Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen)

by Samanthe Beck

  “It could be.” Impossibly, his dark gaze turned even more intense. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I want—” Her vision blurred as hot tears burned her eyes and she suddenly feared how that sentence was going to end. Desperate to cut herself off, she crossed the room and fused her mouth to his.

  His hands found her waist and for a few precious moments he held her close and kissed her back, but then he raised his head and looked down at her. “Chloe, we need to talk.”

  No. No talking. Conversation would change nothing—only waste what little time they had left. She framed his face with her hands and brushed her lips against his. “Later. You asked me what I want. I want you. I want to finish what we started when you walked in tonight.” She kissed him again, going deep and hard to try and commit his taste to memory, all the while pulling him toward the bedroom. Relief mixed with desire when he didn’t resist.

  In the bedroom, she broke the kiss long enough to take her bra off. Then she pressed her face against his neck and breathed deeply.

  His hands wrapped around her upper arms. “This isn’t fair Chloe. I want you, too, but there are things I need to say—”

  She couldn’t let the conversation happen. There was no way she’d survive it. “Say them tomorrow,” she murmured, knowing full well there wouldn’t be a tomorrow for them, because tomorrow wouldn’t change things one bit. No matter how deeply she wished otherwise, she’d still have her hard-and-fast rules, and he still broke every one of them. She pushed his shirt out of her way and then ran her palms over his shoulders, down his spine, granting herself one last massage of his now strong, healthy back, and reveling in the restrained power beneath smooth skin.

  “Wait for me to get home.” He trailed his mouth down her neck, to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  Her heart twisted painfully tight. There was no way she could wait, and no way to explain why without hurting him. She didn’t want to offer him false words. Instead she twined her arms around his neck and let her head drop back while his lips and tongue exploited the vulnerable spot.

  “Promise me,” he pressed.

  Damn him. He knew she tried hard to keep her promises, and he kept nudging her into an impossible corner. She grabbed his head and pulled his mouth back to hers. Everything she couldn’t let herself say went into the kiss. Maybe he took that as a yes because he drove his fist into her hair and held on while she dropped her hands to his waist and undid his pants.

  His hands got busy, too, and within seconds, they were both naked. She drank in the sight of him, all height and breadth and rigidly controlled muscles. He took a condom from the nightstand, rolled it on, and then reached for her, but she shook her head. She wanted him under her, so she could watch him and memorize every moment of their last time together.

  She put a hand to his chest and gently pushed. He got the message and sat down on the bed, then groaned when she straddled him. Their groans overlapped as she rocked her hips forward, sliding along the ridge of his erection and creating bone-dissolving friction.

  After the mind-blowing climax he’d already given her, she wasn’t counting on coming again, but now her body went on some kind of orgasmic autopilot. A sob broke from her throat as the lock she had on her emotions threatened to fail.

  Michael, God bless him, misinterpreted the reason for her distress. “Shh. I’ve got you. I won’t stop until I finish you.” With an arm banded around her waist and his hand clamped to her backside, he worked her up and down his shaft. All she could do was hold onto him and bite her lip to keep from crying out, because she couldn’t trust herself to speak. Too many conflicting needs churned much too close to the surface.

  The hand at her waist moved up to the back of her head, and he slowly brought her mouth to his. He used his teeth to free her lip and then kissed her until the only thing she could taste was him. The only thing she could smell was the scent of his skin. The only thing she could feel was his body—under her, against her, moving inside her. She closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the sensations, because although she hadn’t yet walked out his door she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt there would never, ever be another man in her life like Michael McCade.

  “Wait for me,” he whispered against her kiss-swollen lips, so gently she wanted to burst into tears.

  “I—oh God. I’m trying.”

  He rejected her attempt at distraction. “Tomorrow. Promise you’ll wait.”

  She was on the verge of promising him anything he wanted, and that scared her enough to scramble for control. Planting her knees wide, she rocked up, forfeiting everything except the wide, smooth head of his penis, and closed the distance he’d created. His groan of protest reached her ears seconds before she devoured his mouth. Her fingers traced his brow, his cheekbone, the line of his jaw. She tightened her inner muscles, clasping him in quick, rhythmic hugs designed to drive all thoughts of tomorrow out of his mind and focus him solely on the here and now.

  A long, low, tortured sound rumbled from his chest, and then she was flat on her back, legs wrapped high around his waist, rising up to meet him. Dark eyes stared at her, into her.

  “Promise…” he tried again, but it was too late. The force of his orgasm locked his jaw and jerked his head back. He succumbed with a long, shuddering groan. The wave of pleasure rolled through him and crashed into her. Tears she could do nothing about leaked from the corners of her eyes. She closed them and turned her face to the pillow, praying he didn’t notice. Seconds later he put his hand between her legs and held her while he carefully withdrew. Without him inside her, a cold, emptiness set in—all the way to her soul. She shifted onto her side and concentrated on holding her body together, because every molecule threatened to explode from the pressure of keeping her emotions in check.

  He kissed the back of her neck, the curve of her hip, and then the mattress squeaked as he rose. A chill swept down her back and she shivered—an involuntarily protest against the loss of his body heat.

  She feigned sleep while he showered and kept her eyes closed as he moved about the bedroom, dressing and gathering his gear. Sound alone allowed her to track his progress—the jangle of his dog tags, the rustle of his uniform, the carpet-muted sound of boot steps. Then the bed sank as he sat down next to her and smoothed her hair away from her face.

  “Chloe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at me.”

  She forced her eyelids open and tried to ignore the lurch of her heart as their eyes met. Everything she felt right now only emphasized how much work she still needed to do on herself and how important it was for her to go. Twelve months of effortlessly flitting from place to place had lulled her into a false sense of security about her emotional independence. In truth, none of the other places, and none of the other people, had tested her resolve the way this man did. And she’d failed the test, spectacularly.

  “Wait for me. We’ll talk—on the way to the airport if necessary,” he added when she started to interrupt. “After I’ve said everything I have to say, if you’re still determined to leave, I’ll make sure you catch your flight.”

  “Michael—”

  He kissed her once, hard, as if the move could cut off any argument, and then stepped away. “Wait for me. I mean it.”

  And then he was gone.

  …

  Steering a five thousand horsepower helicopter through a half-dozen flawless Pinnacle maneuvers normally boosted Michael’s mood like nothing else on Earth. The training exercises had gone like clockwork. They should have left him happily exhausted and ready to sleep for the next twelve hours. But not today.

  He drove off base so keyed up he could barely sit still. His fingers tapped an impatient cadence on the steering wheel and his right foot itched to press the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

  All day while he’d been trying to focus on the tasks at hand—small matters like keeping a few tons of metal and rotating blades in the air—visions of Chloe kept invading his mind. He pictur
ed her packing her belongings into her huge duffel bags, methodically removing every last trace of herself from the space. When that wasn’t torturous enough, his overactive imagination took things a step further. He envisioned her wheeling her big, pink bags out his door, down the steps one awkward bounce at a time, and into the trunk of a waiting cab. In his mind’s eye, he watched her climb into the back seat of the cab, shut the door, and roll right out of his life. Except it didn’t feel like a figment of his imagination. It felt like a premonition.

  The drive to San Clemente unfurled in slow motion, glacially slow despite, or because of, his escalating certainty that if he didn’t get home now, he’d be too late. Finally he swerved into his spot at Casa Clemente, cringing as he stomped on the brakes to avoid slamming his front end into the wall. Seconds later he scrambled out of the Jeep and ran up the stairs.

  He was still running when he hit the door, and cursed when he found it locked. Not Chloe’s MO. If she was home, she left the door unlocked.

  A fatalistic calm seeped into him. He unlocked the door and swung it open. “Chloe?”

  Silence greeted him. His eyes swept the kitchen and dining area. No sign of her. The living area looked as clear and pristine as the day he’d moved in, and completely uninhabitable without the colorful assortment of jewelry, pillows, candles, and cosmetics he’d come to expect.

  He continued down the hall. The bathroom counter gleamed. The guest room looked like an Ikea ad rather than a Barbie baggage claim.

  In the master bedroom, a folded, white, piece of paper sat on his nightstand, with a small, shiny object on top. The ring. He pocketed it with barely a glance, because he couldn’t pull his attention from the note. He flipped it open.

  Michael,

  I didn’t wait. I’m sorry. My flight leaves at six, not seven. I fibbed because…well…for all my bouncing around, I’m lousy at good-byes.

  Shit. She was gone. Subconsciously, he’d known she would be, but seeing the words in writing drove it home. The realization struck him like a knuckle blow to the gut. He sagged back against the wall. Then his legs said what the fuck, and he slid down to the floor. He ran a hand over his gritty eyes, blinked, and refocused on the letter.

  Thank you seems so insufficient, but thank you, for…everything. I wish we’d met under different circumstances, when I wasn’t hauling around quite so much baggage (literally!), and in constant need of rescue. You’re unbelievably good at it, but I’m really sorry rescuing me meant you had to lie.

  If you ever find yourself in need of rescue, I hope you’ll reach out. Lynne at Helping Hands always knows how to get a hold of me.

  Take care of yourself.

  Love,

  Chloe

  P.S.- You were the best fiancé I ever had.

  Fuck. He crumpled the letter and let it drop. It rolled under the bed, bounced off something, and rolled back out to rest by the toe of his boot. Curiosity got the better of him. He lowered his head to the floor and peered under the bed. One of her high heels lay on its side. He pulled it out. One of her lucky shoes.

  A simple oversight or a sign from fate? Turned out he really didn’t care. If the lucky shoe worked on traffic, he could make it to John Wayne in thirty minutes. He could catch her.

  He ran out the door like a crazy man, with a shoe in one hand, his keys in the other and a diamond ring in his pocket.

  Ten minutes later he had his answer regarding the whether the lucky shoe worked on traffic. It did not. He crept along in stop-and-go traffic all the way up I-5, transitioned to the 405 North, otherwise known as a parking lot, and burned through another half hour before reaching the airport exit. At last he made the turn from MacArthur Blvd. into the airport, and hit the gas, trying to make up time as he followed the DEPARTING FLIGHTS signs.

  An old guy in a pickup truck pulled in from another access ramp, cut him off, and the proceeded to go so slow he made the fourteen mile-per-hour on-base maximum speed limit look like the autobahn. It took every ounce of self-restraint Michael possessed not to lay on the horn and drive up the old-timer’s tailpipe. Instead, he pulled to the curb at the start of the “loading and unloading only” section, cut the engine, and hurtled out of the Jeep, carrying Chloe’s black shoe and running balls-out into the terminal like some sweaty, wild-eyed Prince Charming.

  Quarter to six. He stared at the Departing Flights monitor, realizing he had no idea which carrier she was on or which terminal her flight departed from. The monitor informed him he had a sprint from Terminal A to Terminal C ahead of him, and her flight was now boarding.

  He ran.

  At Terminal C, he stopped at ticketing and bought a seat on her flight. That cost him another five minutes. Clearing security took another five minutes, and that was with being fast-tracked because he showed up in his fatigues, flashed military ID to the TSA agents, and threw himself on their mercy.

  He raced to the gate and arrived just in time to watch the Boeing 737 taxi toward the runway.

  His furiously beating heart sank into his boots. Apparently the lucky shoes only worked as a pair.

  Naturally, now that time had no meaning, he made it back to San Clemente in twenty-five minutes flat and drove straight to the Stars & Bars with the intention of getting so drunk he’d be unable to recite name, rank, or serial number by last call.

  He was at a barstool, working on his first two fingers of whiskey, when someone clapped him on the back and a sharp, disapproving voice said, “Major.”

  Shit. Harding. The man was everywhere. Michael straightened, painfully aware he was sitting in a bar, drinking while in uniform. Definitely not the kind of move that impressed the brass. “Colonel.”

  The older man took the empty barstool beside Michael. The bar wasn’t particularly crowded at this hour, but all the barstools around him were empty because he looked and smelled like someone who hadn’t showered or shaved in twenty-four hours. If that wasn’t enough to keep most people away, his gritty, bloodshot eyes and tense jaw told the world, Back off. I’m nowhere near my happy place.

  But not the colonel.

  “Major, I’m not going to put any lipstick on this. You look like shit—like someone who’s going to disgrace the uniform you’re wearing before the night is over. In less than ten minutes, the base commander is going to walk through this door and join me for a drink. Him seeing you here, as you are, will be a career-limiting event. Go home. Whatever’s eating at you, share it with Chloe. You’ll feel a hell of a lot better talking things out with her than drowning your sorrows here.”

  Michael pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up his index finger, where the engagement ring glinted from the first knuckle. “Chloe’s not at home.”

  “I see.” Harding’s voice lost some of the rebar running through it. “You two had a falling out. That explains a few things.” The colonel motioned to the bartender and ordered a beer and then turned back to Michael.

  “Take it from a man who’s been married to the same woman for twenty-five years, these things happen from time to time, especially early on. The real test is, what do you plan to do about it?”

  “Colonel, I just raced to the airport with a ring in my pocket and a fucking shoe in my hand, and I missed her by less than five minutes. You’re now looking at my plan, though I appreciate the heads-up, and I’ll change the venue.” He stood and threw some bills on the bar.

  “You disappoint me, Major. I hadn’t pegged you as a man who gave up so easily.”

  Michael expelled a breath and stared down at his boots. Time to come clean. “Sir, Chloe and I got engaged for the wrong reasons. Our relationship was never—”

  “The circumstances under which you got engaged are not material now. What’s material are your current feelings. Obviously, you let her walk away without saying the things you ought to have said—and I know this because you chased her to the airport with a ring in one hand and a fucking shoe in the other. Those aren’t the actions of a man who’s said his piece.”

  “Colon
el, I—”

  “You have important things to say to the woman. Confirm or deny?”

  He sighed and sat back on the barstool. “Confirmed, sir.”

  The colonel nodded. “All right, Major. Listen up. I have orders for you.”

  “Listening, sir.”

  “Go home, get cleaned up, and then get your sorry ass to wherever Chloe went, and say your piece. You’ve got forty-eight hours. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir…and thank you.”

  Harding waived the thanks away. “Dismissed.”

  Michael started for the door, but after a couple steps, the colonel called out to him.

  “Major?”

  He turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “Chloe’s a keeper. Make sure she knows. Don’t just mouth the words to her. Marines are men of action. Show her.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And don’t fuck up.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Chloe, you fucked up. The thought settled on her as she pulled her rental car into a parking space as the Santa Fe Extended Stay Suites and stared off at the purple-streaked horizon. Sure, outwardly, her life looked back on track. Her new temporary home boasted an open layout, a comfy bed, and a convenient commute to work, and her first day on the job had gone well. The high-end resort spa with its wealthy clientele promised the kind of tips that would plump her emaciated bank account back up in record time. Not a bad way to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. She should have been happy.

  Instead, she was miserable, she admitted as she walked through the lobby to the elevator. She missed San Clemente. She missed chatting with Mrs. Waverly and working at Veronica’s Oasis. Mostly though, she missed Michael.

  The elevator opened. She stepped inside, pushed the button for her floor, and leaned back for the solo ride up three flights. You’re letting fear keep you drifting from place to place like an itinerate laborer. Do you seriously plan to be a free bird forever? Sounds more like a chicken to me. Michael’s words floated through her mind and shame burned up her chest and into her face. She’d been a complete chickenshit. She’d clung to the pain in her past and used it as an excuse not to risk her heart again. Not with friends or a job or anything resembling a commitment—certainly not with a man. The chickenshit strategy had worked great. Until Michael.