Tears ran out the corners of her eyes, mimicking the tears raining down from the shower. Suddenly, the whole world was crying, and she didn’t know why. All she could do was breathe and hold onto the only man standing brave and wild in her brand-new world, while she tried not to fall apart.
Lovemaking this perfect had to be the real thing, didn’t it? Persia hoped so. Because, like it or not, she felt something for this guy. Her heart had cracked wide open, and a tender wellspring of emotions were crowding out of her like a spring held too long in a Jack-in-the-box. Like a tulip bulb planted under a stone, starved for the sun. The fiercest emotions burst out of her, searching for light and love and quite possibly—for Hotrod.
Yet he still hadn’t found his release, and his legs were shaking.
“Honey,” she breathed into his neck, her arms still hooked around his shoulders in case he didn’t want to look her in the eye. “Are you okay?” Probably not the best thing to ask a man when he was having performance issues. But she cared. He needed three days of solid sleep, not a night of rowdy sex in a shower, where he could slip and fall just because she’d been selfish.
His chin sank to the top of her wet head. “I’m good,” he growled into her streaming wet hair.
But Persia heard weary frustration edging his words. She changed the subject. “You, my man, need sustenance, not wild, crazy sex. I prescribe bacon and eggs for breakfast, along with a tall stack of blueberry pancakes, topped off with homemade orange marmalade. I picked the oranges and made it myself.”
He huffed. “But I like wild, crazy sex. With you.”
He had a way of bringing her back to square one all over again.
When the taut, hard muscles bunched beneath her fingertips relaxed, she slipped down the incredible slide of his muscular body, turned on again by his raw masculinity when that was the last thing he needed. Damn, this guy was Greek-god handsome, just not sculpted in gray, cold marble. There wasn’t one part of him that wasn’t tanned, bronzed, and tantalizing. Blond highlights glinted at his forehead. He hadn’t gotten sunburned from that long swim, and neither did he sport a farmer’s tan. There simply wasn’t one lily-white patch on him. But all that rugged skin still needed attention. She could see that clearly now. The saltwater he’d swum through had taken its toll.
“Come on. Let’s get out of this shower. Then breakfast and back to bed with you, Mister.” That she could do.
“Yeah,” he growled reluctantly, one hand raking over his head. “Guess that’d be smart.”
“Yes,” she answered brightly, her eyes tracking the seductive way his bicep bulged when he lifted that arm. The thick veins running up to his armpit. The broad, hair roughened width of his chest. Ropes of veins stretched there as well, all signs that this man was used to carrying heavy loads. “B-b-but first…”
And she was back to stuttering like a little girl who’d never seen a naked man before. Which Persia hadn’t, at least not one like Hotrod. “Shampoo and s-s-soap. Lean over. You’re taller than me. I can’t reach all of you.” And I’m afraid if I touch what I can reach, we’ll never get out of this shower.
He eased to the other side of the stall while he watched her pour a goodly sized dollop of golden shampoo into her palm. Then, leaning into her, Hotrod bent over and let her suds his head. She traded the shampoo for body wash, and damn-n-n-n-n. The slick, wet sensation of her fingers on the hard-as-rock ridges and the squared-off planes of his body set her heart to jackhammering again. Yup. She was in trouble.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He had to know she was turned-on again by the way she kept soaping his muscled, and wow, strong arms. His biceps and elbows came next. His underarms. His ribcage. Then the curve of his waist and the angular jut of his hipbones. By the time she was through scrubbing everything but his manhood, Persia needed a really c-c-cold shower.
Instead, she jerked her head at the spray and told him, “Rinse,” before she fell to her knees and worshipped this stranger.
As if he lived to obey, Hotrod stepped under the shower spray, skimming one quick hand over his head, the rest of him naked and wet and so damned edible.
Oh. Be. Still. My. Foolish. Stupid. Heart. Persia lifted a hand to her mouth, pretty sure she was drooling, and just as certain she’d sighed out loud at the sight of all this raw masculinity. Nude. In. Her. Shower.
God was great!
When the last soapy suds circled the drain, Hotrod turned to face her. Like some courtly knight of old, he held out a hand, as if she were someone important. Swallowing hard before she fainted, Persia took that gentlemanly hand and stepped gracefully out of the enclosed stall.
Life threw curve balls sometimes. Until recently, she’d been a tough FBI investigator, then just as tough a CIA Officer. She’d brought thugs across the world down, and she’d brought them down hard. Lace and drama had never been her schtick. The baby doll she’d been given as a child had only survived in family photos, and then, without its head. Rifles and pistols, yes. Her favorite color was gunmetal gray, not pink. She drove a mean four-wheeler back on her dad’s cotton fields in Mississippi. She’d never once in her life felt graceful nor queenly. Yet Hotrod did that to her. Just by being himself.
Two towels hung over the bar at her left. Only when she stepped out of the shower and into the light, did she see the red chafe marks under his chin and around his neck.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered, reaching for his shoulder.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“No, you’re not. Are these abrasions from your scuba gear straps?”
“More like from two days of hard swimming.”
“I’ve got just the thing.”
That earned her a wry smile as his gaze slipped down her body to her toes. “Yes, you do, princess, but can I please grab a bite of that breakfast and a quick nap first?”
Hotrod was tired, but still all-male. He also intended to stay awhile longer than she’d expected. Morning was looking up. Her face broke into one of those silly, happy emoticons.
“You bet. Food first, then three days in bed.” Persia could have kicked her own ass for what came out of her big mouth. She’d actually batted her lashes when she’d said it, too. What had come over her? She back-pedaled. “But it’s entirely up to you what you do with all that free time.” And if you want to jump me, the answer is yes.
Persia grabbed one of her fluffiest towels, but instead of handing it to him, she eased it over his head and around his shoulders. Drying him off should not have been so erotic, but everywhere that towel touched, her fingers dared to go. First through the short-cropped hair on that handsome head, then down the expanse of his rugged neck. Down his back. Around to his front. His chest boasted crisp hairs that danced their way to his belly to… there.
She patted everything dry as quickly as she could without teasing him. But damn, this man had the build of Hercules. Wide and powerful in all the right places. His thighs. His calves. His arms. Hard as steel. Not bulky, but just right.
“Your lips are going to chap if you keep doing that,” he murmured, looking intently down at her now that she’d dropped to her knees at his—knees. Just to dry his legs and feet. Nothing more. Though he was right. She was licking her lips at the squeaky-clean male standing before her. But one taste of this incredible temptation would only add to his frustration.
So, no. Just no. She wouldn’t do that to him. He needed time to recuperate, and for someone to take care of him for a change. To feed him, not just hump him like a bunny. In spring. In clover…
Persia jumped to her feet, her heart pounding with all the things she wanted to do with and to this quiet, handsome, gentle man. Like a boss instead of a naked seductress, she pointed to the stool near her sink and ordered, “Sit. I’ve got just what you need.”
“You certainly do,” he murmured as his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back to his mouth. Loving her all over again. One hand slipped up her spine and into her wet hair while
he cupped her jaw with the other. With breathy heat and a promise he couldn’t quite deliver at the moment, Hotrod anointed her lips, chin, and neck.
There was no resisting this guy, so she let him play. Let his tongue tangle with hers again. They were good together. She liked the way their bodies seemed to recognize each other. The way they slipped together without effort or trying. The way they’d clicked. But for this one brief moment, she knew better than him. Sex was off the table.
“Sit down,” she ordered huskily, before she lost what little restraint she had left. “You can have all you want of me, but after breakfast. First…”
She reached past him for the Aloe Vera gel on the shelf behind him. Before he had a chance to tease or tempt her, Persia lathered a goodly amount over his broad shoulders and down his arms.
A sigh breathed out of him.
Shifting from the danger zone between his thighs, she smoothed more across his back and over the top of his very fine backside. Around his ribcage to his abdomen. Talk about muscles. Every inch of this man was a memory in discipline she’d never forget. Her modest-sized bathroom was suddenly stuffy and warm. Make that h-h-hot.
Standing back in front of him, he pulled her between his knees. Then his thighs. Not a good idea. She didn’t have to look down to know her breasts were now heavy, her nipples as taut as solitaire diamonds, and mashed against a handsome, manly chest. Besides, if she looked down any farther, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to tear her eyeballs off that bad boy once again pressed into her belly.
Hotrod sat there as still as a statue, his blue eyes dark with passion...
That. Was. Not. Helping.
“Tip your head back,” she breathed, her entire body thrumming with need. “Please. I can’t r-r-reach under your chin.” Because I’d rather take a firm hold of something else.
It was oddly arousing to command a beast as magnificent as the big guy now seated obediently on her bathroom stool. All Hotrod had to do was lean forward, put one elbow on his knee and a fist to his chin, and he’d be Auguste Rodin’s “Thinker.”
Yet he pulled her close again. “I wish I’d met you years ago,” he murmured, the black in his eyes now wide and deep. His fingers tangled into her hair, still dripping water down her back. “You make me forget who I am.”
To hell with the aloe.
Persia curled her arms around his head and pressed his face to her breasts where this whole thing began. Kissing the top of his wet head, she breathed in the scent of her shampoo in his hair, wishing she knew his real name. What foods he liked. Where home was and the names of his mom and dad, his sisters and brothers. His favorite color. Which department he’d served with. Important details like that.
Damn, she wanted this man to stay. But like the good aunt that she was to her sister’s two boys, she told Hotrod, “It’s time for midnight breakfast, then back to bed with you.”
“Hmmmmm,” he rumbled against her breasts, his scruff inciting tingles over her bare skin. “You might be right.”
“I am right,” she whispered, wishing he was already rested and raring to go. Like she was. “Bacon and eggs, coming right up.”
Those piercing blue eyes stabbed her. “Then sex? Pretty please?” he asked like a naughty little boy she couldn’t resist.
“Yes, sex. For as long as you want,” she promised. Pressing her lips to the middle of his forehead, she breathed him in. Life wasn’t always hard and lonely. Sometimes, it was perfect.
Chapter Five
He didn’t want to leave Persia. Not like this. For the first time in his life, Walker Judge had found something rare and precious—a woman who understood him. Who truly seemed to like him as much as he liked her.
But then he’d failed her when he couldn’t perform. Not cool. Not even the slightest bit funny. Mother Nature was a bitch. Yet Persia acted as if sleep and rest could fix that, so he let her think so. Truth was, he was running on fumes, just like she’d said. Two days of relentless swimming had tapped every last bit of his physical reserves and his nerves. The weeks on the run before that swim hadn’t been any easier. He needed some serious downtime before he attempted seducing her again. Mostly because, after that lackluster performance, he had to prove himself to her. He was not a wimpy lover. He could get it up! Just give him a minute or two. An hour. Maybe three… Or four…
Ha! Who was he kidding? He hadn’t seduced anyone. She’d been the aggressor from the start, yet even that was refreshing. Women who knew what they wanted and needed were a real turn-on. And she’d wanted him, straight out of the ocean when his fingers and toes and—that—were still prunes. Which—that—still was. Yeah. He could get it up, but getting it off the launchpad and into orbit wasn’t working so well. Rest. He needed to eat, load up on carbs, and sleep, preferably with her beneath him.
It was oddly comforting watching Persia work on their midnight breakfast in her kitchen. Almost made him feel like half of a whole. Part of a real couple. Like he belonged. Until he took stock of where he was.
Her bungalow was straight out of Pottery Barn. Clean. Crisp. Too clean.
Everything, from the comfy white cloth couch covered with red, white, and blue pillows, to the just-as-white pedestal bed, white linen comforter, more white and blue pillows, seemed to be in its proper place. The floor throughout was stained gray hardwood, a driftwood kind of gray. And clean. Not an errant flip-flop in sight. No dust. No knick-knacks. Not so much as a loose magazine.
White painted end-tables and a matching coffee table decorated the main room. A white painted bookshelf covered the entire wall behind her couch, and a navy-blue rocking chair sat at a right angle to that pristine couch. But there wasn’t a single personal item anywhere. Not framed pictures of family. Not a swimsuit cover-up tossed carelessly over the rocker. Not even a set of keys, a cell phone, or a phone charger.
Needing to know if she was just OCD, Walker had the urge to check her closets and drawers. The bungalow felt… staged. As if she’d just arrived and didn’t expect to stay long. As if this were a façade. A set-up. The kind federal agents used in a sting.
Yet he’d seen her bedroom, and that bed was certainly mussed now. The head as well. Walker let it go. He wouldn’t be here long. Why ask questions he didn’t want to know the answers to?
“Do you think you can handle this?” she asked, handing him a ten-inch kitchen knife, a cutesy melon baller, and a ripe cantaloupe as big as a small basketball. The tease.
“I prefer peaches to melons,” he teased back.
Her lips thinned, but he caught the surreptitious glance down at her chest. “Peaches?”
Hotrod nodded. She most definitely had a luscious pair of cantaloupes, but size wasn’t everything. “Yes, firm, fragrant, delicious peaches that fit snug inside my hands. Makes me want to rub them all over my face. Can’t do that with melons.”
She blushed, and wasn’t that a beautiful sight? Already a lovely shade of caramel, her cheeks turned rose, then the prettiest russet red. Better yet, like a shy little girl, she ducked her head into her shoulders. “Okay, then. Peaches, I guess.”
He felt the need to expound lest she thought she was in any way inferior, or that he’d meant her breasts weren’t what he preferred. They damned well were.
Stiffening his arm, Hotrod held the melon out to her at eye level. “See this fruit? It’s round and it’s good-sized, but it’s also covered with a tasteless rind that’s as rough as dirt. It has to be washed, halved, then the guts cleaned before you can eat it. If you want to get fancy, the fruit has to be cut from the rind, then sliced and diced or balled. By the time a guy gets to pop one tasty morsel into his mouth” —he popped his lips— “he’s lost his appetite. But peaches…”
Hotrod let his gaze drop to her succulent, tempting—peaches. Lifting up from the breakfast bar, he set the cantaloupe on the counter where it couldn’t roll. This next demonstration needed to be up close and personal.
Persia’s breath hitched when he rou
nded the counter and slipped both hands beneath her robe. Gently, he cupped her bare breasts, his thumbs rubbing over her pebbled nipples. “But peaches are something else altogether,” he murmured, his voice gone husky and deep.
The delightful globes resting in his palms were warm and lush. “They don’t need a rind because they were created perfect.” His thumbs tag-teamed her nipples until both were hard and begging for his mouth. “They’re soft and sweet and warm, kissed by the sun and ready to melt in my mouth.”
“Your mouth?” she asked, her voice trembling. Man, her eyes were melted chocolate, so deep and enticingly dark that he wanted to dive in and never be seen again.
He parted her robe and dipped his nose into her warm, fragrant cleavage. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed as he turned his head and drew one succulent nipple between his lips. Hollowing his cheeks, he suckled like a baby pig in heaven. Breast heaven. It didn’t—couldn’t—get any better than this.
Her arms wrapped around his head, trapping him where he wished he could stay. Hotrod closed his eyes. Melons or peaches, he didn’t really care, as long as it got him here. With her. Inside her prickly defenses. Persia was a different kind of woman, hard as nails, yet so damned soft and feminine. He wanted to stay where he was. If only he could.
“Hey,” she murmured, her voice raspy in his ear. “Umm, bacon, anyone?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, suddenly remorseful. Tipping back on his heels and out of her arms, he drew in a deep breath, covered her peaches, and pasted on a lying, happy face. Life was what it was. The longer he stayed and played with this tempting woman, the harder it’d be to walk away from her. As soon as he ate, he had to go. Or he’d never leave.
Time to clean and quarter that cantaloupe.
Breakfast at midnight was uniquely Persia. She whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes while the bacon sizzled, then set a pint-sized crock of marmalade on the breakfast bar, along with a plate of sliced cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes. There was no maple syrup, just another crock of rich, creamy butter. And she ate with relish. Which made him smile. It was easier to enjoy a good meal when the woman with you wasn’t dining on salads or yogurt or fussing about calories or her weight. How Persia kept a trim figure, Hotrod didn’t care. She enjoyed his company and that was what mattered.
Walker (In the Company of Snipers Book 21) Page 4
