Free Frontline by Alexandra Richland Page B

the back of my neck.
    That’s not the only place I feel tight, Mr. Merrick.
    “Just relax,” he says, drifting his lips across my nape. “Let me take care of you.”
    I whimper and close my eyes, incapable of speech or thought as he continues his massage. The tension in my body seeps away and my defenses crumble, his soothing touch and voice ushering me toward a peaceful, vulnerable state.
    “Would you like to know more about that weapon?” He drops another kiss to my neck.
    I manage a nod.
    “This particular sword is a Roman Gladius . It was adopted by the Romans from Spanish mercenaries during the first Punic War.”
    I open my eyes and stare at the blade.
    “It became the standard issue infantry weapon of the Roman legions and saw service in the Roman armies for at least two hundred and fifty years.”
    Mr. Merrick deepens his massage. I sigh and tilt my head back, resting it against his broad chest.
    “Is it still sharp?” I grip my wine glass tightly with both hands. I’m on sensory overload as he pleasures me with every firm squeeze, every warm, intimate breath he expels against my skin.
    “Would you like a demonstration?” he asks into the side of my neck. “Or perhaps you’d like to touch it yourself.”
    Oh, yes!
    “Uh huh . . .”
    Mr. Merrick slips his hands from my shoulders and pulls the sword down from its holder. My heart skips a beat as his blue eyes appear in the blade and lock with mine.
    I recall his vow during his visit to my apartment.
    I would never hurt you, Sara.
    Mr. Merrick reaches out with his free hand and traces a forefinger down the side of my face. I close my eyes and concentrate on the path his finger travels, down my neck, along my shoulder and collarbone.
    He removes the wine glass from my shaky hand and I hear it clink on top of a nearby glass case. My arms hang limp at my sides as I give my body to him and his Gladius .
    “To answer your question: Although old, the sword is still very sharp. For instance, Miss Peters . . .” His finger pauses on the sole thin strap of my dress.
    I open my eyes, admiring the weapon in his other hand.
    “One flick of the blade, right here,” he curls his finger under my strap, “would send this pretty little dress of yours to the floor.”
    I recall my determination not to give in to him too easily tonight. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Merrick?”
    “You stir madness within me by flaunting yourself in that figure-hugging garment.” He hums the words rather than speaks them. “But you know that already, don’t you, Miss Peters?”
    “Yes,” I reply, hypnotized by the sword’s blade.
    “And you wore that dress on purpose just to torture me, didn’t you?”
    “If you say so, Mr. Merrick.”
    “But you won’t give me what I want. Not yet, anyway. Am I correct?”
    The corners of my mouth lift into a clever smirk. “That is correct, Mr. Merrick.”
    “You’re a temptress.” His e yes flash with determination.
    I bite my lower lip.
    Although I’m dedicated to staying true to my vow that he has to prove I’m more than another shiny, pretty object to chase, conquer, and collect for his wall of trophies, I feel dismayed when his finger releases my strap, leaving my dress fully intact.
    “So, can I touch it?” I look into his eyes, ignoring the Gladius .
    “I don’t know. Have you ever handled anything so powerful before?”
    “I’ve been handling you just fine, Mr. Merrick. The sword is hardly a challenge.”
    “Well, I must admit, I’m curious whether your slender fingers are able to wrap all the way around the thick shaft.”
    I flash him a smug smile. “I can accommodate something that large, believe me.”
    Mr. Merrick surrenders the weapon. I wrap my fingers around the handle. It’s heavier than I expect
    It has one long, shiny blade and deep carvings in the wooden handle, now worn smooth by age and the grip of ancient soldiers. It’s a simple tool passed down through the ranks for one deadly purpose