While her handy dandy vibrator—which she was having to change the batteries on far too often—was alleviating the worst of the cravings, it couldn’t compete with an actual man beside her in bed. There was just something super sexy about a hard, hot male body pressing her into the mattress. Something about the way men smelled and felt during and after sex that added to the replete satisfaction. She was tired of a proxy. She wanted the real deal beside her, on top of her, inside her.
She wanted Aiden.
But Aiden wasn’t here.
Thoughtfully, she watched the front entrance open and several more men enter the tavern. Most of the guys in the tavern were hot in two specific ways—their lean, muscled frames and the economical way they had of moving. They carried themselves with the ease and grace of men at the peak of health and fitness. That alone was quite sexy.
If she let go of this obsession she’d acquired for Aiden, then any of the men in this place should satisfy her cravings, right? Take this patient, good-looking stranger across the table from her…if she stopped comparing him to Aiden, maybe he’d start tickling her hormones.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Demi blurted out, breaking the easy silence that had fallen between them.
His beer bottle paused in midair. Slowly, he set it back down again. “I thought names were off the table?”
Pursing her lips, she shrugged.
His blue gaze sharpened and dropped to her mouth and the crimson coating of sex-on-a-stick she applied to her lips just before heading into the tavern.
“I’d call you Pink, but I hear that’s already taken,” he said, his gaze finally breaking from her mouth to settle on her spiky pink hair. “Isn’t red supposed to clash with pink?”
She laughed. The spiky pink hairdo had been her first rebellion against the depression and grief swallowing her whole.
“With the sweater and mini-skirt, I doubt anyone’s even noticed the hair,” she said wryly.
“And the shoes,” he offered, lifting his beer bottle in a toast. “Nobody missed those shoes.”
“Well.” Demi fluttered her eyelashes at him. “They aren’t called fuck-me-stilettos for nothing.”
He choked on a swallow of beer and coughed hard a couple of times.
“How about we trade names,” he finally managed, a cough still roughing his voice.
“All right,” Demi said, leaning her elbows on the table and chin in her hand, which gave him the best view possible down her chest.
To her surprise, after one quick trip down the rabbit hole of her cleavage, he wrestled his gaze back to her face and kept it there.
“On the count of three?” He lifted his eyebrows.
Demi nodded, giving him an honest smile. She didn’t have a clue why, but somehow his resistance to her heavy-handed flirting was oddly reassuring. Too bad he wasn’t inspiring any palm-sweating or belly-fluttering, or any of the other signs her libido broadcast when it took an interest in someone.
“One. Two—” He started the countdown. “Brett Taggart.”
“Demelda Rhoades.”
Which wasn’t a lie. Demelda was her given name, even though she never used it and Rhoades had been her maiden name.
“But everyone calls me Melda.”
Which was the lie. Nobody called her Melda. Thank God.
“Demelda sounds like a fussy librarian,” she added with a grimace.
He gave her one of those laser-eyed, up and down body scans. “Trust me, nobody’s going to mistake you for a fussy librarian.”
Oddly enough, rather than dropping to her cleavage, his gaze drifted to her hair as he made the pronouncement.
Demi took another sip of wine, relaxing as a wave of warmth rolled through her. It didn’t have the tingling in all the right places of sexual heat; more like the thick internal glow of an alcoholic haze, which was such a shame, because she really wanted to be attracted to this guy.
Hoping the alcohol might awaken her libido, she drained her wine glass.
He studied her face, a sharp intensity in his eyes before frowning.
Why? Could he tell the single glass of wine was giving her a generous buzz thanks to her lack of dinner, lunch and breakfast? Was he the kind of man whose code of honor forbade him from taking a woman home if he thought she was incapacitated?
Donnie had been that kind of man.
A shaft of grief and longing struck. Her fingers tightened around the wine glass until they turned white. After a couple of deep breaths she cast the pain aside. Tonight was about launching a new life, taking those first baby steps to stave off the loneliness—she couldn’t allow memories of happier times to derail her.
“You okay?” His voice was very quiet, his blue eyes gentle and understanding.
Oh yeah, this guy—Brett, wasn’t it?—this Brett was excellent at reading people. He’d instinctively picked up on her pain. He’d probably be great in bed, too, knowing what a woman wanted before she knew it herself. He really was the perfect test subject. Now if she could just rustle up a kernel of sexual interest in him. Maybe she just needed some physical stimulation to awaken her libido.
She ignored the little voice in the back of her head reminding her that she’d never gotten physical with Aiden, yet the sexual charge was off the charts.
“Would you like to take me home?” she blurted the question out with absolutely no finesse and cringed at the gaucheness. Not that her escort seemed to mind the boldness.
“Every guy in this joint wants to take you home,” he said, after an awkward pause.
Score one for brain science. Her red camouflage had worked like a charm. She just wished the knowledge wasn’t quite so anticlimactic.
She worked to infuse some enthusiasm into her voice. “Great! So how about we blow this joint?”
A frown knit his brow and he cocked his head slightly. “You sure that’s what you want?”
There was something in his eyes she couldn’t quite place, and he hadn’t exactly jumped at her offer. Of course, he knew she’d been looking for someone else. Maybe he didn’t like being second best.
“You’re not like leftovers, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said.
He smiled slightly and shook his head. “Not an issue. Trust me, in bed you won’t be thinking about anyone but me.” It wasn’t empty arrogance, either, more like pure confidence. But then a shadow slipped through his eyes. “You just seem…conflicted. You sure this is what you want?”
Conflicted…
Well, that sounded better than uninterested.
“I’m sure,” she assured him stoutly, although sudden doubt had chilled her arms and legs.
“Okay.” Brett pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.
The scrape of their chair legs grating against the wood floor echoed in Demi’s ears as she followed him up. Her palms picked up a greasy film and her stomach rolled. Okay, maybe she wasn’t quite so sure after all.
This time the arm he slipped around her waist felt like a strait jacket. By the time they stepped through the tavern door, and into the humid San Diego night, her cold feet had stiffened her entire body.
“Relax,” he said with wry amusement. “I’m just taking you home.”
Possibly he’d picked up on her misgivings through the sudden rigidity that had infected her muscles.
She gulped down a deep breath of the thick, floral scented air and sighed. “I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t as ready as I thought.”
“You’re allowed second thoughts. Thirds and fourths, even,” he said, dropping his arm from her waist.
“You don’t need to take me home. I’m perfectly capable of driving. Besides, I live in Coronado.”
“Sweetheart, you’re unsteady as hell. It’s either a cab or my truck. Just keep in mind that if you choose a cab, we could be waiting here forever. If you choose my truck, I’ll have you home lickety split.”
She paused. “I’m not used to these shoes.”
Which was true, but a good share of the unsteadi
ness he’d commented on came from the wine on an empty stomach. He was right. It wasn’t safe for her to drive. But was it any safer to crawl into a stranger’s truck? Other than his name, she knew nothing about this guy, and she could hardly call Aiden or Kait for his report card, not if she wanted to keep this night’s folly to herself.
But the thought of waiting in the parking lot while a steady stream of leering men passed by on their way in and out of the tavern…she shuddered.
“Tell you what, to ease your mind about climbing in the rig with me, why don’t you call a friend, give them my name and the truck’s plate number.”
There he went again, reading her mind and the suggestion did have merit—if she had someone she could call. Unfortunately, over the last three years she’d lost touch with all her friends except for Kait.
But he didn’t need to know that, did he? All business, she opened her clutch and grabbed her cell phone, picked a number at random, and texted his name along with the plate number of the huge black truck he stopped in front of. She pretended to hit send, before dropping the phone back into her purse.
“You all set?” he asked, holding the passenger door open for her.
She nodded and hoisted herself inside, feeling her barely there skirt slide indecently high up her thighs. Lifting her butt, she tugged it back down before securing her seatbelt. As Brett shut the passenger door and walked around the hood to the driver’s side, she stared at her Volkswagen Beetle. She’d have to collect it in the morning.
“So where we headed?” he asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.
Demi rattled off her address and driving directions, and sat in silence as he navigated out to the freeway. With each rotation of the truck’s wheels, the sense of letdown sank a bit deeper. This wasn’t how she’d pictured the evening ending, or with whom she’d be ending it.
Half an hour later they pulled up in front of her condo building and he cut the engine. Turning to face her, he offered a slow smile. “Well, you livened up my night, I’ll give you that.”
On impulse, she leaned over and pressed her lips against his, then held her breath…hoping.
His mouth was soft and warm against hers, but…nothing.
No tingles, no sparks, no chills.
His arms lifted, slipping around her waist.
Man, she was being so unfair. From the way his arms were contracting and drawing her closer, the kiss had stirred something in him, something she had no intention of appeasing. Unable to face what might be lurking in his eyes, she ripped herself out of his arms, scrambled out of the truck and bolted for the entrance to her condo building.
It wasn’t until she was in the elevator, on her way up to the fifth floor, that she realized she’d forgotten her clutch in his truck.
Chapter Two
His hair still wet from the shower, Aiden Winchester opened his bedroom door and followed the scent of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon. The condo lay quiet around him as he made his way down the hall. Both his roommates’—Tag’s and Trammel’s—doors were closed, but the smell of food was a clear indication that Trammel at least, their resident cook, was up.
He tracked Trammel to the stove, where he was standing with a spatula at the ready, staring intently at a skillet packed with fluffy, sunny-side-up eggs. As Aiden helped himself to some coffee, he glanced at the paper towel-shrouded platter with its mountainous cargo of bacon.
“You expecting the whole team?” he asked around a jaw-cracking yawn.
Trammel shrugged. Dragging a skillet of hash browns off the back burner, he expertly flipped them. “You get your run in?”
Aiden simply nodded. He’d traded an extra hour of slumber for a long, quiet jog through the streets of San Diego while the city slowly came awake around him. It wasn’t like he’d been getting any sleep anyway—at least, not of the restful variety—not with Demi climbing into his dreams and taunting him with her bare, silken skin.
He glanced at the stove’s clock, urgency buzzing through him. He’d hoped the long, slow jog would curb the edgy tension, but it was getting harder these days to control his hunger. He’d waited a long time to stake his claim—too damn long. The reasons behind the endless wait had been sound, but that hadn’t made the intervening years any less frustrating.
It was time to make a move.
He would have done it last night, if not for the damn bachelor’s party, an invitation impossible to reject, since he was the best man.
He glanced at the clock again and grimaced. At barely six-thirty in the morning, it was too damn early to show up at her door. He needed to kill at least another three hours, which gave him plenty of time for breakfast.
“Tag up?” Aiden asked around another yawn.
“Not yet.” Trammel took a couple steps to the right and opened a cupboard dragging down a stack of mismatched plates. “Looks like he has company.”
“Company?” Aiden’s coffee cup paused on its way to his mouth. “He’s got a woman in there?”
“Looks like it.” Trammel’s lip quirked. “Assuming he hasn’t taken to carrying a purse.” At the lift of Aiden’s eyebrows, he laughed. “There’s a black purse sitting on the mail table,” he said, referring to the waist-high wood table just past the entry where everyone dropped their keys, mail, weapons, or anything else they happened to be carrying when they walked through the door. “Didn’t you notice it?”
Aiden shrugged. While a purse should have stood out in a house full of men, he’d had other things on his mind.
“Well, that’s a first,” Aiden said, around another yawn.
Tag hadn’t even brought Sarah to the condo before the big split, but then he and Trammel hadn’t exactly hidden their disapproval of that relationship either. What the hell had Tag been thinking, anyway? You didn’t poach a teammate’s girl, and Sarah had been engaged to Mitch, for fuck’s sake. She’d been off limits.
Still, Tag hadn’t looked at another woman since she’d gone back to Mitch. And last night would have been a tough one if he still had feelings for her. A reminder her wedding was right around the corner. Maybe he’d taken another woman into his bed in the hopes of driving Sarah from his mind.
As Trammel filled two plates with eggs, hash browns and a pile of bacon a rat-tat-tat sounded on the front door.
“Mooch.” Aiden instantly recognized their teammate’s signature calling card. “How the hell does he do it?”
Somehow the damn man always managed to show up when food was about to hit the table. He was particularly clever about showing up after the pizza delivery guy had been paid and sent on his way.
While Trammel let Mooch in, Aiden filled up a third plate with eggs, hash browns and bacon. If they let Mooch fill up his own plate, there wouldn’t be anything left for Tag and his new lady.
“Hey,” Mooch said as he walked into the kitchen. “Either of you get a look at Tag’s new piece of tail?”
Aiden handed Mooch his plate and rummaged in the silverware drawer for a couple of forks. “Not yet. You?”
Mooch shook his shaggy blond head, absently accepting the fork Aiden handed him. “They were gone by the time I hit the BU last night. Been hearing about her all night, though. Squirrel says she’s grade one dyn-o-mite. Dressed to score, with spiky pink hair.”
Spiky pink hair…
A heart-shaped face with a stubborn chin, brown—slightly tilted—eyes, and a prickly mess of spiky pink hair burst into Aiden’s mind. The bright pink hairdo had given him pause the first time he’d caught sight of it, mostly because he’d been dying to dig his fingers into the cloud of soft brown hair that had floated around her shoulders prior to the new hairdo. But not even the neon blast of color and texture riding the top of her head had smothered his craving for her.
It had been three years since her husband’s death. Three endless years. He was done with waiting. It was time to step up and remind Demi that she hadn’t followed her first love into the grave.
He carried his plate into the living r
oom and settled on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table. As he worked through the food, he strategized the coming siege. Although ST7 was fresh off rotation, that didn’t mean much these days. With the world in a constant state of unrest, and new terrorist cells trying to make a name for themselves every day, his team could be called into action at any moment. He needed to make sure Demi was bound to him permanently by the time he was dragged away again. He needed to make sure she was as obsessed with him as he was with her. It was the only way to make sure she’d still be single and available when he returned from the next rotation.
He’d just scooped up the last bite of egg topped hash browns when he heard the front door open. Since Trammel was sitting in the recliner across from him, Tag must have been outside. Jogging, most likely; the man ran as often as Aiden did, and probably for the same reason. To make sure his body was too damn tired to react to memories of a woman.
Sure enough, when Tag stepped into the room his t-shirt was soaked with sweat. So was the waistband of his sweatpants. The guy had been going at it hard, for a long time, but from the tension carving his face it hadn’t helped a damn bit. Apparently, neither had the gal he’d brought home the night before.
Aiden could sympathize. Almost. Tag should have never gone after Sarah in the first place, not with Mitch in the picture. He’d avoided the hell out of Demi when she’d been married, and her husband hadn’t even been a teammate.
“Bro.” Mooch dropped his polished plate onto the coffee table and leaned back against the couch cushions with his fingers laced behind his head, watching Tag disappear into the kitchen. “You’re supposed to spend that energy on that sweet little thing you picked up last night, not on pounding the pavement all by your lonesome.”
“You heard about that?” Tag asked, reappearing in the kitchen doorway with a piece of bacon in hand.
“You picked her up at the BU. Everyone heard about it,” Mooch said absently. His eyes locked on the table next to the entryway and he rose to his feet. “Well now, what do we have here?”
Hearts Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 1) Page 2
