper didn’t blaze. Instead, he went corpse-cold. Met someone.

He works in Rueland’s office too.

Met. Someone.

Her shoulders yanked back, on the defensive. Ten years as a couple. Eight years married. Maybe six of those spent apart. Are you going to tell me it wasn’t bound to happen?

Dash strode across the room. Her wrists in one hand. The knotted bundle of her hair in the other. He gripped both too hard. Sunny hissed. Her dark eyes widened. He was so close he could make out every kohl-black lash.

"That’s exactly what I’m telling you. It was not bound to happen. But you can let it happen. So where is this jackass? Waiting to whisk you away?"

Don’t be patronizing. He’s in Los Angeles until we return to DC.

Thank fuck for small mercies.

Dash, stop it. Let go of me.

No. He gave her head a shake. "You might as well tell me to calm down too. I’ll tell you no again."

This is why I didn’t want to return your calls or reply to your emails. I knew you’d lose it.

You were right, he said with a nod. And it’s better in person after all. That way I can look you in the eyes when you answer me.

What?

He had a better grip on her wrists and hair than he did on his temper. Somehow he managed to keep his voice even when he asked, Have you slept with him?

Sunny had recovered the placid tilt of her lips. Not a smile, exactly, but an expression that said she was perfectly calm. Not yet. That’s why I want a divorce.

The civilized part of Dash’s mind winked out. He yanked her head back and kissed her. She hadn’t given him the homecoming kiss he’d wanted, so he took it. Soft lips gave way to his sudden assault. He forced his tongue inside. Tasted her sweetness. Inflicted his confusion and hurt on her delicate mouth.

The complex knots and braids that held her hair in place served as the perfect handhold. He snugged his fingers into that glorious mass. Her head, her neck, the angle of her mouth—his to control. With his other hand he clamped both of her delicate wrists, even as she struggled.

Breathing heavily through his nose, Dash took the kiss deeper. She squealed and tried to shake him off. Her resistance stoked a hotter flame in the only part of his mind that still worked. Someplace primal and violent.

What’s his name? he rasped against her reddened, swollen lips.

Fuck off.

He smiled. It felt cruel. But he loved it. Loved that he’d cracked past her ice-queen exterior. Tell me or this gets nasty.

Her defiance was back. The spark in her eyes. The coiled tension in her limbs. She breathed as tightly as when they sparred. His name is Jake.

Dash dove back in. Kissing. Then…tearing. Her coat and blouse gave way beneath his taut fingers.

Jake. Hm. He sounded preternaturally calm. You’re a married woman, Mrs. Christiansen. That’s not your husband’s name.

Hideous images overwhelmed his view of her moist lips and flushed cheeks—images of divorce lawyers’ offices, contracts, an empty apartment. One day, he’d see this guy Jake. Actually see him. The fucker would have his arms around Sunny.

She’d expect Dash to behave. Maybe he would.

But not yet.

Some pin or barrette had snapped. A thick braid became the perfect tether. He looped it twice around his fist and pulled her toward the couch. Her screech of pain and protest turned his anger into pure, dizzying arousal.

She hooked her heel behind his knee and yanked. Dash lost his balance. They collapsed onto the living room floor as if onto a wrestling mat.

For seconds filled with breathless gasps and grunts, they actually fought. Grips, handholds, twists. Every blow she landed on his back and shoulders was an encouragement, not a deterrent. Dash stripped the rest of her blouse in a single tug. Sunny shrieked, but he grabbed her braid again. Pinned from thigh to shoulder, she wouldn’t be able to move without pain.

He was so fucking hard.

"I am your husband, Sunny."

She twisted her hips, then winced. Get off me, you piece of shit.

You’re not hearing me. I am your husband. That means all of this… he gripped her hair, grazed teeth against her throat, thrust his cock against her softness, …all of this is mine.

Not for long, she spat.

His cruel smile had returned. He shoved a hand beneath her skirt and yanked down her stockings and panties. That ripping sound…

God, yes.

Then I’m going to take what’s mine while I still can.

2

Demented. Sunny had always known that way down deep, under the education and the sophistication she tried for, she was slightly deranged at the edges.

This was proof.

Dash was hurting her. Actually hurting her. The grip in her hair stung her scalp, bad enough that her eyes watered. Her panties had cut into her hips when he ripped them down. Her hose was ruined.

All temper and meanness.

Secretly, she was broken. Her breathing was out of control. Blood rushed through her veins. Spikes of excitement tingled up her palms like they hadn’t in years.

All she could think was finally. Finally she’d cracked through that goddamned shell of his. The constant jokes made her laugh when their moods matched, but they got old when she wanted something real. When there weren’t any jokes, he was a million miles away, even when he was physically right there. She needed a future, and she wasn’t sure if that would ever be a certainty with Dash. He barely seemed to care enough for it to be a worry.

The way he held her hands above her head was something real. The back of her wrists pushed into the tile. She’d be bruised tomorrow. Already there was a burning in her skin, but nothing competed with the sting shooting through her body. He had draped one leg across both of hers, but loosely.

An opportunity.

She jerked her knee up in a move that would dig into his hamstrings. As in shape as Dash was, the kick wouldn’t make much difference.

She wasn’t the type to lie back and take it.

If anything, that shark-blade smile of his widened. She’d always loved his mouth. His lips were saved from irredeemable thinness by the defined bow at the top. That divot disappeared when he smiled, and yet it didn’t matter. His grin took over his whole face. Like it did now. Except his eyes… They bored into Sunny’s with the heat they’d lost over recent years. Over the past three or four years, if she was honest.

She never would’ve applied for the job with Representative Rueland if she’d feared they would head this way. Toward the end.

Nothing to say, Mrs. Christiansen?

Don’t fucking call me that. Her heart twisted. When they’d first gotten married, she’d been so damned hopeful about who Mrs. Christiansen would be. Few of her dreams had turned out. Not when you hardly notice me coming and going.

I had no idea you were so incredibly full of shit. He spread his hand over her bare stomach. Cruel fingertips dug into her ribs.

She ought to tell him no. Get the fuck off her.

She didn’t.

Logically she understood the intersection of fantasy and reality. Didn’t mean she accepted the fact that her pussy was throbbing. Opening and heating. Wanting.

Wanting Dash. Liam. Her husband.

But then, wanting him had never really been a problem. More like she wanted all of him, even the stuff he hid behind a shiny veneer.

So she licked her bottom lip. Her mouth had gone bone dry. Not full of shit. More like I’m tired. Tired of trying to make this work.

That’s what a marriage is, Sunny. Work.

I shouldn’t be the only one.

His fingers sank into her skin. Another flash of pain across her ribs. He drifted upwards. His thumb stroked under her breast, across the lace and wire of her bra. I keep my mouth shut when you leave six times a fucking year? That’s not work?

That’s payback.

He wrenched her braid. Her head yanked back, chin pointing to the ceiling. He pulsed his cock at the apex of her thighs. Goddamn it, Sunny.

Do it. The words hurtled forth between them like blows in their sparring sessions, each landing with more force than the last. I fucking dare you.

"You dare me. You fucking dare me? The furrow in his brow etched with more lines. This Jake… He must be a pussy."

She forced a laugh. You wish.

Has to be. Otherwise you’d know better than to dare a man.

Jake is smart and savvy.

Does he touch you like this? His hand was so strong at her breast. He pinched mercilessly. You’re panting, Sunny. Did you realize?

She hadn’t. The fight.

You love fighting with me.

Not the same thing.

He shoved that damned hand between her legs, above the panties and nylons tangled at her thighs. She’d expected it when he ripped them, but Dash kept her guessing. That was part of the problem.

Jake was safer. She only had to be. Exist. She didn’t need to keep guessing what he was really thinking about. He had an open face, nicely blunt features. Not sharp like Liam’s. Her husband reminded her of an eagle.

He dug his talons into her. Fingers along her pussy lips. He pressured and pleased at the same time. She held back her shudder.

Part of you seems to disagree.

Physiological reaction. Her voice rasped. She hardly sounded like herself—always that way when she lied.

Really, he drawled. Maybe I should have paid more attention in biology.

She swallowed again. There was a lump in her throat, all nerves. Making her mouth form the words was damn difficult. Get off me, Liam. Now.

No.

Cold. Cruel. Implacable.

Then he was moving. Not pinning her down. He released her, then flipped her facedown. She struggled automatically. Her legs scrambled against the tile.

He still had her. One arm wrapped low around her hips. Her ass pressed up against his cock, which was hard—pipe hard and burning even as something deep opened. Something she needed.

Everything rational was fighting to get through, to get up. Get away. To see if she could.

If he’d let her.

He was lean and sinewy, but that didn’t mean he was weak. Never had been. Those sleek muscles concealed an enormous amount of power. The only way she got the better of him during their sessions was either by executing maneuvers flawlessly or by taking him by surprise.

Like the elbow she drove backward. She caught him across the jaw, right at the hinge.

He grunted. More than that, he froze.

She did too. Everything in her chilled.

A line in the sand.

His hold on her hips loosened. She looked backward over her shoulder as he rubbed his cheek.

His eyes were still glittering. But then he worked his jaw back and forth. Shook his head.

The truth—the thing that made her skin prickle with more terror than when she’d uttered the four words that sparked all this—was she feared he would back down.

The air was thick with their heavy breathing, there in the living room they shared. Not even on the couch she’d picked out five years ago—picked out while sitting at her computer alone, sipping wine, trying not to think about Dash flying over a war zone. Instead they were two feet in front of it, sprawled on the damn tile.

Her elbows dug into the implacable marble.

His fingers slowly untangled from her braid. I don’t— I can’t— Jesus, Sunny. What the fuck…?

The warmth along her back was pulling away. Skin off skin. Planes off softness. All ending.

This wouldn’t save them. It couldn’t. Too much was broken in the silences between them. But she couldn’t be faulted for wanting a little taste. Something to carry away when she moved on to a new life. A divorced woman. At least she’d know that once or twice, she’d claimed something of the real Liam.

The darkest, truest part of him. She’d spent years wondering what it might be.

She reached back. Fingertips on his nape, she held him to her, so close. One word slipped from her lips in a tiny whisper she barely heard.

"Yes."

Maybe he’d been waiting for it. He grabbed her. Hands everywhere. Pushing her against the floor. Her cheek slicked over the tile, smearing her foundation. He cleaned up before her returns, brought the maids in, but his life didn’t change whether or not she was home.

Nothing mattered, though—not when he snatched her braid. Yanked. Her head jerked up, neck aching against the hurt. She lashed out instinctively, slapping backward. Her knuckles cracked across his cheek. The hit was loud in a silent room filled with only her wanting and his taking.

The sharp line of his forearm dug across her shoulders. She knew those fumbles behind her ass. Tingles like lightning stung through her blood. His fingers pinched her skin. Then the clink of his belt buckle and the slide of his zipper.

Oh God, that was his cock pressing against her. He stroked it up and down the cleft of her cheeks. Here, he rasped. I could take you here. You couldn’t stop me.

Helpless. Jesus.

He’d stolen her strength, her power. He’d only absorbed each blow. Taking what he wanted. She didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. It was all she could do to choke down the soft moan threatening to wiggle up her throat.

"No protests? Means I might as well. Have you