“Very good. You could even dictate and I could type for you. I’m really fast.”
Spencer quashed the little voice and grinned. “A really fast woman to dictate to. I may be developing a secretary fantasy right now.”
Her soft slap at his chest was playful. “I meant I can type fast, silly.”
“That would come in handy, too.” Spencer twined her fingers in his and lifted their joined hands to settle on his chest. Things were going to be okay. Spencer yawned again, and Jo was soon right there with him as he drifted.
*
Jo woke in the hot, stifling dusk, stretching her limbs out into the dull light. When her fist hit something solid, she twisted in the damp sheets, a smile widening her lips, remembering.
“Spencer? You awake?”
It took a bit of non-gentle prodding to rouse him, but when he woke, he took Jo by surprise, rolling toward her and hooking an arm around her waist to haul her close. He buried his head between her breasts, nuzzling and nipping his way on a tour of one round swell.
Jo laughed and squirmed against him. “Stop! I was only trying to wake you.”
“Not my fault that you don’t know how to wake a man properly.” His voice had a fuzzy, sleepy edge to it that warmed Jo’s heart—and other very nice places.
“Oh? What’s the proper way to wake a man?”
She felt him smile against her neck, just before he set the edge of his teeth to the skin at the base of her throat, scraping gently, following the love bite with a strong suckle that curled her toes and would surely leave a mark.
“Mmm. Let me show you.”
Spencer rolled so that Jo was beneath him, and she looked up at his disheveled hair and the dart of his half-sighted eyes. He was gorgeous, and it broke her heart that he couldn’t see her as fully as she saw him.
When he leaned down to capture her lips, Jo stopped him, a hand on either side of his face.
“What’s wrong?” His brow creased.
“I wish you could see me. I want you to see me.”
The soft smile was not what Jo expected. Spencer pushed her hands gently aside and pressed his mouth over hers, over and over, speaking between kisses. His voice was a low, sexy growl, fanning her rapidly heating ardor.
“Oh, Josephine,” he rasped, delving his tongue into her mouth, engaging hers in soft, enticing play, “I can see you. I remember every word.”
“Some of those words were lies.”
“And now, here, this is the truth.” His hands came up to mold her breasts, skilled fingers rolling her nipples, pressing just hard enough that the sting made her arch into him, gasping.
“See? There are no lies here, only your body and mine and the way you sound when I touch you.” As if to illustrate his point, he levered away from her and dipped two fingers into the silky juncture of her thighs.
“You’re already wet for me.”
Jo’s entire body came alive so instantly that she couldn’t spare a breath to be the least bit embarrassed. “Still. Yes.”
“Do you remember the letter you wrote me after our phone call?”
“Yes.” She remembered. Boy, did she. That letter and the one he’d written in return, filled with the same heated promises and the same scalding language.
“It said Spencer, I want to know how you feel, how you taste, I want that same voice in my ear while I’m wrapped around you, ready to completely fall apart for you.”
Jo gasped as he widened her thighs with his knees, pressing himself over her. “Yes.” It seemed she was reduced to one-word responses.
His mouth crashed down on hers, but instead of frenzy, they melded together and slowed, their kisses and caresses taking on a languorous pace. She touched him and tasted him until he was edgy and tense. He slid down her body and put his mouth to her, his breath teasing, denying the right pressure to push her to climax, until she was writhing and begging him to stop, stop, never stop.
When they had stretched the dwindling afternoon light to its last threads, and evening was threatening at the window, Jo urged him up her body and whispered into his mouth.
“Tell me again.”
“You are the woman I fell in love with, Jo.”
“Oh, Spencer.”
Jo didn’t feel a hint of awkwardness when she squirmed out from beneath him to rummage in her nightstand drawer. There was a moment of confusion, when Spencer’s brow furrowed at her absence.
“Where do you think you’re go—” His question dissolved into a moan as she rolled the condom over him, her free hand tracing the seam of his thigh, fingers curling down to trail her nails over the underside of his cock where it met his body.
“Let me show you.”
“Fuck.” The word was all he could manage.
“Good thing I saved these after that night at the Met.”
His swallow was audible. “I’m a lucky bastard. More luck all the time.”
She laughed, softly, and went into his arms. He leaned back to the bed, turning them so that they faced each other on their sides. After hushed endearments followed by ecstatic encouragement, she opened to him and he sank into her in a series of long, slow presses.
Jo felt like he had always been here, loving her. They fit together perfectly. She slicked her hands down his back to urge him even deeper.
They didn’t last long. His hips rocked into hers. Her leg, draped over his hip, tightened to keep the perfect rhythm of his pubic bone against her clit. Their mouths fused, then parted, only to hiss some explicit demand, some tantalizing promise that next time, next time will last longer…
“You feel so good, Jo. So fucking good.”
“Spencer, yes…”
And then, her world was coming apart. She dug her nails into his back, tearing her mouth from his to gasp wordlessly, tensing in the circle of his arms as shudders racked her body.
“Jo, baby, so beautiful…” His own body drove harder against her, and he followed her into the void, his biceps hard under her hands, his calves flexing with effort. His voice was even better in real life as he moaned her name in climax. She held on to him as the aftershocks rippled through her, held him until he’d stopped arching wildly against her, until their ragged breathing had slowed.
When he didn’t move after several long minutes, Jo tugged at the sweat-damp tendrils of hair at his nape. “Spencer?”
“Am I still alive?”
“Yes, and you’re heavy.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“How about it’s hot, I have no air-conditioning and you’re really sweaty?”
He laughed and rolled to his side, sitting up. “Can you point me to the bathroom?”
Jo got up and walked around to take both of his hands, urging him up off the bed. When they stood face-to-face, she raised on tiptoe to capture his mouth. The kiss lasted longer than intended.
“I can do better,” she promised when they broke apart. She turned to lead him to the door in the far corner of her bedroom. “I think you could use a shower.”
“I could? What about you?”
As she led him through the door, her own laughter was husky and promising.
“It’s an implied ‘we’—don’t they teach you anything in journalism school?”
His grin was wolfish as the sound of the shower starting up was accompanied by the welcome return of her lips to his.
*
G Is for Gun-Shy
By Christina Thacher
Jack checked the address again. In theory it only took seven minutes to get between any two spots in the Pentagon. With seventeen miles of corridor in the damned place, he’d allowed ten. Plus, his leg wound disagreed with the rainy February weather, making the walk from his office feel like a marathon. Add to that his disgust at his new assignment—well, frankly, Afghanistan was looking better and better by the minute.
He was looking for someone named—he glanced at the paper again—OA Gunn. Some Brit military analyst, that was all he knew. They were to work
on a report together. Just what the army didn’t need—more useless paper generated by desk jockeys who had no idea what went on in the field.
Jack walked slowly so he could control the instinct to limp. He avoided looking at the faces of the civilians checking him out. Jack felt conspicuous in his Class A service uniform. Crazy. He was hardly the only army officer walking the corridors. It stank to be riding a desk in Washington. He should be with his troops, not here.
He was about to walk past the open doorway when he realized he’d found the right office. He knocked and walked in. There was a gorgeous woman standing behind the desk, leaning slightly forward so that her hair fell over her shoulders, calling attention to the open neck of her blouse.
Jack coughed. When she looked up, he said, “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m looking for OA Gunn.”
She looked him over, from his close-cropped hair to his spit-shined shoes. Jack resisted the instinct to check if his tie was straight or his fly undone.
“Yes?” she said finally.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Ma’am? Colonel Jack Travis. Could you tell me where OA Gunn is?”
The woman leaned back slightly and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Yes, I could.”
She had an accent, British, but also posh. Like she’d come from one of those BBC television shows. Crisp, controlled, unyielding. Unfriendly.
Jack knew about the enemy. The enemy was anyone who wanted to obstruct or impede your mission. Could be a foreign national; could be on your side. Either way, the goal was to neutralize the enemy and take him out of the picture.
This woman was his enemy.
Jack straightened his posture that extra millimeter and schooled his features to their most remote stare.
“I believe we’re talking at cross-purposes. I’ve been told to liaise with OA Gunn. I can wait or I can come back if another time would be more appropriate.”
The woman also stood up straight, letting her hands drop to her sides. Her eyes narrowed, then relaxed. Finally, she walked around the desk toward him, her hand ready to shake his.
“I’m Davina Gunn.”
Jack shook her hand automatically while he tried to assess this new intel. “OA?” he asked.
“Operational Analyst. I’m with the Ministry of Defence, on assignment here for six months to work with your people on joint strategies for the U.S. and the U.K. in Afghanistan.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Gunn.”
“And I you, Colonel Travis. Please, have a seat.”
She waved him to a couple of chairs with a small table between them. He waited politely for her to sit first, then lowered himself carefully into the other chair.
“IED?” she asked, looking at his knee.
“Yes.” Jack had perfected the icy affirmative to discourage follow-up questions. Bad enough the damned thing had taken him out of theater. There was no effing way he was going to tell the story a dozen times a day.
“I was in Helmand at Lashkar Gah two years ago.”
Jack gaped at her. “As a civilian?”
“Operational Analyst in HQ Task Force Helmand. I developed kinetic analyses of the insurgency. Hard work and so much more rewarding than being in Whitehall.”
Jack relaxed suddenly into his chair. “We probably passed each other at some joint command meeting or other.”
She smiled widely at him. “Probably.”
OA Gunn had a very sexy smile. One side of her mouth curved higher than the other and her eyes made him want to laugh.
Enough of that now. He flipped open his notebook. “Here’s what we need to do,” he began.
*
Davina sat at a table in the café, waiting for Colonel “Call Me Jack” Travis to arrive for their usual Saturday work session. He wasn’t late, she’d gotten there early. She wanted that slight advantage. So often in their meetings at the Pentagon, she felt she was behind the game. Or rather, she worried that he thought she was holding him back, that the assignment would go faster without her. Her worries marred an otherwise enjoyable liaison with the American.
She watched pedestrians, alert for that distinctive gait the colonel used to control his limp. What an attractive man. Over six feet, great shape, and wonderful pale gray eyes. A stick up his arse, which might be expected given his rank and the damage to his leg. They’d spoken briefly about his service record, but Davina could tell he didn’t wish to discuss the IED attack. She respected that choice, although it made her constantly aware of the injury, as though it were a taboo she longed to explore.
Davina frequently caught herself wondering what Colonel Travis looked like naked. Yes, the scar. She thought about the scar. But all of him fascinated her, from his short hair, just beginning to grow out, down to his elegant polished shoes. She felt an odd attraction to him, although he was quite unlike any of her previous lovers. She’d dated Yanks but never anyone in the U.S. Army, not even in Afghanistan. They’d all seemed a bit rude, bristling with testosterone and hubris.
Jack Travis, by contrast, bristled with discomfort and frustration. Not a conventional aphrodisiac. Still, Davina had found herself damp after each of their meetings. Even completely focused on their analyses, her body responded to his. That voice, with its flat American accent and growling tones. That smell, an elixir of clean masculinity and pheromones. And those eyes. Definitely the eyes. Every time Davina looked into his eyes, she lost a beat, a second, a tick of concentration. Her efforts to get back to the thread of their discussion were never smooth.
No wonder he thought she was a lightweight.
There he was, in khaki slacks and a polo shirt with a fitted jacket on top. Washington in March could be bitterly cold or surprisingly warm, so one learned to dress in layers. The day was sunny and windy. Davina had put her hair up, hoping they could walk a bit after lunch. Specifically, she hoped they could walk to her flat.
She wanted to seduce Colonel Travis.
“Davina,” he said formally as he joined her at the booth. She’d picked a less popular establishment, one passed over by the usual yummy mummies, in the hope she and Jack would be able to get their work done by the end of the meal. That way, if she played her cards right, she’d get to see what Colonel Travis looked like au naturel.
“Jack. I have the latest data from the Dstl.” Davina pulled out a sheaf of papers from the Ministry of Defence Science and Technology Lab and handed him his set.
They worked through sandwiches and the ubiquitous iced tea served in Washington. Davina had converted when she realized that asking for a cup of tea got her a mug of barely hot water and a tea bag. Iced tea, at least, tasted of something.
When they were done, she packed everything back into her briefcase while Jack dealt with the bill. After the waitress left, Davina looked at him.
“What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?”
“I have to drive to Maryland.”
“Oh?” She struggled to keep her voice cool, but disappointment was bitter on her tongue. She’d so hoped he wouldn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon.
“My family owns a house on the Eastern Shore. We have someone open it for the summer season, only the guy who normally did it died last fall, so we’ve hired his son. I need to go out there to see if he’s got everything ready.” He paused, clearly about to say something more.
Davina waited, staring into those molten silver eyes. She smiled slowly as she felt that telltale flush rising up her chest to her neck, once again aroused by the delicious and mysterious colonel.
Whatever else he’d meant to say seemed to have dried up. Davina was about to utter a conventional lie about what a shame it was that they couldn’t spend the afternoon together when he spoke again.
“Come with me.”
“Excuse me?” She needed to make sure she’d heard him correctly.
Jack hesitated, then leaned toward her. “Come for a drive with me. The Eastern Shore is gorgeous, we’ll drive there, check on the cottage, have dinner and drive back.
”
“Yes. I’d love to.”
He straightened, startled or uncertain or on guard. The shuttered look closed down his face. Whatever Colonel Travis was thinking, he had no intention of sharing it with her. Shame.
Still, if the cottage had beds—and Davina imagined it must—then perhaps they could spend a bit longer there. After all, she had on her favorite sexy undies from Agent Provocateur. With a little ingenuity, she should be able to flash a bit of flesh at the so-staid colonel.
“Excellent idea. Can we go from here?” she asked.
“If you’re ready?”
She stood and smiled at him. “Of course. Lead on.”
*
They made small talk on the drive, leaving Jack more than enough time to wonder what the hell he was doing. Why had he invited her? Why, for that matter, had he been so careful to buy a box of condoms and stash it in his briefcase? Did he really think he could persuade the buttoned-up Brit to let her hair down and sleep with him?
Who wears a skirt to lunch on a weekend, anyway? And wears her hair up? Frankly, Ms. Gunn looked just about as formal as she did at work, and that was saying a lot.
Not that Jack didn’t appreciate the value of a close-fitting skirt on a woman with as attractive a rear guard as Davina’s. Or those silky blouses she left open at the neck, showing just a hint of cleavage. All very classy and titillating at the same time. Despite their rat-a-tat pace, usually set by Davina’s high-octane mind, Jack found he was halfway to sporting a boner when he left their meetings. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his arousal or those moments when he’d gone fuzzy thinking about what her hair would look like loose…over naked shoulders…trailing down to bare breasts…
Jack shifted, uncomfortable in the driver’s seat.
Nothing was going to happen. She was only in D.C. until June, by which time Jack had no clue what he’d do next. Re-up for another tour, assuming it was even offered to him? He had no hope he’d pass the physical for active duty, so it would mean riding a desk for the rest of his army career. Did he really want to try for a star? Push papers, glad-hand with politicians and more senior generals?
Of course, he could join the family business. Dad would love that. Travis Trucking was thriving despite the poor economy because of the technology Dad had invested in during the last boom. As a result, Travis reefers cost less to run than their competitors’ refrigerated trailers. Less money meant lower bids and more work. And room for Jack in management.
Love Letters Volume 2: Duty to Please Page 7
