Free The Edge of Courage (Red Team) by Elaine Levine Page A

it away, run his fingers across her skin. Instead, he could only watch as she did it.
    “More like an idiot. An idiot savant.” He fed her the forkful and cut another.
    “But you can read and write those languages, too. That’s amazing. You are a genius. I wish I could do that.”
    Rocco closed his eyes as he considered how to explain it to her. “I think it’s just that I don’t tell myself I can’t.” He looked at her. “When I hear a new language or a new dialect, it first registers that whoever’s speaking is communicating as any of us does. I don’t hear them as being different. I hear the sounds of their emotions, and then I can speak those sounds. And once I can speak a language, deciphering its symbology is simple.”
    “I think you’re amazing.” He fed her another bite. She chewed and swallowed quickly.
    “Do you?” What would she think if she knew what he’d done with his God-given talent, the enemies he’d killed and camps he’d infiltrated? She might see his work in the light of how many lives he’d saved—innocent civilians spared a death in crossfire and coalition troops spared from IEDs and gun battles. Then again, to her it might be merely a count of bodies.
    A few minutes later as she gave Rocco the last bight of lasagna, a big drop of sauce landed on his thigh. She jumped, spilling a bit more. Rocco laughed, unable to stop himself when he caught her bemused expression. He took the fork that was still perilously suspended above his leg and finished off the bite on it.
    “Oh! Sorry!” She wiped at the first spot with her napkin. She had to draw the material of his jeans taut to get at the second one. Did she notice the growing bulge only a few inches from her hand? The more she wiped, the harder he got.
    His fingers dug into the edge of the old floorboards. He couldn’t believe that she was touching him—even in so innocent a way as to dab at a stain—and it wasn’t triggering the usual terrible reaction. Perhaps it was because she touched him through fabric.
    And then, it wasn’t just the stain she was touching.
    She spread her fingers open on this thigh, looked at her hand on his leg, then slowly dragged her fingers down to his knee. Blood raced to his groin. God, he’d not had a reaction to a woman like this in years.
    She rubbed her palm over his big knee, then stroked upward again, over the stain, to the top of his thigh. She moved to kneel next to him without lifting her hand from his body. He remembered seeing her touch Kitano, her hands slowly stroking over him like this. He closed his eyes, feeling like an idiot for thinking there was anything sexual in her leisurely exploration of him. When he opened them again, she was looking at him, waiting. The pink flush had returned to her skin, painting her cheeks.
    Jesus. If merely touching him colored her skin, what would she look like when he was in her, thrusting, bringing her to a climax?
    She ran her hand up over his hip, over his jeans pocket, to his waist. He could feel the heat of her skin through his shirt. He held her gaze now, daring her to stop, daring her to continue.
    She edged closer to him as she ran her hand up his ribs, over his pec, to his collarbone. Her hand moved from his open collar to his neck, now skin to skin. He sucked in a breath, waiting for the smell of the ghost flesh, waiting to feel it sticking to him, drying, moving to her.
    But it never happened.
    He felt only the soft tips of her fingers on his throat, felt them stop at his jaw. She watched the path her fingers made along his jaw line before pushing them upward, over his chin, to his lips. She flattened three of her fingers and stroked from one side of his mouth to the other.
    She was so close to him that he could feel the soft puffs of her breath on his neck. All too soon, far sooner than he wished, she drew her fingers across his cheek, down his neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm. When her hand cleared the cuff of his sleeve and