Jungle Heat by Rachel Haimowitz

Author:Rachel Haimowitz [Haimowitz, Rachel]
Language: nld
Format: epub
Tags: erotic MM, Romance MM
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * * * *

He woke to a headache and a hundred sharp pains along his torso, heart galloping in

his chest and limbs half-numb and rubbery. His ass hurt. Jizz had crusted on his chin and down his crack. His pants were still around his thighs.

And he knew with a clarity that pained him more than any of his bodily ills that the

man—no, the men, who’d fucked him had most certainly not been Mitchell.

God, please tell me I didn’t give up my team.

He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t fucking remember.

And where was everyone?

He tested his bonds. Couldn’t budge. Whether it was the quality of the knots or the

lack of strength in his own body, he couldn’t say. But as long as the enemy was foolish enough to leave him unguarded, he had to keep trying.

Yet he kept coming back to the question: why would they do that?

And why was everyone shouting?

He’d heard something, hadn’t he. Something had woken him. He closed his eyes,

thought back as his wrists twisted bloody in their restraints.

. . . Chopper. He’d heard a chopper. Which meant Morales had landed after all, thank

God.

Had he heard a gunshot, too? Tough to say if he would have anyway, given the

suppressor and the distance and the hot humid air. But it stood to reason, didn’t it.

Because otherwise, where was everyone?

And yes, now he definitely heard shots. Sidearms. Diego’s M4. One of the baddies going shit stupid with an automatic rifle, emptying his clip in seconds. Screaming. More weapons fire. The unmistakable sound of an M67 blowing up a building.

Silence then, save the ringing in his ears. Then the soft thump of a man in combat

boots running across a field. His name being called in fear and relief, most definitely Mitchell’s voice this time.

Mitchell’s hands, too, touching to his shoulder, cupping his neck, unsheathing that

gorgeous fucking $400 Benchmade he carried to cut the bindings away.

“Shit, Pete, you all right?” Mitchell bent to cut Pete’s ankles free, eyes no doubt

skimming across the pants hanging open at his thighs, stained with his blood and the

semen of God knew how many men.

He didn’t like the way Mitchell’s voice was shaking. He wasn’t some delicate

virginal flower, for fuck’s sake. What was a beating and a coked-up gangbang compared

to 61 days of sleepless starvation at Ranger School?

Or at least that’s what he damn well intended to keep telling himself.

“I’m fine,” he said, and okay, maybe he deserved that arching eyebrow, what with

him not being able to stand on his own just yet. “Tell me you completed the mission.”

A huge, cheery grin broke out across Mitchell’s face, and fuck all, maybe it was the

coke, maybe it was the endorphins, but there was only one way to answer that smile: he grabbed Mitchell by the drag strap on the front of his vest and crushed his lips to that gorgeous, grinning mouth.

It took Mitchell a second to get with the program. Pete was expecting tolerance at

best, a fist to the jaw at worst—and hey, he could always blame the

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