by Julie Miller
Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t lady enough to impress General Craddock, that a major’s wife-to-be shouldn’t be so open about getting it on with the major. It probably wasn’t proper officer-club etiquette.
Maybe, like her father, he was already anxious to move on to someone new, someone less complicated, someone who created fewer waves in his life.
A firm knock on her door announced Ethan’s arrival.
Maybe she was going to get her answer soon enough.
J.C. put away her laptop, then finger-fluffed her hair as she hurried across the apartment to let him in.
“Don’t you ask who it is before you open the door?” Ethan filled the hallway outside, looking equally impressive in jeans and a faded red polo shirt as he had in his evening dress uniform.
“Good evening to you, too.”
Ethan marched past instead of greeting her. “At least get a peephole installed so you can see who’s on the other side.” He shifted the brown paper sack he carried into one arm and poked around her door, inspecting the thickness and design of the wood. “I could install one for you if your super won’t do it.”
J.C. pulled the door from his grip and closed it, twisting the knob and dead bolt to lock it. “The security around here is fine,” she argued gently, needing to believe it herself.
When she turned around, she discovered him still hovering close behind her. Was it her imagination, or did Ethan seem bigger when he was in protective mode like this? Must be her bare feet, she reasoned, that made him seem taller, broader. Tougher. “The outside doors are all locked at eleven,” she explained. “Besides, you can’t get in unless I leave your name with Norman or I go down to meet you.”
“There’s always a way to get in.” There was nothing ominous in his tone. But spoken so matter-of-factly, it spooked her just the same. Someone could get into her apartment if they were determined to.
Warding off a shiver of apprehension, J.C. fixed a smile on her face and moved on to a lighter topic. She pointed to the sack. “You don’t have to bring a present every time you come over.”
“Where do you want this?” He leaned down and let her glimpse a six-pack of chilled, long-neck beers. “I probably should have brought wine, but I didn’t know what went with a ‘falling out of the fridge’ menu. So I just brought something I like to drink.”
“Works for me.” It looked yummy, in fact, with beads of condensation gathering on the foreign label and hinting at the rich, tangy flavor of the golden liquid inside.
She ushered him into the tiny space that passed for a dining room and kitchen and pointed to the fridge. There was barely room for Ethan to slide by her between the sink and butcher block console that doubled her counter-space. Though they didn’t touch, her pulse revved at the suggestion of his body heat so close to hers. A whiff of his warm, freshly showered skin got her senses buzzing, her nipples tingling and her heart wishing he’d drop that sack, take her in his arms and lose control the way he had last night.
J.C. ignored her body’s urgent response and busied her hands opening a can of tomato sauce to add to the hamburger and mushroom mixture she’d already prepared. She wanted Ethan to make the first move tonight. She’d already put herself out there—proposing an affair. If making good on that request wasn’t the reason he was here tonight… She had a feeling it wasn’t too soon to start distancing herself from him. He was going to leave her—if not tonight, then sometime soon. And she would be damned if she would let another military man hurt her.
“Why don’t you open a couple for us and put the others away?” she suggested, pleased with the nonchalant tone she’d managed, in order to hide the antsy concerns inside her. “I’ve got water boiling on the stove—I hope spaghetti and salads are okay.”
“Sounds good to me. What can I do to help?”
She took the beer from his hand and replaced it with a long, crusty loaf of bread and a serrated knife. “You asked.”
Cooking and eating dinner turned out to be the most normal time they’d spent together. It was almost like a real first date, filled with questions and gentle teasing and self-conscious laughter. Almost. An underlying current of tension amplified every remotely sexual action—sucking a stray spaghetti noodle through pursed lips, biting down on the elongated tip of the garlic bread—reminding J.C. of the unique, intense, deeper knowledge of each other they shared.
For a short while, J.C. wondered if that had been Ethan’s purpose when he suggested they meet—that they simply didn’t know enough about each other to pull off the engagement charade. He shared a funny story about his brother, Travis, and told how his sister once worked undercover for the FBI. She talked about her mom and second husband and the goofy things her stepfather did to show how much he adored her mother.
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned your mom remarrying.” Ethan mopped a spot of sauce off his plate with a crust of bread and popped it into his mouth. “Did your father pass away?”
J.C.’s dinner turned into a lump at the bottom of her stomach. Damn. The easy camaraderie vanished and old walls tried to reassert themselves. She hadn’t been thinking. If she’d been watching herself, she could have steered the conversation on to a safer topic. But, since they were talking about family, it was a logical question to ask.
She blinked and looked down at her empty plate when she realized how long she’d been staring into those deep gray eyes. Picking at the label on her beer bottle, she tried to answer with the same, logical detachment. “No. But he really wasn’t much of a father—definitely not much of a husband to Mom. So when he left, it really wasn’t much of a loss.”
Ethan reached across table and stilled the nervous movement of her fingers. “I’m sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine what that would be like. The five of us were always so close. Dad was always there for us, especially after Mom died.”
What? Something didn’t compute. J.C. tugged her hand from his comforting grip. “I thought you said your dad was a retired general.”
“He is.”
A sigh huffed from deep in her chest. “Well, how was he there for you? Wasn’t he always traveling somewhere on assignment? Gone for long periods of time?”
“Yeah.” Ethan nodded, leaning back in his chair. “But we still knew he loved us. He called and wrote when he could. We spent a lot of time together—camping, fishing, hanging out—when he was home.”
His description of an all-American family didn’t jive with her conception of military relationships. “Didn’t you feel abandoned when he was gone?”
“Abandoned?” Ethan’s eyes narrowed and studied her, as if questioning where her curiosity was coming from. He shook his head. “It was his job.”
“But he must have missed so much of your lives growing up. You must have resented that.”
“It’s a way of life, J.C. Sure, there were things he missed. When Travis broke his arm, climbing the tree in our backyard to retrieve his kite. When my sister, Caitie, had her first asthma attack. My high-school graduation. And I know it killed him when Mom passed away in the hospital and he couldn’t get home in time to see her that last day.
“But then, I didn’t get home to say goodbye, either. Once she got sick, she just went so fast.” His eyes drifted shut and a look of pain washed over his face. “There have only been a few times in my life when I thought this job sucked. That day was one of them.”
“I’m sorry.” Ethan’s obvious pain overrode her own. “I didn’t mean to dredge up sad memories.”
She brushed her fingers across the back of his hand where it rested on the table. Instead of startling him, she was the one who jumped when he flipped his hand over and latched on to hers. His eyes popped open and he stared at their clasp of hands for several long, silent moments.
But with just as quick a motion, he snatched his hand away, as if he didn’t deserve—or didn’t want—her comfort. Or maybe it was just the fact he was talking about things he’d told her he would never share that made him in such a hu
rry to move on.
He picked up his beer and polished it off with one long swallow, then set it down with a decisive thump. “It wasn’t that Dad didn’t care. He was away, but he wasn’t skipping out on us. We were still his kids, his wife, his family. He was still our dad. He loved us. We loved him. Still do.”
“You’re lucky to have a family like that,” she stated quietly, meaning it.
It seemed impossible to reconcile Ethan’s loving description of growing up a military brat with her own childhood. She remembered bracing herself for her father’s return, while Ethan and his brother and sister had looked forward to their father’s arrival.
But were the McCormicks the exception to the quality of life with a military man in the family? Or was she?
The idea of continuing to press her point for research purposes or personal enlightenment seemed cruel. He’d opened up a crack in his emotional armor, and he needed some time to let the newly exposed scar heal. She could use a little regrouping time herself.
J.C. would willingly listen to him talk about his mother and family and guilt and loss for as long as he needed. But she suspected the time for sharing had ended. Granting him his moody silence, she got up and carried their plates to the sink.
She had the dishes loaded in the dishwasher, and hot water running in the sink for the spaghetti pot when she heard his chair scrape across the tile floor. She felt the heat of him behind her before she heard another sound.
“Sorry.” He opened the cabinet beside her hip and dropped their empty bottles into the recycling bin she’d shown him earlier. “Mom always told us that if you didn’t cook the meal, you had to help clean up.” With his big hand, he palmed her hip and scooted her a step to the right to open the matching cabinet door to dump the crumbs from the bread basket into the trash.
J.C. caught her breath at the burst of kinetic energy that radiated through her from that simple, familiar touch. He was emptying the garbage; she was elbow-deep in soap suds, for gosh sakes! It was hardly the time or setting to justify her body’s instinctive tightening and sudden craving for more of his touch.
“I didn’t mean to leave you doing all the work,” he apologized, closing the door and then scooting her back to her original place. As he spoke, his breath caressed her nape and her nipples puckered. “This goes up here, right?”
She could only nod as he reached over her head to hang the basket from the decorative iron rack she’d mounted above the sink.
“That’s okay. You needed some downtime.” Was that voice with the husky crackle in it really hers? He was standing right behind her, with more imagination than air separating them. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed a hungry thought about him moving even closer, trapping her against the counter, pressing that marvelous manhood of his against her rump.
“What else can I do to help?” he asked, his voice at a potent pitch beside her ear.
J.C.’s eyes popped open. What was wrong with her? She should be thinking comfort and compassion. Patience. Not sex. Not now. She gripped the rim of the sink and held on, keeping herself from leaning back into his groin and chest.
“How about opening another couple of beers?” she suggested. Yes. Icy cold from the fridge. Cold would be nice.
She expelled a pent-up sigh when he moved away from her, and turned her thoughts to the mundane task of rinsing the pot and setting it on the drying tray. Then she unplugged the stopper and drained the sink.
“Here you go.” Ethan twisted the top off one of the beers and held it out to her. “I know for a lot of people, German beer is an acquired taste. I’m glad you like it.”
“I don’t know if I could ever get into drinking it warm the way you said they did over there.” J.C. shook the excess water from her hands, then blotted them on her jeans. She turned to take the bottle. “But I do like the taste. Thanks.”
Her damp fingers closed around the slick bottle. Traction just wasn’t going to happen. The base of the bottle slipped through her grip. She snatched at the neck with the other hand, but couldn’t connect. But Ethan’s quick reflexes saved the day. His hand darted out to catch the bottom of the bottle, averting the certain disaster of glass hitting ceramic tile.
But gravity and reflexes and the laws of physics had a funny way of combining to change a mood from polite and somber to shamelessly sexy.
The beer splashed up out of the bottle and soaked the left half of J.C.’s T-shirt.
“Yeesh!” She gasped, jumping back from the frigid slosh of dark gold liquid. But it was too late. The soft pink cotton was plastered to her skin, outlining each floret of lace on the cup of her bra, and the puckered aureole and straining tip beneath.
“Oh, man, another smooth move. I’m sorry.” He set both beers on the counter and grabbed the dish towel. The hops-rich scent of fine German beer radiated off her skin and filled the tiny kitchen. She reached to take the towel from his hand, but he’d stopped halfway. The towel dangled from his fist. J.C. tried to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Her verbal appeal died in the heat of his transfixed stare. “No, I’m not.”
Something hot and urgent rippled through J.C., as if he’d touched her with his hand. She wanted to step back, turn away, find her own towel to cover herself. But that wet breast stood up like a prideful thing, basking in the admiration of his hungry gaze.
“Ethan.” It was a token protest. It was a plea for the inevitable.
“I love that beer.” Her blood thickened like a warm, rich brew in her veins at the seductive pitch of his voice. “I hate to waste it.”
She watched him watch the rise and fall that breast as she gulped in deep, steadying breaths. He watched long enough for her to feel nearly every cell clenching against the cold compress of cloth. Nerves sparked, muscles constricted, things beaded and thrust out beneath the erotic contrast of icy liquid and raw, fiery desire.
“Thirteen more nights of mind-blowing sex, right?” he asked, rethinking her offer from last night out loud.
He seemed tortured. Tempted. Wanting one thing, but struggling to do another.
“I don’t know, Ethan. Maybe we shouldn’t.” She gripped the counter behind her and fought through her own wanton desires to remember the counselor in her. “You were upset. My questions didn’t help. You need comforting. I should be giving you a hug or recommending a colleague you could…talk to.”
Those gray eyes shifted up to hers and J.C. knew she was lost. “There’s more than one way a man finds comfort.”
He picked up his beer and poured it over the other breast.
“ETHAN!”
Hearing his name on those lips in that breathless, about-to-lose-control voice had to be one of the greatest turn-on’s of his life.
Ethan skipped the towel and bent his head to lick the liquid caught between her straining breasts. When she instinctively pulled away from the shocking contact, he grabbed her hips and pulled her into his rising heat. Her fists thudded against his shoulders, the last vestige of common sense before the passion consumed them both.
“Oh, Ethan, yes…” He felt her lips in his hair. She clutched up handfuls of his shirt and dug her fingers into the skin and muscle underneath. “…I want this, too.”
Reeling with guilt-ridden memories and painful regrets, filled with the need to connect with J.C.’s bold heart and caring soul and thus reclaim a little of his own, Ethan forged ahead, taking what he wanted, asking for what he needed—receiving so much more.
“Oh, Jo.” He nuzzled the swell of one breast. “You’re so beautiful.” He sucked beer from the drenched cotton. “So damn beautiful.” He shoved his thigh between her legs, backing her into the sink. The momentum arched her neck back. Her breasts tilted up and Ethan took advantage of the opportunity. “I want everything you can give me.”
He closed his mouth over one straining nipple, and J.C. cried out. It was music to his ears. Her hips twisted against his swollen dick and he groaned at the raw pleasure of it.
He slipped his hands beneath the back
of her shirt and palmed smooth, feverish skin. It wasn’t enough. He swept her shirt off over her head and returned his attentions to the bra-covered breast. He slipped his tongue inside the lacy cup and laved the pebbled tip, relishing her squirming response against his groin. The cloth was cold, but the woman inside was hot to the touch. He found a puddle of beer at the round, heavy base and lapped it up, but the flavor of the dark, rich liquid paled beneath the taste of J.C.’s skin.
He knew a moment of panic, of paradise lost, when she slipped her thumbs in between his lips and urged him away from her breast. “Ethan.” Her ragged breath tangled with his own. “Wait.”
“Honey…” he begged, lifting his head to tease her lips. She pushed against his chest and stretched her arm out behind her. Pulling away?
He was tightening his hold, pulling her back. “No. Don’t. J.C., please.”
The tension of her body relaxed an instant before a cascade of bracing, pungent liquid doused his shoulders and back. “What? Damn.”
The cold shock jerked him to attention, and the mood was lost in a moment of confusion.
But J.C.’s wicked laughter brought him back to the time and place and woman in his arms. Those gorgeous lips smiled and he knew it was all right.
“I believe in fair play, mister.” She softened the teasing with a sweep of her hands across his jaw and a lush, quick kiss against his mouth. Then he raised his arms and helped her peel off his soaking shirt. “Oh, yeah. Much better.”
Then she was back in his arms. Skin to skin. Chest to chest. He raked his fingers into her hair angled her mouth beneath his. He kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed.
She explored his body with eager hands, flicking a nipple between her fingers, squeezing a pec, planing her palms along his spine. Each touch was a sweet torture that drew him beyond the limits of his control.
