by Anne Marsh
His libido—and possibly a different organ higher up—protested.
“Gray?” Her sleepy voice was half-muffled by the pillow she’d buried her face in.
“Yeah?” He reached over to switch off the light. He’d like to make love to her in the daylight, watch her face as she came. Then he could watch all the little expressions on her face, see the pucker she got on her forehead as she concentrated on his touch and the way she bit her lower lip. They hadn’t done daylight sex. Somehow fantasies seemed like midnight material. “I’m right here.”
“Hold me?” She didn’t wait for his agreement. Instead, she rolled over and flopped onto his chest, her fingers tangling in his dog tags as she planted her head over his heart.
Did he know how to get the holding thing right? Because she wasn’t just asking him to put his arm around her, was she? It was part of that whole Gray, you’re amazing problem. She was asking him to cozy up emotionally and for that she needed a different man.
Over my dead body, his traitorous heart protested.
“Don’t overthink it.” She grinned up at him sleepily. “Holding me isn’t rocket science.”
No, but getting it right mattered. Making her happy mattered. He was screwed here in ways far beyond the sexual. He tucked an arm around her and settled back against the mountain of pillows she’d accumulated from somewhere. One bed. One pillow. That was how his bed had always worked, because he didn’t do sleepovers. Instead, she had enough pillows for two SEAL units.
“Scoot down some,” she mumbled. “We need to work on your cuddling skills.”
As he processed that, she proceeded to bang her head around his rib cage, her chin digging into his chest, as she made herself comfortable. Eventually, she settled for draping one leg over his, her arm tucked around his middle. He had no idea where she’d managed to store the other arm, but it seemed like an anatomical impossibility.
“See? Isn’t that better?” Her hair tickled his armpit, and if she moved too quickly, he’d be singing soprano. So okay. It was also pretty damn perfect. He could do this. He should probably tell her how amazing she’d been or how gorgeous she looked. She’d complimented him, after all, so he needed to level the playing field some.
“Thank you,” he said, instead. Because it turned out that was what he meant.
He felt her smile against his skin. “You’re one hell of a rebound guy.”
Ouch. So maybe he wasn’t so amazing, after all. Maybe he was just fantasy fodder, the guy who could bring her dreams to life temporarily. Feeling hurt was stupid. He should let it go.
“Who was he?” Nope. Apparently, he was holding on with both hands.
“Who was who?” Her drowsy mumble wasn’t encouraging. Laney was clearly no night owl. He had no idea how she’d made it through med school—likely on sheer determination. That fit the Laney he was coming to know.
“The first guy.”
He waited for her to say something. Her fingers played with his dog tags, brushing against his skin. The pale band of skin he’d noticed on her ring finger during their first massage was getting steadily harder to see as the Caribbean sun turned her skin a rich golden brown.
“Harlan was my fiancé,” she said finally.
“Past tense?” Had to be, though. She wasn’t the kind of woman to cheat, and she’d come to Fantasy Island minus a ring.
“This was supposed to be our honeymoon.” Her voice sounded wistful. “He cheated on me. I caught him with a nurse, having sex on a gurney. Guess he had fantasies of his own.”
White-hot fury lashed through him. He could make a few calls, round up a SEAL unit to go after Harlan. Instead, he tightened his arm carefully around her. “He’s an idiot.”
“I know that. Now.” Amusement colored her voice. “And truly, it was better to find out before we got married. It’s just—”
He wasn’t good at this talking thing. He was probably supposed to make sympathetic noises or curse the guy out. Instead, he petted her hair, smoothing his hand over strands that were even silkier than the ties he’d used to bind her in place. Little pieces stuck up, tickling his nose when he leaned down.
“But what?” He made a sound, low and rough, but it wasn’t right, either. He sounded as if he had a mutant-sized frog in his throat. She didn’t seem to mind, though, because she kept right on talking.
“But apparently, I wasn’t his fantasy. I just wasn’t...enough. Or right. He didn’t even give me the chance. I thought we were friends and partners, as well as lovers. And I had that wrong, too.”
“You’re right for me.” He waited for the urge to leave to hit him, but it was AWOL. Still, he didn’t have a damn clue what he was doing here. Pleasing her body, bringing her to orgasm—those were things he was good at. He also knew how to write a rent check and pay the electric, but otherwise he was a relationship virgin. If she wanted anything more from him, she’d got the wrong man.
* * *
GRAY’S HEART BEAT out a rock-steady rhythm beneath her cheek. She figured he’d face down any number of crises with the same calm. For a moment she let her imagination place him in various ridiculous scenarios. Stampeding elephants, a zombie invasion, the Colombian Navy storming the beach on Fantasy Island...
It was easier than imagining this thing they had going anywhere further than bed. She had no complaints about their chemistry. The sex had been amazing and erotic and also scary as hell because he hadn’t let her hold anything back. She’d been open to him in every way possible and open meant vulnerable. And that vulnerability definitely meant she should stop asking him questions. Eventually, she’d get an answer she didn’t like because he clearly wasn’t into sharing how he felt. Possibly because he didn’t feel anything remotely Hallmark-like for her. They’d had hot vacation sex, and she shouldn’t overthink things.
And yet...
Yeah. She was doing a lot of thinking.
She wanted to get to know him. Not just his body or what got him off. She already recognized the way his breathing got harsher and faster when he was close to coming, the way he fisted the sheets and the hungry edge to the way he touched her. He drove her crazy, turned her on and gave her the best sex of her life. She’d be an idiot to complain about that.
On the other hand, she was feeling emotionally bare and she hated that. She shifted his dog tags through her fingers, turning the metal so she could read it in the dim light. JACKSON GRAY R. A blank line and then his social security number and blood type. NORELPREF. Somehow, the lack of information didn’t surprise her.
“What’s the R for?”
He tugged lightly on her hair. “Would you believe Radcliff?”
“It doesn’t sound as if I should.”
“Rafe? Remus? Rochester?”
“Be serious. Is your middle name really a national secret?”
He shrugged. “Randall. After my dad.”
“Was he a SEAL, too?”
“He didn’t stick around after I was born. It was just my mom and me.”
“That sounds like it might have sucked.”
“Only sometimes,” he said softly. “I was a trailer park kid in a farming community. My mom worked her ass off to put food on the table and keep the electric on. We might have had canned peaches instead of fresh, but she did the best she could even if sometimes the canned stuff came from the church pantry and not the grocery store.”
“She sounds special.”
“Uh-huh. I gave her plenty of hell. Fighting came easier than words, and between the kids at school and my cousins, I was always fighting.”
The words came sliding out before she could bite them back. “So how did you become a SEAL?”
“My cousins and I, we ran as a pack, got into trouble as a pack. We rode bikes from an early age, made the highway our racetrack. My oldest cousin got himself in trouble with a neighbor’s daughter. I never did find out exactly what he’d done, but her dad and his decided it was my cousin’s golden opportunity to enlist in the US Navy. It was the only get-
out-of-jail-free card they’d give him, and he took it. And where he went, I went.”
“To BUD/S and the SEALs.”
He grinned. “I may have taken it a little further than my cousin.”
* * *
“IT’S YOUR TURN.” She stared up at him expectantly. “Pick a drink. Share your fantasy with me.”
Not in a million years. He shouldn’t have come here, but apparently, self-control and restraint were words that didn’t apply when he was around Laney. Unless the restraint in question was a pair of fur-lined handcuffs. Who knew the gift shop stocked novelty items like that?
He’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks—hell, he’d driven his bike down the track at eighty miles an hour and played chicken with the oncoming train. Laney had no idea what she was unleashing if she dared him to name his fantasies. Still, her naughty grin was contagious. If she wanted to play, he was game. “A Short Southern Screw?”
“Ugh.” She made a face. “What makes sex Southern versus Northern? Or Eastern or Western?”
Good question, but one he couldn’t answer. Next suggestion. “Ball and Chain?”
“Sounds like a bad wedding joke.” Her smile died, and tracking down her ex-fiancé moved to the top of his to-do list.
“Bikini Line? Cowboy Up? Geisha?”
“You’re into costumes and having sex incognito? Oh. Right. Covert SEAL op. Check, check and check.”
He’d had her already tonight and it seemed as if she was offering seconds. Except that wasn’t how he really thought of her. She wasn’t a count or a notch on his belt, or even a hot woman who’d come on to him. She was just Laney.
His Laney.
And that scared him more than a little. So, yeah, he had fantasies. He’d fantasized about taking her a dozen different ways, each kinkier than the last. Tying her up, spreading her open, licking and sucking and tonguing her until she came. Then he’d do it all over again. Maybe the drink he should be ordering was the Green-Eyed Monster, because when he thought about her douche-bag ex, he wanted to rip the man apart. Mostly because he’d hurt Laney, but also because Gray was jealous. The J word.
He was never jealous, any more than he was monogamous, committed, or any other relationship word. In fact, he and Laney didn’t really have a relationship. They had sex. Hot, rough, mind-blowing sex. He shouldn’t want anything more. But he looked at her and he wasn’t empty or emotionless. He was the opposite. She made him feel too goddamned much, and he’d picked a hell of a time to figure that out, too. Sex with a near-stranger was more his style, a meaningless hookup that meant he didn’t have to worry about pleasing an exclusive lover.
He didn’t want to have fantasy-suite date-night sex or whatever the reality TV shows were calling it these days. He just wanted...Laney. Wanted to hear the soft, whimpering noises she made, lose himself in her smile. Danger. He wasn’t emotionally attached. He couldn’t be.
“Maybe we could skip the fantasy stuff and just...”
“Have normal sex?”
“That, too,” he said, knowing he sounded gruff. But damn, was he really going to use the words making love?
“You have a fantasy about doing it missionary style?” A smile curved her lips. Jesus. He needed to make a strategic retreat.
“What’s wrong with making love face-to-face?” He rolled over, pinning her beneath him. Maybe he needed to be more show and less tell.
“Nothing.” She curled her arms around his neck. “Step one? Accomplished.”
“That way, you can tell me how I make you feel. What you enjoy and what you want more of.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned up and brushed her mouth over his ear. “I feel like I’m melting.”
Melting was good. He settled between her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist.
She wasn’t done talking, though. “And do you whisper back?”
“I do. I’ve got lots of things to say to you.”
“And do?” He wasn’t sure which was better—the hopeful note in her voice or the way her fingers tightened on the back of his neck, pulling him closer until his lips grazed hers.
“Absolutely,” he said and proceeded to show her.
13
GRAY WOKE UP at zero-dark-thirty as he always did, years of training kicking in. His side ached liked a bitch, and he had a cramp in his left shoulder because—wait for it—he’d apparently spent the night cradling Laney against his chest. She had one arm draped over him, the other smashed somewhere beneath the blanket. The ache in his shoulder wasn’t the problem. Nope. The problem was the urge to do it again. Over and over, if he was being honest.
Which he’d been last night.
First about his upbringing, and then about his feelings. Memories came flooding back, of him telling her how special she was. Of how she made him feel. He’d all but spouted poetry, and he probably would have done that, too, if he’d known anything besides country music lyrics.
He stared at the window, but there were no answers there, either. The window provided a prime view of several overgrown palm trees. The screen had a hole, and the window itself was a liability, but he liked the fresh air, and he wasn’t expecting snipers in the coconut palms. The bed was small and that was the only reason why he’d draped Laney on top of his chest like the best kind of blanket. Nope, no other reason at all.
He looked down at the woman in his arms. Laney’s sleek hair wasn’t so sleek. Brown curls stood up on one side, and she looked adorably disheveled. She was also naked and seemed extremely comfortable curled up against him. As if she belonged there. Which probably explained the feeling of panic that roiled through him.
The sensation was unpleasantly similar to one he’d enjoyed during BUD/S training, when his instructor had tied his hands behind his back and then Gray had voluntarily stepped into the training pool, hit the pool floor nine feet down, and bounced back to the surface. Could you drown-proof your emotions? Because this wasn’t simply sex anymore. In fact, there was no just sex about it at all. He was on the bottom of the pool, in the deep end, and he wasn’t bouncing back from this anytime soon.
Laney mumbled something in her sleep. He needed an exit plan. A do-over. Some sage advice.
Instead, he got a sharp knock on the door. Somehow he doubted it was room service. Laney immediately opened her eyes, shoving upright. He woofed out a breath, because she didn’t pussyfoot around.
“Coming,” she groaned, batting around the bed with her hand. He had no clue what she was looking for—pager, stethoscope, bone saw—but he was glad he didn’t make a habit of sleeping with loaded weapons under his pillow. She was a hazard half-awake.
She paused. He knew the moment she realized she was naked, because the blush came back. “That wasn’t my pager.”
At least she’d had nonlethal intentions. The knock at the door was repeated.
“Stand down, Doctor.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and got out of bed. When he cracked the door, he found Levi standing in the hallway.
Levi eyed him. “R&R?”
“Off-limits.”
Levi nodded. The man was already geared up. “Party time. We’ve got a helicopter incoming in thirty minutes.”
“At the crack of dawn?” Who brought his girlfriend to a romantic island getaway before the sun even rose?
Levi grinned. “Marcos is an early riser. Or he hasn’t been to bed yet. Possibly, he knows that the fewer people who see him arrive, the better. Ask him yourself when we bag him.”
He nodded. “I’m ready to roll in two minutes.”
Shutting the door, he started pulling on his clothes. “I have to go.”
Lame. She wasn’t deaf. She’d heard Levi.
“I’ll go, too.” She didn’t seem upset, but he kept an eye on her as they got dressed.
Falling asleep with Laney had not been part of his plan. The sweet-whispers thing was fantasy material, sure, but this was real life. He’d intended to have sex with her, hold her some because he knew that mattered to her and then wal
k her back to her bungalow where she’d be safer. And, as an added bonus, returning her to her place would have avoided the whole awkward morning-after conundrum because, yeah...he felt naked and not because he was only half-dressed.
Last night he’d enjoyed the hardest, fiercest orgasm of his life, and she’d been right there with him. He was fine with that part of the night’s agenda. But then he’d wrapped his arms around her. He’d held on and rubbed her back, and he might have...said things. Needy things along the lines of You were fucking amazing and Thank you and I can’t believe someone like you has time for someone like me. And when she’d drifted off to sleep, he hadn’t let go then, either. He’d held her and breathed her in, burying his face in her hair and pretending he’d never forget the apple scent of her shampoo or the way she curled a delicate foot around his leg. She was supposed to get up and go. And, if she didn’t, he was supposed to pick her up and carry her back to her own bed. He could have done it, too.
But he hadn’t.
He’d fallen asleep, still cuddling her, and now his entire team knew it. He never slept with his lovers. Sleeping was a private thing. It was one thing to strip down to his bare skin, and he’d never had a problem with serving up raw, gritty sex acts. Bluntly put, he had an expiration date. He wasn’t a long-term guy, and sleeping together was the kind of thing a woman did with her keeper man. He’d touched Laney everywhere, put his fingers inside her body. He’d kissed her, caressed her, licked her from head to foot. Those things didn’t bother him. The sleeping thing, however, was unnerving, and he felt out of control. Mission gone sideways, although not FUBAR. Just...uncharted waters. He grabbed a T-shirt while he thought that one over.
She ran her fingers through her hair, braiding it loosely. “You’ve got a thing.”
Busted. He couldn’t tell her the details, and that was just one more reason in the con column for having a relationship with a SEAL. He had to go, and he couldn’t tell her where, why or even for how long.
