Yes. Yes. Say yes, damn it, before the top of his head exploded.

"And you're getting good at maneuvering the flight surgeon."

"I'm only interested in convincing you."

He led the way up the narrow stairwell, wincing at each tug to his leg working its way through whatever numbing shot Monica had given him before digging out the bits of metal and stitching him up. And he couldn't afford to take mind-mussing pain pills.

Clearing the last step to the cockpit, he found Crusty sprawled in the aircraft commander's left seat eating a handful of chocolate-chip cookies by the hazy neon glow of a chemstick.

"Take a hike." Jack jerked a thumb toward the stairwell.

Crusty looked from Jack to Monica, back to Jack. "Seat's comfy here and there's nobody around to snitch my food. What's in it for me if I leave?"

Not getting pounded for yanking my chain? "I could pull the senior officer gig and order you out, but since I'm a nice guy and a little off my game after being shot in the ass—''

"All right! All right." Crusty rolled to his feet. "No need to play the sympathy card."

"Thanks. And, hey, Crusty, if you keep anyone else from coming up, there's a bag of licorice down in my flight bag that's all yours. I need to talk to Monica." Talk being the euphemistic understatement of the century. Oh, yeah.

"Licorice? Consider me a Berlin Wall between you and the rest of the folks down there." Crusty disappeared into the stairwell.

Jack pivoted toward the bunk area. Fire flamed through his thigh. He chewed back a curse before Monica whipped out her doctor credentials and grounded him. All he needed was a few minutes off his feet and something to distract him.

And he knew just the perfect distraction.

Sweeping an arm for Monica to precede him into the small sleeping compartment behind the cockpit, he waited until she sat in one of the two seats across from the bunkbeds built into the bulkhead. He jerked the privacy curtain closed.

Total darkness blanketed the tight quarters. Slowly his eyes adjusted and he made his way to the bottom bunk. For good measure and added isolation, he secured the curtain across the viewing window, as well, before he stretched out on his right side. Flush against the wall. Not much room, but then, he wanted her close. "You know what would make me rest better?"

"Not a chance, Korba." Her chastisement sparked through the inky darkness. "No way are you and I going to get busy. Your doctor says no because of your leg. And your wife says no because of all those people downstairs. I thought you wanted to talk."

"You overestimate me if you think I can do it after flying combat, crash-landing with shrapnel in me, followed by getting stitched. My leg hurts. I'm tired. I want to hold my wife."

He could almost hear her melt. For a tough lady she always did like those sappy-soft words when spoken at just the right moment. He'd have to dig deep for a few more.

Rustling sounded seconds before her aloe scent washed over him, his senses heightened by the absence of sight. Would it be the same for her?

All her senses, touch most of all.

She dropped to the edge of the bunk. "There isn't enough room."

"Sure there is. Lay on your side." He reached, found her back and guided her down.

He heard her surrender, sigh as she sagged against him. She was right. There wasn't really enough room. If either of them so much as sneezed, their tangled bodies would flip off and onto the floor. But he couldn't bring himself to let her go now that he had her in his arms.

The whole damned night clobbered over him. How near death had come to truly biting him on the ass. How close he'd come to leaving this woman a widow. To never holding her again.

Wind howled outside, not too far off from the howling adrenaline rush in his veins. He understood all about combat aftermath and the body's instinctive reaction. Understanding didn't stop the feelings. Through the ache in his thigh, arousal stirred to life after all.

And no way would Monica be able to miss it as close as they were flattened together.

"Jack," she warned.

"Shh." He shushed into her hair. "I'm not going to risk having those clowns downstairs find either of us with a flight suit around the ankles. I respect you too much for that."

Truth. Which earned him more of that Monica-melting. If only he had more words, but with testosterone and adrenaline searing paths through his brain, rational thought got tough.

Monica's face shifted against him. Her lips skimmed his ear. "Kissing's okay, though. Right? Your doctor says that wouldn't hurt you. And as your wife, I know everyone downstairs already saw us kiss earlier before takeoff."

"I think kissing would be okay." He palmed her h*ps to rock against his while holding himself still. "As long as we didn't enjoy it too much and start moving around."

Her husky laugh ended short, captured by his mouth. In his mouth. Pent-up adrenaline, edgy battle aftermath channeled itself into drugging desire for the sexy, pliant woman in his arms.

Who the hell ever said they had to get na*ed to get busy? Or for at least one of them to get seriously busy, anyhow, because his leg did hurt like hell and he couldn't risk putting himself out of commission.

His hand skimmed her hip, forward, between her legs to cup her hot mound in his hand. He rubbed gentle circle massages of his palm against her. Her breathing sped, her reaction to his touch as instan-damn-taneous as always.

Her oh-so-getting-busy fingers skipped between them, onto him. Adrenaline aftermath was working its magic on both of them. His hard-on leaped in response and if he didn't stop her soon, the rest of him would be grinding against the cradle of her hips.

He clamped her wrist. "I meant it when I said I don't think I can right now. If I flex any muscles—" one major muscle in particular "—I'm gonna whimper like a baby for real. But it would bring me immeasurable pleasure to pleasure you. Call it a macho ego kick if you want, but it gives me such a rush hearing you come and knowing I brought you there."

Her panting moan of consent, insistent urging, split his restraint.

By touch in the dark, he located the zipper on her flight suit, traced its path down her belly until he located the tab between her legs. Lucky for them, flight suit zippers opened both ways, up as well as down.

He inched it up, not far, but far enough to slide his fingers inside to cotton bikini-cut panties. Damp cotton. Thank you, yes. He scooched aside the crotch, tucked in to find...

Immeasurable pleasure.

Her breathing snagged, picked up pace, pressing her generous br**sts against him, faster, harder with fuller breaths. With her free arm, her hand fluttered over him in restless patterns that lacked control. Her hands fisting in his hair. Clutching his shoulders. Skimming around to his buttocks before sliding up again to his back.

He parted her, slid two fingers into moist, tight heat. Her hands stopped moving altogether.

Deeper he dipped, crooked his fingers with a beckoning twitch until he found—

"Oh, yes," she whispered. "Right there. Don't stop."

The roaring storm outside echoed the adrenaline storm in his head, rushing with a pounding need to feel this woman come apart in his arms. Elemental forces raged outside and in. Nature at its most basic.

He accepted that his feelings right now weren't pretty or even civilized. Combat did that to him. Her, too, apparently.

Driven, hungry, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, swept, searched, mimicking the motions with his fingers. He needed Monica to unravel for him. Needed to mark her as his, to claim her and to prove that at least on some level they connected.

While he guided her with his fingers inside, his thumb worked gentle torment outside, coaxed until he felt her muscles tighten, pulse around him. So damned responsive, fast and ready. Now. He captured her sighs of completion with another kiss until finally she relaxed against him.

If only things could always be this simple between them. In the past he would have said something funny right about now, make her laugh, his gift to her. She might be sarcastic, but rarely light-hearted.

Great. He gave her knock-knock jokes and orgasms. What piss-poor offerings for this incredible woman.

I-love-you stuck in his throat again.

"Jack?" She snuggled closer now that his hand was no longer between them and nestled her face against his chest with a sated purr of contentment he recognized well.

"Yeah, Mon?"

Her fingers played with the short hair along the nape of his neck. "Why is it you always need to be in control of things, here, like this, between us in bed?"

In control? He would have laughed his ass off if it wouldn't hurt and pitch her onto the floor. He wasn't in control of squat these days. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You're such an easygoing guy day by day. I've never understood why you're so emphatic about owning the bedroom. Don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. You're a generous lover. Actually, I feel a little selfish sometimes. Like what have I given you back?"

If she didn't realize his shortcomings, he sure as hell didn't feel much like cluing her in. "Do you hear me complaining?"

"Well, no. But I don't think you would." Her doctor hands roved his body, his arm, back, soothing him in the only way she could at the moment.

"What do you give me? Christ, Monica, you're smart. You challenge the hell out of me. I could get off watching the way your brain wraps around things. You're loyal to your family, and that means a lot to me because family is important." Dangerous territory, pal. Kids and family and forever. "And you drive me crazy in bed. You always have. Does that answer your question?"

"I drive you crazy?" Her soft snort of disbelief gusted through his clothes and to his chest. "So damn crazy you're always in control."

No way could she not know how much he wanted her. No damn way. Or not? Dig deep for the right thing to say, Korba. He was running out of chances to get his head out of his ass when it came to this woman. Monica melted over...the truth.

Guess he'd have to dig with a scalpel to pry that out. "Remember how I said Tina died?"

"In childbirth."

"Right." He bled a little more inside with each word picked free like bits of shrapnel from his leg. "Except she never should have been pregnant. She should have been thinking about choosing her classes for the next semester."

"Did you two have to get married?"

"No." Flashes of their wedding poured alcohol over his wounds, their big church ceremony packed with family, flowers and smiles. "We'd been married over a year before she got pregnant even though we'd both agreed to wait until after graduation to start a family. I got slack with birth control. And, well, there we were..."

"Oh, Jack," she sighed over him, rubbing more soothing circles across his back. "It's horribly unfair that anyone should die that young, and especially during what should be a time of celebration. But you can't really blame yourself for making love to your wife."

"I can't?"

"There were two of you in that bed. Birth control is the responsibility of both partners."

His ever-practical Monica.

"You're a woman. I don't expect you to understand."

"I would slug you for that sexist comment, but you're injured, so my Hippocratic oath prohibits me from harming you."

"Okay, so I grew up in an old-fashioned home, maybe a little behind the times. But my dad hammered it into my head from day one. A man takes care of his responsibilities. A real man protects women. His woman in particular. And I can't get past the sense that I failed on that one."

Monica went silent. Dangerous. She always could outthink him. He'd be ambushed and on his butt in a heartbeat.

"Is that really all you believe you have to offer a woman?'' Her hands slowed on his back.

"I'm not following."

"Is that really all you think you give me? Tantric sex and protection, whether it be with a condom or your 24/7 escort through a war zone?''

Trick question alert. He kept his yap shut. No answer had to be better than a major screw-up response.

"I carry my own condoms and gun." Her voice filled the small chamber, soft but firm. "If that's all you think you have to offer me in a relationship, then we really are toast."

Something he'd known from the start, but just kept hoping if he dazzled her enough...

"I love you. No maybes or someday about it." Her sad laugh drifted over to him. "It's strange how you used to say those three words all the time and I never thought you meant them. But now, when you're keeping quiet about your feelings, I sense more emotion coming off you than before. Not—" she pressed her fingers to his lips "—that I'm hinting for you to say anything. Those three little words that carry such a big commitment should only be said without reservation. Otherwise, it's damned cruel when they're taken back."

This line of argument, at least, he knew how to combat. "Don't confuse me with your mother. I would never walk out on a commitment. You know I'm not going to leave you."

Still missing those three words, Korba, logic taunted.

"I'm not just a commitment or someone to protect, Jack."

Damn, this was getting out of control. He was feeling out of control, something he sure as shit didn't need right now in the middle of a combat zone. Jack nudged her back until she had no choice but to sit up as he swung his legs off the bunk, a maneuver that hurt like a son of a bitch. "What the hell are we fighting about?"

"Nothing." She rushed to stop him, her hands falling on his shoulders to keep him from moving. "We're not fighting. You're resting."

"Then we're canning this conversation now or I'll be doing all my best Greek dances from the cockpit out the load ramp."

The fight seeped from her hands. "God bless it, Jack, I'm pissed. Don't make me laugh right now."

Yeah, he was good at that. Lob a joke at life when things got rough and leave the deep stuff to more sensitive dudes. Hell, he'd already dug so deep inside himself for what to give this woman he was damn near bleeding out.

And just that fast, an image of his dream slammed over him. Of Monica bleeding out. Time passing. Him not able to save her.

Now he knew. Her wounds weren't outside, but rather inside. Insecurities inflicted from her childhood. An elusive enemy he couldn't fight with weapons, but would have to look in himself for weapons he didn't possess.

This was his brother's territory, damn it. She needed substance that Jack was afraid hadn't been issued him by the big man upstairs along with a sense of humor and a cache of knock-knock jokes.