by Anne Calhoun
Her head hit the wall with a thump and her fingernails dug into his bare shoulder hard enough to sting.
“That’s why,” he said.
She gave a high-pitched, startled little laugh that eddied into a series of soft moans as he set about discovering exactly what she liked. Her skin heated, dampened under his touch until the friction made her bite her lip hard enough to leave a dent. Then she looked at him through her lashes, holding his gaze as her fingernails left fire in their wake. She didn’t go for his button, or zipper. Instead she turned her hand and cupped his balls, pressing the heel of her hand against the base of his shaft.
“Can I do this?”
He meant to say yes, or rather hell, yes, but what came out was a deep rumble, a sound he’d never heard himself make before. A sudden, thick heat coursed along his nerves, more like being dipped in lava than shocked. He pushed into her hand, loved the way she pushed back, handling him damn near as roughly as he’d handle himself. He crowded right up against her, using his body to wall her in, pushing beyond the boundaries of male and into possessive, territorial, dominant, half expecting her to slip away, put space between them, reestablish some goddamn rules.
Instead she brought her open mouth to the pulse pounding at the base of his neck, and licked it. Then she nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, and for the life of him, he couldn’t get the image of a lioness out of his mind. Surrendering, but with just enough fang and claw to remind the lion to give respect where it was due.
“I really want to get my hand around your cock,” she said.
He was way too close for that. Someday he’d let her go to town with her hands and mouth, but not tonight. This was too raw, too hot, too unexpected to waste on anything less than full contact sex.
“Bed. Now,” he said, and stepped back, out of her reach.
“No, no,” she said.
“What?” he said, instantly alert. “No” meant all kinds of things. It meant Stop right this goddamn instant; it meant Don’t fucking stop; it meant Stop doing that and do this instead. She was staring at him, back to the wall, eyes wide and shocked and so vulnerable it made his heart stop. “No what, Rose?”
She lifted her hands in front of her chest, the fingers spread wide. “I need,” she started, then stopped. She patted her upper chest, the tendons in her hands standing out from the strain of reaching for something. “I need you … against me.”
Oh, fucking Christ. She was vibrating with tension, shaking with need, a multifaceted trembling that stopped when he used the strength in his legs and hips to trap her against the wall. Her eyes fluttered closed, and the sound that came out of her mouth went straight to his back brain.
He kissed her again, thrusting his tongue into her mouth with the same hard rhythm as his hips ground against hers. Her hands slapped at his shoulders once, twice, until he grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her back with one hand, then clamped his other arm around her waist and lifted her right off her feet.
Keeping her immobilized, he knelt on the bed and bore her backward, a Hollywood move he couldn’t have performed if he’d stopped to think about it first. But then they were on the bed, his hips between her thighs, his hand loosely holding her wrists. But she was thoroughly pinned, her legs spread, her body arched into his.
He transferred the hand not occupied with restraining her to her hair, fingers sliding deep into the shining strands to hold her mouth for his kiss, rested the full weight of his torso on hers, and kissed her until she was gasping, pleading, grinding her sex against his erect cock. When he couldn’t take it any longer, he leaned over the edge of the bed to rummage in his duffle and come up with a condom package. Then he tugged down her elastic waist leggings, shoved her shirt and bra to her collarbones, and put his hands to his zipper.
He didn’t bother to take off his pants, just opened them enough for his cock to drop thick and heavy into his hand. He palmed it once, just to take the edge off, and then rolled the condom down his shaft. Rose lay on the bed, bared and spread for him, a hot, dazed look in her eyes as she stared at his hands. Then, as he gathered up her unresisting wrists and pinned them beside her head, he aligned his shaft with her entrance. She was so slick, so hot, that the head slipped in before he even thought to make that move. Muscles tightened to bone as she gasped and clenched in on herself, and hissed with pain.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, but he didn’t pull out, didn’t lift his body from hers. In some distant, civilized part of his brain, he knew he should do exactly that, but her hot, tight nipples bored into his chest, and every nerve in his body rang like a fire alarm. “Jesus, Rose. Fuck. You’re tight.”
“You’re big,” she gasped back. “God. Just … hold on a second, okay?”
“Okay. Sure,” he said, ready to promise whatever he had to promise to stay right where he was. He closed his eyes and focused on the maddening heat, the delicious pressure enveloping just the head of his cock. Nothing more. He could feel the delicate muscles of her sheath quivering, then giving way, welcoming rather than resisting. He slid in another inch, and she tensed again, more, he guessed, in anticipation of pain than from pain itself. So he kept going, gliding deeper, until she’d taken everything he had.
Her eyes opened, staring up at him. “That’s it?” she asked shakily.
“That’s it,” he promised, and was startled to hear a rough tremor in his own voice. There were a million questions to ask her, none of them his business in any way, shape, or form. Like why she was near-feral in her desire, and as tight as a virgin. Or why she—
She wriggled under him. The slick skin of their bellies, pressed together, or her inner thighs where they were wrapped around his hips, reminded him of the slick pressure surrounding his cock. Then she twisted her wrists in his grip, and he got it. He let go of her wrists, only to find her adjusting her arms so she could wind her fingers through his and hold on tight.
“I think, if you just…” she said, a calculating, distant look in her eyes as she circled her hips under him.
He’d spent too much time in the SEALs to waste words when actions shouted. He curved over her, pulled out, and buried himself to the hilt inside her, a hot, gliding stroke that lit him up from the inside out. Her words splintered into a soft gasp that deepened into a moan when he did it again, the angle of his hips canted to find the hot spot inside her.
“If I just what?” he whispered. “Just did this?”
He did it again, finding the perfect rhythm and depth to drive her wild without moving things along too quickly. Her toes curled against his flanks, and before long, a deep rosy flush bloomed on her face and spread down her throat. He used every trick he knew to hold himself back, tightening the muscles around his cock, counting backward in Pashtun, because he didn’t just want to make her come. He wanted to make her come apart. So he gave her what he knew she needed, a steady rhythm gliding over her hot spot again and again, slow, maddening, the promise of getting her mind blown if she’d just take it, take him.
He could feel it coming. Her back arched, her face tightened, a low groan vibrating in her throat. When the crest crashed down, he yanked his hand free of hers and clapped his hand over her mouth, drove into her twice more, and let the surf take them both.
The next thing he heard was an indistinct sound from Rose. “Huh?” he said, not the most coherent statement he’d ever made.
“Off,” Rose said, and added a shove to his ribs. “No endorphins. Too heavy. Can’t breathe.”
He shifted to his side, disengaging their bodies, but keeping a hand on her hip. She took a deep inhale, the exhale shuddering as it left her body, then clumsily pushed her T-shirt and bra down. He helped, gently checking her over as he did. She seemed okay, breathing slowly, eyes closed, when he got up to ditch the condom. By the time he’d finished and hitched his pants up, she was on her feet, pulling on her leggings. “I should go,” she said when he leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “If I stay any longer I’ll fall asleep. I don’t want Gran
nie to wake up alone in a strange place.”
“Sure,” he said, telling himself he should feel relieved by her matter-of-fact attitude. Two consenting adults, one vacation fling. Watching her pull her shirt over her head, then gather her hair into a loose ponytail, he’d think she did this all the time, except she was so tight and hot and wild under him, like she never let herself go.
She looked at the clock and blew out her breath. “What time are we leaving tomorrow?”
“Five thirty,” he said, adjusting to civilian time.
“I should get up earlier, check in on things before we leave.”
“Rose,” he said firmly, “get some sleep. I’ve got this.”
“Got what?”
“Whatever might come up. I’ve got it. Trust me.”
Clutching her sweater to her chest, she looked at him like she’d never relied on another person in her entire life. Her pupils were blown wide, her skin flushed and gleaming. “Okay,” she said faintly. “I’ll just … okay. Thanks for … thanks. That was way better than second best.”
When she’d left, he inhaled deeply. The room smelled faintly of her, not perfume, not hair spray, but the rich, musky scent of her skin, of sex. For the first time in a long time, he fell asleep with the smell of a woman in his nose.
Chapter Three
“The bathroom’s all yours, Rose,” Grannie said.
Rose looked up from the email she was sending to Hua Li, her most trusted employee. If anyone could sweet talk I.T. into expediting her request to get her international service ASAP, it was Hua. They’d been warned that hot air balloon rides at the beginning of the season could be very cold, so Grannie was bundled up in lightweight travel pants, a button-down shirt, and a thick sweater.
“Are you wearing your long underwear?” Rose asked.
“Yes, and wool socks,” Grannie said, zipping her toiletries bag into her suitcase. She studied Rose long enough for a flush to creep into Rose’s cheeks.
“What?” she said with a smile. “I just need a few minutes and I’ll be ready—”
A swift, hard knock at the door made them both jump. Grannie opened it. Keenan took one step inside, controlling both the hallway and the room, his gaze scanning the window, the bed, Rose. He didn’t linger on Rose, which was probably for the best. Even the slightest eye contact sent sparks along tingling nerves in her mouth, her breasts, her sex. He looked at her laptop, then gave her a quick nod she took to mean they’d deal with her phone situation today, if possible. “Ten minutes, ladies,” he said. “Keep your purse or backpack with you, but leave your suitcase outside the door. The concierge will bring them down for you.”
When the door closed, Grannie whisked open the heavy curtains covering the window. The sun peeked over the edge of the Cappadocia hills. “Ten minutes, Rose!” she said, all but bouncing.
“I just need to send this email,” Rose said, relieved by Keenan’s businesslike manner. She wasn’t going to pay for telling him he was better than second best. She didn’t often shove her foot down her throat, into her stomach, but when she did, she did it with gusto and aplomb. Besides, what happened last night wasn’t going to happen again. It was a vacation fling for her, and a who-knew-what for him. Keenan kept things professional, just the way she liked them. After all, weren’t the SEALs called the silent professionals? Perfect. “We’ve got problems with a terminal in California, and the chair of the hiring committee just sent another round of jobs to look over before we post them.”
“Rose,” her grandmother said, shooing her toward the bathroom, “go, go, go!”
Rose went, and emerged nine minutes later, teeth brushed, hair back in a ponytail, a fleece watch cap on her head. She’d made it in nine minutes only because one look at her face told her that, other than some concealer for the bags under her eyes, makeup was unnecessary. The color in her cheeks and her still-swollen mouth gave her all the glow she needed. It wasn’t five hours of sleep so deep she might as well have been unconscious.
No, she owed the color in her face to the frankly incredible sex. She jammed her makeup bag into her suitcase, zipped it shut, and wrestled it out the door, where a waiting bellboy hefted it and headed for the stairs. Her phone, laptop, adapters, and charging cords all went into her shoulder tote. Ushering Grannie ahead of her, she rounded up Marian and Florence and led them down the stairs to the foyer, where Keenan was waiting.
“Our shuttle is that one,” he said, pointing at the small bus parked outside the hotel’s sliding doors. “They’ll take us for breakfast, then out to the balloon launch sites.”
“Our shuttle?” Rose said, surprised. “You’re coming with us?”
He nodded, then lowered his voice. “Jack told me to look after you. I’m looking after you.”
Heat thrummed through her, far too early in a very long day to be anything but a tease. She should lock it down. Instead, she leaned in. “Is that what you call it?”
“My definitions are pretty flexible,” he admitted, a wry smile on his mouth.
“Of course he’s coming. You have to come,” Grannie said. “Seeing Cappadocia from the air is on everyone’s bucket list.”
To his credit, Keenan shut his mouth and said the only thing he could say. “Yes, ma’am.”
They all clambered into the small shuttle bus, which took them along narrow roads. Houses seemed to rise straight out of the soft stone, giving the small villages a tumbled, jumbled look. Yards held goats and chickens, and satellite dishes jutted from roofs. At their destination, a modern building framed incongruously like a Swiss chalet, they jostled among other guests to help themselves to a steaming hot buffet table laden with Turkish breakfast foods. Rose got herself fruit, pastries, and a cup of coffee, then found Grannie and her friends had joined a table of other people their age. Keenan sat at a table for two, his backpack pointedly claiming the other chair.
“Have a seat,” he said, and stood.
He came back a minute later with a plate laden with toast, eggs, a soup that smelled fantastic, fruit, and a cup of hot chocolate.
“I wish,” she said, looking at the cocoa.
“I ran this morning,” he said.
“I’d love to get in a run, but I slept through the alarm,” she said, and sipped her coffee. “Grannie woke me up when she was getting dressed. Good thing I showered before I fell asleep last night.”
It wasn’t easy to look him in the eye, something she found simple enough when dealing with the men she worked with. It wasn’t because she was ashamed, or even cowed by him. It was because he’d seen her vulnerable and out of control, now he saw into her, maybe even saw through her.
“Let me know if you’re going to run,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m not fast,” she said. “If I can run a ten-minute mile, I’m doing well, and that’s on the treadmill.”
He finished chewing an entire flaky pastry with apricot filling, and swallowed. “It’s not a question of speed. It’s a question of safety. Based on your insane schedule, the only time you’ll have to run is before sunrise or after dark. You’re not going alone.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“Would Jack let you run alone in a strange country and no cell phone?”
Dammit. “On principle, he wouldn’t have a say in the matter. More pragmatically, no, he wouldn’t,” she admitted as she started to peel her orange.
“About Jack,” he said.
“Yes, about Jack,” she said, flicking the white orange pulp from her fingertips. Mentioning Jack reminded her that she’d been looking forward to spending time with him on this trip. She’d been so busy at work she’d not noticed his pattern of postponing dinner, or drinks, or a Saturday afternoon playing video games. Only when he backed out of the trip did she connect the dots.
“He’s not going to be happy about this,” Keenan said.
“About what?” Rose asked.
Keenan just looked at her, and the molten heat in his eyes st
opped her with an orange section halfway to her mouth. “You can’t look at me like that in public,” she whispered.
He blinked, and Keenan was just Keenan, unassuming, quiet, unremarkable Keenan.
“I hadn’t planned to tell Jack about this,” she said, pleased to hear her voice was well-modulated, matter-of-fact. “I mean, I don’t normally tell my brother I’m having sex with someone, SEAL or otherwise, because it’s (a) gross and (b) none of his business. Why? Did he warn you off me or something?”
“Or something,” Keenan said.
She thought about inquiring into the “or something,” then thought better of it. “I’m sorry for what I said when I was leaving.”
His brows pulled down. “What did you say?”
“About being better than second best?”
He laughed, bright, vivid, head back. “My ego can withstand coming in second to a working cell phone.”
“Oh, God,” she said, and put her head in her hands. “It’s not the same. They’re totally different good things.”
“Good things?” he said, grinning.
“Why isn’t the floor swallowing me up right now?”
He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Don’t worry about it, Jetlag. I like a challenge.”
“Powell, party of five,” called a man with a clipboard before Rose could make things any worse. She tucked the orange into her pocket, snatched up her bag, and followed Grannie, Florence, and Marian out the door, Keenan on her heels.
