Falling for the Enemy

by Samanthe Beck

  After “cow-seal thingie” he doubted her ability to relay the simplest message. He got into the Jeep and made a mental note to call his father tomorrow.

  No wonder you’re a fucking idiot. It’s in your blood. Of course, with wife number three Tom had plainly sunk to a new low on the fucking idiot scale. He thought of Brandi and shook his head. To hell with blood. He was breaking the cycle, and swore a silent oath never to let his dick take charge of his life the way Tom always had. But as he drove past the closed salon, a certain pissed-off redhead filled his mind, and his dick refused to honor the oath.

  He drove to the cabin, dug a brush and a can of leftover white trim paint out of the storage shed, and headed back to the salon. As he layered a couple coats of white over the crude spray-paint, he tried to talk some sense into his insubordinate body parts.

  Give it a rest. She doesn’t want anything to do with you now that she knows who you are, and the last thing you need is to get tangled up with your family’s most outspoken opponent.

  The wall was an easy fix. Him? Not so much. He loaded the supplies into the back of the Jeep, loaded himself into the front, and started the engine. Sleep was a thousand miles away and a drive sounded better than sitting alone in a dark house. The doctor he’d seen before leaving the Navy had assured him time, distance, and immersion into civilian life would eventually ease the sleep problems, and recommended medication and therapy to help bridge the journey. She’d called the insomnia and nightmares part of a transition cycle. Shaun called it yet another reason to listen to his inner voice.

  Six a.m. the next morning, riding on fumes, Shaun made a left turn into the driveway behind the Gas ’n Go and slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a blur of blue and white cutting across the alley. The blur stopped in front of his bumper, turned to him, and their eyes locked.

  Sweet Virginia, out for a morning run. Sweaty, out-of-breath, wide-eyed Virginia, looking like she didn’t know whether to give him a piece of her mind or pretend he didn’t exist. Their final exchange last night after the deputies had left replayed in his memory.

  You deliberately didn’t give me your last name because you knew I wouldn’t have touched you if I’d known who you were.

  Sweetheart, you’re fooling yourself if you really believe knowing my name would have changed any aspect of last night.

  It changes everything moving forward. There will be no repeats. In fact, it would be best for both of us if we never set eyes on each other again.

  The rational, risk-mitigating part of him agreed, because every time he saw her, he wanted her, on a primitive, bone-deep level. Unfortunately, this morning already proved avoiding anyone in a town the size of Bluelick was damn near impossible…even for a man trained to disappear.

  Do not engage.

  He kicked the e-brake, turned off the engine, and stepped out of the Jeep. She stood there like a deer in headlights.

  Body on autopilot, attention glued to her—because he felt certain she’d vanish if he so much as blinked—he closed the distance between them. When he was close enough to see the black striations in her stunning green eyes, he said, “What are you thinking, cutting through an alley at dawn?”

  “I was thinking, for once, I might manage to cross a street without getting run down by a Buchanan. What kind of maniac drives into an alley like a bat out of hell?”

  She was trying to sound pissed, and she didn’t lay a finger on him, which, for her, he’d already pieced together, definitely signified temper, but her eyes kept straying from his to wander down his body, and each time they came back she was breathing a little bit harder.

  Apparently that was all the encouragement he needed. The controlled, disciplined side of him surrendered and the reckless side took control. He wrapped his fingers around her bare biceps and tugged her around the side of the gas station. The restroom door hung open. He shoved her inside, followed, and locked the door behind him. The smell of pine cleaner and liquid soap competed with the scent of her overheated skin. When he turned around, her lips were wet and parted, her sweet little nipples straining against the form-fitting fabric of her workout top, and her eyes shooting fire.

  “Shaun Buchanan, you are so close to getting your face slapped. Do you honestly expect me to—?”

  Yeah, maybe he was delusional from lack of sleep, but he did. He slammed his mouth down on hers and hauled her up against him. The toes of her running shoes scored the tile floor until he got his hands under her ass and lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist, fisted her hands in the front of his shirt and sucked his tongue into her mouth, which sent a rush of blood straight to his already swollen cock.

  He broke away long enough to make sure they were in agreement, because he might persuade by any means necessary, but he’d never force. “I’m full of expectations. I expect you to let me peel those thin, tight, and very damp shorts down your legs. I expect you to give my mouth and tongue and hands free reign until you’re biting your lip to keep from begging for more. And when I give you more, I expect you to scream my name in gratitude. If you feel the need to slap my face before, during or afterwards, go right ahead.”

  “Oh, God. Okay.” She tightened her legs around his hips and rocked against him. “One last time…”

  He murmured an agreement, even as he devoured her mouth, even as a part of him acknowledged the lie. Her taste, her scent, the weight of her wrapped around him, grounded him in some way he couldn’t understand or articulate, but he knew one last time wouldn’t be enough.

  “Hurry,” she panted when they broke for air.

  He almost laughed, because taking things slow wasn’t an option. A condom machine hung on the wall. He braced her beside it, and kept right on feasting on her mouth while he felt around in his pocket for change, dumped the quarters in the slot, and…waited. Nothing.

  She stopped kissing him, turned, and blinked at the thieving metal rectangle, and then banged on the thing with the side of her fist. Still nothing.

  “Stop.” He caught her hand before she could bang it again. “Don’t hurt yourself. I’ve got a key.” He let her go and backed up a step—which was about all the space he had in the small restroom. Shifting his weight to his left leg, he swung his right leg out, and landed a power angle kick to the side of the machine. The flimsy lock popped, the metal door opened and a couple condoms fell into his waiting hand. He glanced over at her.

  She had her hand flattened between her breasts and stared at the mangled machine. Then her gaze shifted to him. “Is there anything you can’t get into or out of?”

  He considered the words an invitation, and spun her around to face the door. Her squeak of surprise only spurred him on. “You tell me,” he challenged, and tugged those snug, blue running shorts down just far enough to bare the extremely memorable ass beneath. She gasped, and then squirmed as he worked his hand between her thighs. A small cry came next when he strummed his fingers through the warm, soft, very wet valley and sank his teeth into one smooth, giving glute. Her palms flattened against the door and she rocked up onto her toes. He sealed his lips to her flesh and sucked the tender skin hard enough to leave a red mark. By the time he finished, the little cries had turned into a constant soundtrack, and the movement of her hips had become precise and determined as she worked herself against his fingers.

  She was already so close. He could practically smell the orgasm on her. Practically see the energy of it gathering in her bunched-up muscles. Determined to push her straight on over, he used his free hand to grasp one perfect handful of ass cheek, spreading them, and speared his tongue into the tight little crevice.

  “Oh my God!” She bucked, pumped furiously against his fingers, and then shuddered when he withdrew and proceeded to tease her with lightning-quick flicks. Her breath evened. The cries grew softer, and the muscles under his lips relaxed infinitesimally. He tightened his grip, which might have telegraphed his intention because she gasped, “Have mercy. Not again…”

  “Yes,
sweet Virginia, again.” He drove her up, up, up, until he had her dancing on the tip of his tongue, her lush clit pulsing against the pad of his finger. Then he circled one opening with his finger and the other with his tongue, and paused there, at the thresholds. She whimpered and froze. He waited a beat just to let what was about to happen sink in, to get a sense she understood he was going to storm her defenses from all sides. She pushed back ever so slightly—a small sign of impatience and need—and all the permission he required.

  He stormed. She screamed, banged the door once with her fist, and came with a long, low, grateful moan.

  Chapter Seven

  Slamming head-first into the orgasm—and possibly the restroom door—sent Ginny into a momentary coma. No sight. No sound. Just wave after wave of sensation crashing through her with a velocity she couldn’t possibly withstand.

  Luckily standing wasn’t an issue. Shaun lifted her and sat her down on the only available surface—the lip of the sink. Next thing she knew, the backs of her legs were flush with his body, the heels of her running shoes hitched on his shoulders, her fingers gripping the bull-nosed porcelain for stability while he tore open his fly and rolled on a condom.

  The situation turned her Lycra running shorts into a tight band tethering her thighs together. She tried to use one hand to tug the shorts down, but as soon as she let go of the sink she felt as if she’d capsize. “My shorts—”

  As an answer, he simply lifted her hips a notch higher, tipping her backward until her shoulders hit the wall behind her. Then he guided himself into her still quivering sex. She watched through sweat-blurred vision as he concentrated on the task, clearly enjoying the view even as he took pains to feed himself in slowly. It was she who became restless, and impatient, and desperate for more, but the position he had her in left her a passenger on this journey. Whatever she wanted, she’d have to ask for it.

  “Faster,” she said. “Harder,” and reinforced her hold on the sink.

  He stared at her, and then slowly smiled. “You know your options, sweet Virginia.”

  Correction. He expected her to beg for it…or…slap his face? Okay, there was a very real possibility she’d fall, but she crunched her abs, reached up and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and cracked her palm across his cheek. His head whipped to the side and he growled, “Jesus…”

  An apology sprang to her lips, but the brutality of the need he’d generated had her biting it back and going on the defensive. “You told me to—”

  “I did.” He raised his head and looked at her. “I want your hands on me. I want the honesty of your touch—gently, urgently, harshly, if that’s what you’re feeling—but if you do that again, I’m going to come where I stand.”

  Then he groaned and let his head fall back, and all she could do was cling to the edge of the sink while he gave her exactly what she asked for. Thrusting, withdrawing, and thrusting again in thrilling succession, using the angle of their bodies to ensure he hit all the right spots along the way. The room spun behind her closed eyelids. A heady mix of pheromones, body heat and sex stormed her senses. With frightening speed, he had her trembling at the brink again, panting and shivering and striving for relief from the pressure building inside her. Her pulse pounded, setting off a surprisingly loud echo in her ears.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when Shaun called out, “It’s occupied.”

  Holy crap, the pounding in her ears wasn’t her pulse. Somebody was knocking on the restroom door. A voice from the other side said, “Hurry up in there buddy. I gotta get back on the road.”

  Shaun didn’t bother with a reply, but drove into her with renewed energy, dragging her agonizingly closer to the edge of control. Her body clenched around him in a fruitless effort to cling to the moment—to a semblance of sanity—but he thrust again and sent sanity hurtling out of reach. The pressure tightened, pulsed there for one heartbeat…two…she whimpered in the face of what waited for her, and a big, calloused hand gently covered her mouth to suppress the noise.

  He withdrew and rocked forward again, then froze. His eyes drifted closed, and a groan rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest.

  The pounding on the door came again. “What the hell, man?”

  “I’m…not…done yet,” he growled, and unleashed a series of quick, jerky thrusts. The sink rattled on its pedestal. Between her legs, the clenching became spasms. Shaun cursed, and then groaned again, a low, long sound vibrating with relief. Hard as she tried to hold it back, her own jagged moan escaped, merging with his, outlasting it, until the high-pitched cry reverberated in the tiny room and slowly subsided.

  The voice came again from the other side of the door. “Forget it. I don’t know whether you ought to burn a candle when you’re done, or set fire to the place, but I know I’m not going in. See a doctor, or something.”

  Brown eyes opened and stared into hers, and she detected a gleam of humor in their depths. She returned his stare while footsteps retreated across pavement. After a moment, a vehicle door slammed and a big engine rumbled to life. Picturing some disgusted trucker opting for a nice, private outcropping of limestone along the Double A over what he imagined awaited him at the Gas ’n Go had her laughing on her inhale. The result was an inelegant snort.

  He grinned down at her. “Admit it, I provide a refreshing break from rose petals and satin sheets.”

  Now she burst out laughing. A full-on, from-the-stomach laugh she couldn’t have held back if her life depended on it, because damn, they’d just done it in a gas station restroom like a couple of horny teenagers. It took her a moment to stop laughing, but when she did, she smiled up at him and said, “Sugar, I’m not, and never have been, the rose petals and satin sheet type.”

  His expression sobered. “You are.” He slipped his hand between their still-joined bodies and cupped her, massaging her gently as he slowly withdrew. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. “You were born for candlelight dinners and dancing barefoot under the stars.” He slid out of her and she could have moaned from the loss, but his fingers were there, easing the emptiness, replacing it with warmth, while his thumb brushed the over-stimulated knot of nerves clamoring for yet more attention. “You deserve all those things, and I wish I was the man who could give them to you, but we both know I’m not. All I can give you is this—”

  And he gave. And she took, knowing full well this was his way of asking if it could be enough, for as long as it lasted. Every bit of common sense in her head warned against getting into something so risky. This has absolutely, positively got to be the last time.

  But as warmth turned to heat and the heat rolled through her, her heart sighed, maybe.

  …

  “Why are you so fidgety?”

  LouAnn Doubletree’s question pulled Ginny’s head out of the clouds. “I’m not,” she said to her booth-mate, and then, dang it, fidgeted.

  “Oh, no. You’re not fidgety, and my nickname’s not Double D.” LouAnn squeezed her arms together, plumping the nickname-inspiring double D’s to eye-popping proportions above the scoop neck of her purple pullover. Across the diner, a busboy dropped a tray loaded with dishes. Ginny gave LouAnn a hope you’re happy look—which the statuesque ash-blonde plainly was—and then focused on the two women in the booth opposite her.

  Ellie nodded her agreement, and pushed her breakfast plate to the side. “It’s true. You haven’t been still since we sat down. Hanging your campaign posters around town this morning energized me too, but you’re so antsy I’m about to write you a prescription for lisdexamfetamine. What’s wrong?”

  The weight of her friends’ scrutiny made her want to shift in her seat, but she realized what she was doing and stopped. “Nothing. It’s just…” Her fingers gravitated to a small tear in her napkin and proceeded to pull off a narrow strip of the flimsy paper.

  Melody reached across the table and stilled her hand. “Oh my God. Stop shredding your napkin and talk.”

  “All right. Fine.” She looked over her shoulder an
d scanned the half-empty diner. The Saturday brunch crowd hadn’t hit DeShay’s yet. Nobody was close enough to overhear. “It happened again.”

  Melody’s eyes widened. She gasped, “No way,” at the same time Ellie shook her head and said, “What happened again?”

  “You and Wolverine?”

  LouAnn leaned in. “Who’s Wolverine?”

  Ginny took a long sip of water rather than touch that question.

  “We don’t know,” Melody said. “The new guy. Dark hair. Dangerous eyes. You’ve seen him around town.”

  “Oh,” Ellie said. “You mean Shaun Buchanan?”

  Ginny nearly spit out her water. “How did you know who he was?”

  The brunette shrugged. “I remember him from elementary school.”

  “He looks completely different. How in God’s name could you possibly have recognized him?”

  “He resembles his mom, and she resembled my mom a little, which is no surprise because they were cousins. I guess the DNA tipped me off.”

  And there it was. Ellie’s mom had died in a car accident shortly after Ellie’s fourth birthday. Little Ellie, being scary-smart and missing her mama, had memorized the family tree and apparently imprinted the features of everyone in town who shared a branch or two.

  “Plus he contacted Tyler to get a roof quote. He’s fixing up a hunting cabin the family owns just outside of town.”

  “Time out,” Melody interjected. “Are we talking Shaun Buchanan, as in Tom Buchanan’s son?”

  Ginny closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Holy shit.”

  Holy shit, indeed. News had to be positively shocking to coax a swear word out of Melody Merritt, former Miss Bluelick, and poster child for southern manners.

  LouAnn rubbed her forehead. “I’m confused. What happened between you and Shaun Buchanan?”

  There was no getting out of this gracefully. And why bother? Melody was engaged to Josh, the man responsible for fueling the firefighter fantasies of every female in Bluelick old enough to play with matches. Ellie was engaged to Tyler Longfoot, a man who had sweet talked his way into the panties of scores of women between Bluelick and the state line—and you could identify them to this day by the satisfied smiles that split their faces when someone mentioned his name. LouAnn and Junior Tillman had been playing magnets for the better part of ten years—clicking together or pushing each other away, depending on how things lined up. None of the ladies were strangers to the power of amazing chemistry to make a normally level-headed woman behave like an idiot. Their houses boasted a bit too much glass for any of them to hurl stones at her.