The Colonel's Daughter

by Amy Andrews

  Ah. That explained the coloring.

  “He died in a car accident when I was a baby. My mother was a dancer. We were based in Lisbon but we moved around a lot with her work. When she died I moved to France and lived with my grandmother, my mother’s mother, until I was ten. She was of Romani descent so it was a very transient lifestyle.”

  “Your grandmother was a gypsy?”

  “I know.” He grimaced. “It’s not really what most people expect when they hear my accent.”

  “Au contraire,” she murmured. Hadn’t she already thought of him as a gypsy? She could just imagine him in black pants and flowing white shirt dancing around a fire with a raven-haired beauty.

  She suddenly felt a whiter shade of pale.

  “She died from a heart attack and I was sent to live with my English grandmother, my father’s mother. She was a nice lady but she was well past looking after a wild young lad so she sent me off to a very posh boy’s boarding school when I was eleven.”

  Ivy gasped. “How could she do that?” She sat forward, placing her mug on the table.

  “It’s okay.” He brushed away her concern with a wave of his hand. “She did what she thought was in my best interests and it was a really good call.”

  “But you were so…”

  Little.

  She wanted to say little but Ivy doubted Dean had ever been small. Still, her heart bled for that little boy being pushed from pillar to post amid so much grief. She blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes.

  “So young. And you’d lost so much.”

  He shrugged. “I was resilient.”

  “But…it must have been tough.”

  “It was a steep learning curve.”

  Ivy willed the stubborn tears away. It was stupid to get upset about something that obviously hadn’t scarred him. “It doesn’t look like it affected you too badly.”

  “It took me a while to settle in but I really thrived there. I found out I was actually smart and even though some things sucked, I kinda liked their rules and routines.”

  Ivy didn’t doubt it. Who wouldn’t crave routine and stability after the complete transience of his life? It was just so sad that Dean had to find it through an institution rather than family.

  He grabbed his coffee and took a sip, staring into his mug, the curly ends of his hair brushing his ears and nape.

  “It was probably the first time I’d had any kind of steady male influences in my life and I think my grandmother knew, innately, that I needed that. I actually dreaded going home for the holidays. I was fifteen when she died and I know it’s an awful thing to say but I was actually kind of relieved.” He glanced at her. “Pretty fucked up, huh?”

  “No.” Ivy shook her head. “It’s not like she’d showered you with love and nurturing.” Why should Dean feel anything else for a woman he barely knew? “What happened to you after she died?”

  “Well there was nobody else,” he said, sinking back against the couch pillows. “She’d seen that my fees were fully paid up for the duration of my schooling before she died, so I boarded all year round. There were a few of us that did that.”

  A hard lump lodged in Ivy’s chest as tears threatened again. She picked up her mug to hide her emotion. “But what about…Christmas? And your birthday? School holidays.”

  “We were looked after. Sometimes I went home with friends. A couple of us spent one Christmas with the headmaster and his family. But mostly I kept busy. I got a holiday job at the school helping in the grounds so there was plenty to do.”

  “And when you got out you joined the Marines.”

  “Yes.”

  So he went from one institution to the other looking for a place to belong. For brotherhood. Something that should have come from family. No wonder he’d thrived in the tight-knit environment of the military.

  The thought that Dean hadn’t known the kind of love and nurturing that should be every kid’s due kicked Ivy hard in the chest. Dean, who’d been kind and honorable and protective of her. Who’d scared Jamie away and dragged her down when she was being shot at and kicked in the door to the bathroom when he’d thought she was in danger.

  And painted her toenails.

  More moisture pooled in her eyes. Too much to easily blink away.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking down into her drink, her voice thick, grateful that her hair had fallen forward to obscure her face while she tried to pull herself together.

  There was silence for a few beats until his soft “Ivy?” pushed into the space between them.

  It may have only been one word but she knew he was asking her what was up. She shook her head, trying to shake the tears away. “I’m fine,” she assured, trying to swallow around the lump that had now moved to her throat. A tear finally escaped and trekked down her cheek.

  She sensed him leaning forward again and then he was peering around the curtain of her hair, looking her straight in the eyes.

  Her very wet eyes.

  “Ivy…” It came out a touch above a whisper but there was no censure in it. Just sympathy.

  “I’m fine,” she assured again, her cheeks heating at being exposed, at being so…stupidly emotional. She wiped away the tears that had fallen.

  “It’s okay, you know. I’m a tough guy. I’ve had a good life.”

  “I know.” She nodded, her voice catching at his matter-of-fact summation. Despite losing every significant other in his life, he wasn’t sitting around bemoaning the shitty hand he’d been dealt. It was just her being her usual overly sensitive self.

  But didn’t it suck to have to be the tough guy all the time?

  “Ignore me. I’m just being emotional. As usual. My stupid EQ is apparently off the charts.” She flapped her hand in front of her face, desperately trying to cool it. “The teachers at school used to say, Ivy’s too sensitive. I think the Colonel just put it down to some psychological response to what had happened with Mum. For a long time I wanted to be a vet but I couldn’t bear the thought of having to put animals down.”

  Bloody hell. Now she was babbling. Shut up.

  He edged a little closer to her. “There’s nothing wrong with being sensitive,” he murmured. “The world could do with a shitload more of it, if you ask me.”

  Ivy half laughed and then to her horror two more tears squeezed out. “You should really stop being nice to me or I may never stop.”

  “I can do that,” he replied.

  Ivy laughed again at his haste to agree but it ended in a choked sob. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, his palms ironing the denim covering his thighs back and forth.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “All I can think about is you as this little boy with dark curls and big brown eyes walking into that school with your mother and your grandmother gone and your other one sending you away…”

  He didn’t seem to know what to say to that, his fingers drumming on his thighs now. “It’s fine,” he assured again. “I’m fine. I really don’t need your pity, Ivy.”

  She blinked as his choice of words stung. Looked like he was taking her not-being-nice suggestion seriously. “I don’t…pity you.” She frowned. “I just feel sad. I want to…go back in time and give that little boy a hug. Maybe bring him home to live with us. I always wanted a brother.”

  Although God alone knew she did not have brotherly feelings for him at all.

  He looked just as horrified at the prospect. The thought only seemed to hurt more and another tear slid down her cheek.

  “Ivy.” His voice held a desperate note as his gaze followed the path of the tear. He was looking at her like she was a ticking time bomb. Like she was going to melt down right in front of him.

  She dashed it quickly away. “They’re just tears, Dean. Don’t worry. They’re not contagious.”

  “I’m sorry.” He grimaced, holding up his hands up in surrender. “I’m really not good with tears.”

  Ivy wasn’t surprised. Neither the Marines nor all-boys schools were k
nown for their open expressions of emotion.

  “It’s not hard, Dean. Most people usually just hug someone who’s crying.”

  Dean looked like she’d suggested he break into a chorus of Happy. If she hadn’t felt so sad she might have actually laughed.

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry.” She reached over and patted his knee. “I wouldn’t expect one from you.”

  Depressed, she needed a moment or two to pull herself together without making either of them any more uncomfortable than they already were.

  Ivy stood. “I need the bathroom.”

  She brushed past him desperate to get away from him but he caught her hand, halting her. “Ivy.”

  She drew in a steady breath and looked down at him. Big mistake. His raw masculinity sucker-punched her. Tension radiated from every muscle as he obviously grappled with the situation. His thumb slowly stroked over her knuckles. She didn’t know whether he was doing it deliberately or unknowingly but it felt good, like he was reaching right inside her and stroking all her good places.

  “I really am okay,” he murmured.

  It was more than Ivy could stand. Of course he was okay. She had no doubt Dean would always soldier on, always come out on top.

  Dean Bennet was always going to be okay.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t grieve for all that he’d lost. That there wasn’t a wounded kid in there somewhere who needed a hug just as much as she did.

  Screw it. He was getting one whether he wanted it or not.

  Without asking permission, Ivy walked between his legs, sliding one leg over his thigh until her bent knee was resting on the couch.

  He looked alarmed as he sat a little straighter. “Ivy?” There was a definite note of warning in his voice.

  She ignored it, repeating the motion with her other leg until she was essentially straddling him. Then she settled herself into his lap, pushed her hair back, slid her hands onto his stiff shoulders, and pulled him forward. His head came to rest against her chest and neck and Ivy circled her arms around his back, reveling in the width of him.

  She rested her cheek against the top of his head, shutting her eyes, pouring all her empathy into the embrace, soothing the emotions that had clogged her throat. She could smell the shampoo in his hair. The steady pound of his heart echoed her own.

  There was silence for a beat or two and Ivy basked in it.

  “Ahh…Ivy?”

  His voice was muffled and, if she wasn’t very much mistaken, a little strangled. God alone knew what he was doing with his hands because they certainly weren’t touching her. She could picture him in her mind’s eye sitting stock-still, her clinging to him like…well, ivy, his hands held up and out, way the hell away from any chance of contact with her.

  The thought almost made her smile.

  “Ivy.” He braced his shoulders against her arms a little but she held on tight.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” she whispered, running her hands up and down the broad expanse of his back like a mother might do to soothe a child. “It’s just a hug. I need it even if you don’t.”

  Some of the tension left his shoulders, but his frame remained erect. She sighed after a while when it became apparent that Dean wasn’t going to go all cuddly on her. She removed her arms from around his shoulders and put him out of his misery.

  “See?” She smiled, looking down at him as she sat back a little. His hands actually were hovering in the air off to his sides, just above the surface of the couch like he didn’t know what to do with them.

  “Not too hard, right?”

  His eyes widened a little before he cleared his throat and placed his hands on the couch. “Err…no,” he said glancing away.

  Great. Now he couldn’t even look at her. Awkward, much? But what had she expected when she’d impulsively climbed into his lap? Was it the hug that had embarrassed him the most or what she’d said? About it being hard?

  He shifted uncomfortably beneath her and Ivy’s gaze fell to his lap as she gathered herself to climb off again. It was then she realized what had made him so uncomfortable about her choice of words. A thick, hard bulge pushed the confines of his zipper to its limits.

  A rock-hard bulge.

  Ivy sucked in a breath as her pulse skipped a beat. He had an erection. For her? Pressing herself against him had made him hard…

  Her pulse spiked. It was probably just a normal male physiological reaction to being in this positon with any woman, right?

  But what if it wasn’t?

  She looked at the tense set to his jaw. “Dean?”

  His gaze locked with hers. “Hugging time’s over now, Ivy. Time to get up.”

  The problem was she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay right where she was and see what would happen if she rubbed herself against him a little. His mouth was temptingly close and her fingers ached to feel the glide of his hair.

  She lifted her hand and pushed an unruly lock away from his brow. “Ivy,” he murmured as he moved his head away from her touch.

  But it wasn’t an abrupt withdrawal like her touch repulsed him, in fact she was sure she could hear a huskiness strain his normally smooth alto. And if there’d been no erection, she’d have gotten off his lap and chalked the whole thing up to experience, but there was.

  Still.

  Big and hard between them.

  Did he really want her to move? All he had to do was stand up and the connection would be broken. She’d be on her ass on the floor and he’d be free of her unwelcome actions.

  Her gaze zeroed in on his mouth and her heartbeat swelled like a symphony in her chest as she reached for him again, her index finger touching his top lip, trailing along its contours, her breath thick as honey in her lungs.

  His eyes closed. “Ivy…” It was a groan this time, his accent rich and smooth around the edges.

  And it was all the invitation she needed. She’d had a crush on the man from afar for almost three months and he was right here in front of her, his cock hard, his eyes closed in what looked a lot like capitulation.

  Or at least temptation.

  Ivy dropped her finger, then closed the distance between their mouths, pressing her lips to his like she had that first time, not game to move or do anything fancy to spook him. It was enough in this moment just to feel the heat of his mouth on hers.

  Her belly pulled tight, her breasts and thighs flooded with a thick surge of lust. Her breathing sounded loud in her ears and things were spinning crazily inside her head. She grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, fisting the fabric tight as she shimmied a little closer, centering herself as she dared to ask his mouth for more.

  Her tongue tentatively touched his top lip, retracing the path of her finger. His groan set her on fire and his “Goddamn it” muttered against her mouth as he opened his lips to her was like throwing fuel on the flames.

  Ivy almost sobbed as his tongue stroked against hers and when he thrust it into her mouth she wriggled closer again, her breasts settling against his chest, the juncture of her thighs in delicious contact with the hard metallic bulge of his zipper.

  She untangled her hands from his shirt and arrowed them into his hair as he deepened the kiss, drowning in the mastery of it and the maddening thrust and swipe of his tongue. His hands still hadn’t touched her, but that was okay. She was having a hard enough time dealing with the havoc of his mouth. She wasn’t sure she could cope with more.

  “God,” she panted between his deep, drugging, frontal assaults of her mouth. “I think I’m going to explode.” Every part of her was ticking like a bomb, primed to go off.

  But breaking the kiss was a huge mistake. Dean wrenched his mouth away, sucking in air, dazed and blinking at the sudden intrusion into a world where their mouths had been speaking an entirely different language. His confusion cleared to be replaced with a look that told her he must have taken temporary leave of his senses.

  Note to self. Do not talk during the kissing.

  His low groan was
husky, his breathing still hard as he pressed his forehead to her collar bone. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  He lifted his hands off the lounge finally, settling them on her hips, urging her back from ground zero.

  But Ivy was damned if she was going to be so easily turned away. If she hadn’t been sure before, she knew now—Dean Bennet wanted her. And she wanted him, too. No way was she backing away from this.

  Not if she could persuade him to let go and give them what they both wanted. Persuade him to be the one.

  And besides, she’d been too preoccupied with the kissing to even think about how good it would feel to rub herself against him. She burned between her legs and she just knew that bulge was the salve she needed.

  She wasn’t quitting before she got a little of that action.

  “Yes we should,” she whispered, swooping down to kiss him again.

  He turned his face at the last moment, her lips landing on his cheek. But if he thought that was going to put her off, he was dead wrong. She brushed her mouth along the line of his jaw to the tempting flesh of his earlobe, licking it, tugging on it gently with her teeth.

  “God…Ivy…I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

  She couldn’t give a single fuck about the right thing at this precise moment. They were adults and screw the circumstances. She wanted this and she could tell by the tremble in his thighs beneath her and the ache in his voice that he wanted it, too.

  But maybe she could ease his honor if she let him off the hook.

  “Its fine,” she whispered in his ear, nuzzling her way up to his temple. “You don’t have to do anything.” She pushed on his shoulders and he fell back against the couch, his hands falling to his sides again. His heated gaze was fixed on her mouth and Ivy’s insides crumbled.

  “I’ll do everything,” she assured in a low murmur, pressing forward, her chest aligning with his, her lips touching his throat, finding the thick thud of his pulse with her tongue. “Then you haven’t crossed any lines,” she continued as she feathered kisses up his neck, “it’s all me. All you have to do is just”—she buzzed a butterfly kiss on the side of his mouth—“sit there and let me explore okay? Let me do the touching.”