Rough. That was another thing that sparked a memory. How his beard had scraped against her cheeks, creating a delightful friction. His facial hair was close cropped now, the bristles tidily trimmed as opposed to the great fuzzy bush he and the rest of his men had sported overseas. But, still, there were enough whiskers left to tickle her lips as he kissed her so expertly, so brazenly—all languid stroking and deep, penetrating sucking—as only he seemed to know how to do.
“God, Olivia,” he moaned, tilting her jaw to better align their lips. “Every time I get my mouth on you, I want to gobble you up.”
She shivered at the unabashed longing in his tone. And for the life of her, she couldn’t think of one good reason why he shouldn’t do exactly that. Being eaten alive had never sounded so good.
“I like this plan of yours,” she whispered, sliding her hands up over his shoulders and delighting in the feel of his muscles flexing beneath her questing fingers. His neck was warm against her palms in the second before she speared her hands into his hair.
Silky. She remembered that too. That his hair was softer, sleeker than any man’s should be. Of course, she soon forgot all about his hair, because…
In and out. In and out. His knowledgeable tongue plunged and retreated, mimicking the sex act in a blatantly unapologetic way. Her body responded with a flood of liquid heat between her thighs, the center of her aching around its own emptiness. She wanted to be filled. She needed to be filled. With him. Only him.
“If you’re going to gobble me up, do you want to add a topping?” she husked between deep, mind-numbing kisses. “Whipped cream? Or, oh!” He did something with his tongue that had her bare toes curling against her flip-flops. “Or maybe a cherry?” she finished with a throaty laugh.
“I don’t need any toppings,” he assured her, kissing the side of her mouth and rubbing his lips and whiskers along her cheek until he stopped at her ear. The feel of his hot, moist breath against the sensitive shell nearly had her eyes crossing. “You taste absolutely perfect all on your own.”
Oh, this man! This man was…everything. Big and strong and tough and loyal. Charming enough to coax the fish out of the water. Smart enough to challenge her at every turn. And sexy enough to give Casanova, Don Juan, and Mr. Darcy all a run for their money.
She liked him so much. Liked him enough that she wondered if maybe what she was feeling was—
No. Don’t go there. Nothing but disappointment and heartache down that path.
And she’d already had enough of those to last her a lifetime. Each Sunday when the orphanage would open up to childless parents that passed her over. Every foster family that eventually sent her back to the orphanage. Permanence, belonging, and love. They weren’t for her. Never had been. Never would be.
So she’d take what she could from Leo, whatever he was willing to give. And in return, she’d give him whatever he wanted…
Chapter Seven
12:56 p.m.…
Sixteen motherfrickin’ years old.
Apparently that’s the age one reverted to after having eschewed female companionship for a year and a half. Because if Leo’s dick throbbed any harder, he was liable to go off right there in his swim trunks. For shit’s sake, man!
Of course, Olivia wasn’t helping matters, moving against him like she was. All sinuous and sexy, meeting him kiss for kiss, caress for caress.
He hadn’t really meant for things to go this far this fast. Then again, he should have known from the last time that the minute their lips locked it was all gas, no brakes, Thelma and Louise holding hands and jettisoning off a cliff. Or in layman’s terms…it was on, cowboy!
Well, giddyup!
He sucked her delicate earlobe into his mouth, delighted to discover her skin tasted exactly like it smelled: warm, exotic flowers kissed by the sun. Her flavor flooded into his bloodstream, intoxicating him and making his head spin.
“Leo,” she moaned, pulling him closer, so close her breasts smashed flat against his chest. But still, he could tell by her busy, frustrated hands in his hair and on his shoulders that she didn’t think they were nearly close enough.
By God, neither did he.
Releasing her earlobe and opening his mouth over her pounding pulse-point, he remedied the situation by running the hand that had been squeezing her hip around until he could cup one plump globe of her delightful ass. He sealed their bodies until not one inch of electrified air remained between them, imagining what it would be like to take a bite out of her scrumptious posterior.
Of course, that imagery caused his erection to throb so painfully he was pretty sure he felt a drop of moisture gather at the tip. And, hello. It was obvious he either needed to slow this way down or speed it way up. Since he was a guy, and since it had been a year and a half, he decided to go with option number two.
All right, and sure. There was undoubtedly a whole host of things he should be doing right now, like checking his tanks, filling some extra clips for his weapon, or searching for tears in his buoyancy compensator. But honestly, he couldn’t seem to make himself care about anything other than Olivia.
Keeping one hand firmly on her butt to guide her in the bump-and-grind she had going, he used the other to grab the hem of her tank top, pushing it higher and higher. The pads of his fingers were met by rippling goose bumps. Despite that, her skin was remarkably soft. So unbelievably soft. And considering how tough she was in every other respect, that baby-fine skin was a delightful contradiction.
Soft, yet strong. Delicate, yet determined. Kissable one minute and kickass the next. She was all things paradoxical, and all things guaran-frickin’-teed to drive him wild.
“Kiss me, Leo,” she demanded, grabbing his ears and offering her succulent, open mouth to him.
“Your wish is my command,” he told her, reclaiming her lips, reclaiming that sweet, agile tongue. And for a few endless moments they danced to the age-old rhythm of foreplay. Mouths seeking, hands caressing, hips rubbing. His blood ran hot and thick through his veins, making every inch of his skin burn.
Bunching her tank top over the cups of her bra, he slowly pulled back, sucking her lower lip as he retreated and hearing her groan of disapproval. When he finally released her lip, he was charmed to see her catch the plump pad between her teeth, even more charmed to get a peek at that wonderfully sexy half-grin of hers.
“You have the best smile,” he said, his gaze having latched onto her mouth like an antiaircraft missile locking in on its target. He imagined her mouth opening wide as he stroked her to orgasm with his fingers, or wrapped tight around the head of his cock, her eyes sparkling up at him teasingly. “It was the first thing I noticed about you.”
She immediately rolled in her lips, shaking her head. “I should have had braces when I was a kid.”
“Good God, no. Your teeth are perfect in their imperfection. They’re part of what makes you you. And in case you can’t tell”—he used the hand he still had planted on her ass to pull her closer, press her tighter against his raging hard-on—“I find you sexy as hell.”
“You’re crazy,” she whispered, but he could tell by the tiny upward tilt of her lips that she was flattered.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe you just make me crazy.” Not being able to stand it a moment longer, he dropped his eyes from her pretty face. He wanted to see her, let his eyes drink her in, become drunk on her beauty. He wasn’t disappointed. The tender curves of her upper breasts swelled above the black lace cups of her bra, and all that soft, female flesh called to everything hard and male in him. He lifted a hand to weigh her, to mold her, to find she was a fabulously firm handful.
She gasped when his thumb passed over her distended nipple, when he used the blunt edge of his nail to add more friction to the lace covering it. “You’re unbelievably responsive,” he murmured. “I’ve barely begun to touch you and already you’re…” What was she exactly?
Demanding? Her hips and hands were moving against him in the most urgent way. Arouse
d? There really was no mistaking the warm blush of passion that made her skin rosy.
“Wet.” This time she finished a sentence for him. And boy howdy, what a finish it was! The top of his skull felt like it exploded, and at the same time, the head of his dick released another drop of moisture.
“Christ, Olivia,” he groaned. “I need to look at you. I’ve fantasized so long about lookin’ at you. Seein’ you. Havin’ nothing between us.”
He didn’t wait for her approval, simply yanked one cup of her bra down and marveled at the berry-colored nipple that sprang into view. Her breast was heavier at the bottom than the top, making the peak point upward, as if challenging him to resist it.
He couldn’t.
He plucked at the tender bud with his thumb and forefinger, fascinated to see her areola tighten and crinkle until her entire nipple grew hard and engorged.
“Leo, please,” she gasped. Her body bowed, becoming a graceful arc of feminine surrender. And that went to his head like a double shot of top-shelf whiskey, dazzling him, making him burn. Brave, strong, tough Olivia Mortier, spy extraordinaire, was surrendering to him. He was so overcome by the need to beat his chest Tarzan-style and lift his face to let loose with that famous yell that he figured he needed to find a better use for his mouth lest he scare her the hell away.
And three guesses what “better use” he came up with. Of course, the first two guesses don’t count.
Dropping his chin, he sucked that sweet peak into his mouth. Her nails bit into his scalp, her ankle hooking behind his knee to better align their bodies, and then—
“Ahem!” A loud throat-clearing came from the stairwell outside the galley.
Olivia squeaked—a very un-CIA-agent-y sound—and pulled back. Ow! Leo was pretty sure her fingers took a hunk of his hair along with them. But that wasn’t nearly as heartbreaking as having her delectable nipple pop free of his lips. In a flash, she yanked her bra cup up over her amazing breast and tugged her tank top back into place.
“Now that’s a goddamn cryin’ shame,” he grumped, adding, “and I’m goin’ to kill whoever that is.”
“If there’s any ax waxing going on down there”—Bran. Leo should have known. The guy had the worst timing—“I’m sorry to say, but it needs to be red-lighted right now!”
“Ax waxing?” Olivia lifted a brow, her voice low and breathless. Leo noticed with more than a little regret the passion-heightened color of the skin over her cheeks and chest, and the glossy shine of her kiss-swollen lips. Yep. Bran was a dead man. “What’s he talking about?”
Leo rolled his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”
“Because Agent Mortier’s boss is on the satphone!” Bran added. “He says there’s a problem with the contractors’ boat.”
“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy,” Olivia harrumphed, pushing past Leo and heading for the stairs. “What else can go wrong?”
“Famous last words,” he muttered. And without her tender heat pressed against the length of him, he felt unaccountably cold. Grabbing his sunglasses off the table, he hooked the earpiece over the collar of his shirt before glancing over his shoulder to stare at her retreating back. His eyes were no doubt broody as he watched her disappear through the doorway. The last thing he saw was the gun shoved into a holster at the small of her waist above the round curve of her ass. Obviously, his expression became even more malevolent when Bran took her place in the opening.
“Don’t gimme that look, you big spostata,” Bran warned. “I tried telling Morales she was otherwise occupied, but he was having none of it. Besides”—Bran glanced around the room—“the galley, bro? The place where we clean fish? This is where you chose to bump uglies with Olivia? I mean, you remember last week Meat got seasick and upchucked his kibble along with about five gallons of undigested water weeds in here, right?”
“I didn’t choose it,” Leo grumbled. “It just…sort of…happened.” Like the last time. It was as if they were a couple of tectonic plates, the tension that hummed between them growing and growing until snap! The pressure erupted and they were helpless to do anything about it, caught up in its fury and power and swept along in its path.
Bran’s face split into a wide grin, his lids flying at half-mast. “You’re having all the smutty, sexy feels for her, aren’t you?”
“I swear to Christ, man. Sometimes I think you’re just a potato with four limbs.”
“If you’re gonna insult me”—Bran’s grin remained in place—“at least get it right. I’m a really well-hung potato with four limbs.”
“How about I go with something simpler and just call you an asshat?”
“That’s Lord Asshat of Bigdicksburg to you, my friend.”
Leo shook his head, sticking his tongue in his cheek because it was obvious Bran’s internal switch was flipped back to its usual devil-may-care position. In which case, it was impossible to get one over on the guy, so he might as well quit trying.
“I sort of like that,” Bran continued. “Maybe that should be the name of our company. Asshat Salvage or maybe Bigdicksburg Salvage. Has a certain ring, doesn’t it?”
“You’re worse than Romeo.” Leo turned to follow Olivia up to the wheelhouse.
He’d gone no more than two steps when Bran squawked, “For crying out loud!” He held his hands up in front of his face. “I don’t wanna see that! Warn a guy next time, will you?”
Leo looked down to discover his erection had turned the front of his swim trunks into a Boy Scout pup tent.
“Good God. If this is what happens to you when you haven’t been laid in a year and a half, we need to get you some chucky tout de suite.” Bran was still covering his eyes. “It’s already too late for me. I’ve seen too much. I’ll have nightmares for weeks. But at least we can spare the others.”
“How the hell would you know whether I have or haven’t been laid in a year and half? Are you markin’ your calendar or somethin’?”
“These things just have a way of making themselves apparent.” Bran peeked from between his fingers, then said, “Ah, goddamnit. Why is it still there? You think I’m pretty or something?”
“Or somethin’.” Leo frowned down at his erection, which hadn’t wilted one bit since Olivia’s exit.
“Well, you better jump in the john and tug the pug before you come upstairs,” Bran grumbled, heading up the stairwell. “Otherwise, you’re liable to put someone’s eye out.”
Tug the pug? Wax his ax? Wobble his knob? “Did you guys hold a Who Can Come Up with the Worst Euphemism contest at some point and not invite me?” he called up to Bran’s retreating back.
“Wouldn’t you like to know? And, now, in the legendary words of Larry the Cable Guy”—Bran turned at the top of the stairwell—“‘Git ’er done!’”
Christ.
Although…that did seem the best course of action, considering Leo couldn’t head up to the pilothouse looking like this. But as opposed to resorting to middle-school tactics, he figured he should first give that old trick he’d learned when puberty hit and his damn dick grew a mind of its own, springing to attention at the most inopportune times. He pictured his gap-toothed, moley-foreheaded, muumuu-wearing third-grade music teacher, Ms. Meyer. He’d once heard his father remark to his uncle after parent-teacher conferences, “That woman’s uglier than a mud fence and mean as a mama wasp.” Two characteristics guaran-damn-teed to shrink up a pubescent boy’s hard-on in no time flat.
Would it still work on a grown man’s? He aimed to find out. But just as he was conjuring up the image of the three thick hairs that’d grown out of Ms. Meyer’s biggest mole, the one above her lazy left eye, his mutinous mind snapped back to the memory of Olivia arched like an offering against him, her gorgeous nipple just begging for his kiss.
Sonofa—
Okay, there was nothing to be done for it. With a hobbling, shuffling walk—the fabric of his swim trunks chafed in the most unimaginable way—he made his way out of the galley, past the crew’s quarters, and
into one of the ship’s two small bathrooms. Unrolling a wad of TP, he stood over the toilet, braced a hand above the tank to steady himself against the subtle dip and sway of the ship, and pulled down his swim trunks.
His erection sprang free, all red and angry and with so much enthusiasm he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a resounding boing!
“Sixteen motherfrickin’ years old,” he grumbled as he took hold of himself, letting his mind drift back to the galley, to Olivia’s fingers kneading his shoulders, to her warm breath tickling his lips, and definitely to her plump ass filling his hand while the grip of her pistol rested against his wrist. Tough, yet tender. Hard as nails, yet soft as sin. That was Olivia.
It didn’t take long. After eighteen months he’d gotten pretty good at this, at jacking himself off while imagining it was her hand on him, her mouth around him, her tongue laving over his heated head… And now that he actually knew the shape of her? The taste of her? Well, he might’ve just set some sort of world record. In a matter of seconds, his shaft pulsed in his fist, his balls going all tight and tingly. And then he was clenching his jaw against the deep groan rumbling at the back of his throat while he poured his unquenched desire for Olivia into the waiting clump of toilet paper.
Afterward, he stood there, his lungs working like bellows, his brain buzzing, the remnants of his orgasm making him shiver. When he managed to regain some control, he cleaned himself up and took a nice, long gander at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. “Christ, man. You’re way too old to be doin’ this.”
As he pushed out of the head to make his way upstairs, he knew no truer words had ever been spoken. But Olivia made him feel young again. Like everything was new and exciting and fresh. Like the world was his oyster, and he was poised on the brink of discovering…something. Something precious and rare. Something…
Come on, now! he chided himself as he took the stairs two at a time. Next thing you know, you’ll be writing poetry about her!
Hell or High Water Page 11
