Lilah had rocked his world once, twice . . . he leaned over the bed to count empty condom wrappers . . . three times, and then she’d . . . Walked off before dawn. That was usually his role. “My own fault,” he told the mutt, who was sitting on his chest. “I was easy.” “Arf,” the dog said in complete agreement, and licked Brady’s chin. “You’re one to judge,” Brady said in disgust. “If someone even thinks about petting you, you drop and expose your kibble and bits. No soldier worth his salt does that. You’re like a damn dog.” “Arf.” “Okay, good point,” he said, shaking his head. “You are a dog. And so, apparently, am I.” He lay there staring at the ceiling for a moment more, replaying the night before. He’d loved watching Lilah’s animated face. As someone who’d forced himself to keep every emotion in check for the better part of his entire life, he found it endlessly fascinating. He found her endlessly fascinating. He’d not been able to get enough of her, not of her body writhing beneath his, not of her soft sighs, her scent, her taste .
