Condoms, she thought suddenly, and looked around for her purse.
Jack emerged on deck holding a wine bottle. He’d taken off his uniform shirt, revealing a thin-ribbed sleeveless undershirt. A wife-beater, her brother Noah would call it, and even though Lauren scolded him over the term, it conjured images, dangerous, beautiful, male. Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire, Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, Channing Tatum in, well, anything. The intimacy of Jack’s undress—his broad, smooth, muscled shoulders, the dark tufts of hair under his arms—struck her like a blow. She opened her mouth to breathe.
He handed her a thick-stemmed wineglass. “Pinot grigio okay?”
She pulled herself together. “You’ve obviously never been to a graduate student party. It’s not box wine in a red plastic cup, but I can adjust.” She watched him pour. “None for you?”
“I’ll have a beer with dinner.”
Her brows twitched together. “On duty?”
He set the wine bottle beside her. “I like to keep a clear head in the kitchen.”
Maybe that was it, she thought as he returned to the galley. She wasn’t his therapist, required to read deeper significance into every word or gesture. She didn’t have to take care of him or fix him. He wasn’t drinking to relieve stress, he wasn’t drinking alone, he obviously was in excellent health, and his work clearly wasn’t suffering. So he didn’t have a drinking problem.
She smiled to herself. Control issues, maybe, but not a drinking problem.
The air was soft and humid, scented with salt and diesel. A warm breeze slid over her bare legs. Cautiously, she sipped the crisp white wine, settling back against the bench seat, more relaxed than she had felt in months. Years.
A year ago, a man like Jack, an Italian Catholic cop with his black-and-white view of the world and rigid self-discipline, would have been completely outside her experience. Outside her comfort zone. But now . . .
Lulled by the lap of the water and Jack’s presence a few feet away, her hypervigilance eased. As if her body recognized she was safe. If danger threatened, Jack could deal with it. She didn’t have to be the hero when he was around. Or a victim. She could just sit here and breathe. Be. Be herself.
Whoever she was anymore.
He came on deck, carrying two plates. “I figured we’d eat out here. Unless you want air-conditioning.”
“Out here is perfect,” she answered honestly.
She accepted a plate. After an attack, she usually didn’t have much appetite. Would Jack be offended if she shared part of her dinner with the cat?
Before she could ask, Jack set his food on the small table and picked a piece of fish from his plate. He approached the trap. The kitten flinched from his heavy footsteps and then stuck its skinny neck out, nose twitching, obviously drawn to the scent of food. Its pink mouth yawned in a silent mew.
Jack crouched, poking the fish through the cage. “Here you go, pal.”
The rough murmur of his voice stroked Lauren’s nerves inside and out. Creeping to the wire, the tabby began to bolt the food, shoulders hunched, eyes cocked for danger.
“That’s the way.” Jack stuck a finger through the wire, ruffling the fur on the kitten’s head.
Everything in Lauren melted and yearned, swamped in a wave of awareness. She was suddenly, excruciatingly conscious of Jack. The size of his hands, the long muscles of his thighs, the deeply tanned skin at the back of his neck.
He straightened and met her gaze. His eyes went dark.
Her blood drummed in her ears. Say something, she ordered herself. Anything.
Touch me. Pet me.
“How’s the fish?” he asked.
“Um.” Were they just going to ignore it, that moment of humming awareness? She swallowed and glanced at her plate. Flaky white fish. Green salad. A roll. “It looks delicious. Are you this good at everything?”
Dark laughter gleamed in his eyes. But all he said was, “Not much to cooking fish. A little butter, a little salt and pepper.”
She kept trying to figure him out, and he kept eluding her neat definitions. A Manly Man who was comfortable in the kitchen? “I don’t know a lot of guys who cook. Did you learn from your father?”
“Yeah. Pop always cooked Saturday night dinner. Pork chops. Pasta. Said it relaxed him.” Jack sat with his plate on his lap. “I was probably twelve or fourteen before I figured out he did it to give Ma a break.”
“That’s so nice.”
“Yeah.” This time, she noticed, he did not object to her choice of the word. “Only on Saturdays, though. The rest of the week, Ma ruled in the kitchen.”
Lauren dug into the fish. “My parents were the same. Very traditional gender roles.”
“That must have made it tough on your mom.”
“No, she loved fussing over Dad. That’s all she ever wanted.”
“Hard when he died, I mean.”
Yes. Her throat closed. She stared down blindly at her plate without answering.
“Who stepped into his role?” Jack asked. “You?”
Lauren swallowed. “Somebody had to take care of things.”
“You were a kid, though, right?”
“Nineteen.”
“So who took care of you?”
Nobody. She shook her head. “I don’t need anybody to take care of me.”
“Okay.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted out of habit. Out of instinct. Because that’s what she always said. That’s all she allowed herself to be.
He looked at her, his black eyes unreadable. “So why are you here?”
Her face, her whole body, flamed. She raised her chin and glared. “Because I want . . .”
You. I want you.
“Sex,” she said.
Eight
AROUSAL GRIPPED JACK’S balls like a fist. His blood beat low and thick.
Lauren raised her chin, simmering with nerves and determination. He warmed at the sight of her, the setting sun smoldering in her hair, her face flushed and damp. She was so hot. So bright with life. Embarrassed, maybe, and still wobbly after that panic attack, but she still had that essential spark he’d lost.
I want sex.
Hunger, savage and dark, surged inside him. His stomach muscles tensed. I can give you sex. On that bench, on the floor, bent over that table. He wanted to yank that little skirt up to her waist and find her creamy and ready for him. He wanted to sink inside her, to make her come and come and come until her eyes lost her questions, until all she could see was him.
He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Not him. He didn’t want her to see the real him, the angry, crazy man or the cool, controlled bastard. Until she saw what he wanted her to see, then. Somebody capable of giving her what she needed.
I want sex, she’d said.
But that wasn’t what she needed.
Who took care of you? he’d asked, and seen the answer dark in her eyes. Nobody.
He didn’t have her courage. He couldn’t put himself out there the way she did, spilling his guts and his goddamn feelings all the time. But he could be the guy who took care of her for now, who made her problems go away for a while. He could provide her with a refuge. Not simply his boat, not just dinner, but the sweaty, dark oblivion of sex.
As long as he stayed in control.
“You need to call the inn,” he said. “Let them know you won’t be home tonight.”
Her mouth jarred open as his meaning registered. He’d surprised her. Good. He surprised himself, how much he wanted her to stay.
She rallied swiftly, like the survivor she was. “I’m thirty-one years old,” she pointed out wryly. “Past the age for curfews. Or bed checks.”
“Right.” He took her almost-empty plate.
At least she’d eaten something, he saw with satisfaction. He’d done that much for h
er. Thoughts of other things he’d like to do for her, with her, to her, fired his brain, crackled through his body.
He set the plate down carefully, precisely, on the table.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. What did she see when she looked at him that way? “Want help with the dishes?”
She was teasing him. Did she guess how close he was to the edge of his control?
“The dishes can wait.” His voice was rough. “I can’t.”
She laughed a little breathlessly. “You do know that’s ridiculously flattering, right?”
“Honest,” he corrected. He could do honest. To a point. Detectives did it in interrogation all the time. Admit just enough of the truth to coax the response you needed.
He took her hands and drew her smoothly to her feet. Their bodies brushed, hips, belly, thighs. She was warm and solid against him. The tiny stud in her nose winked like an ember. She tilted her head back, her pupils dilating to take him in until he felt himself falling into her gaze. He kissed her in self-defense, closing her eyes, opening her lips. She tasted cool and crisp like the wine with a touch of hot, a hint of sweet, a bite of salt. She kicked all his senses alive. He kissed her again, deeper, wetter. Her hands came up, shaping his shoulders, her fingers imprinting his skin, and his whole body surged and lunged like a dog on a leash. His dick was like iron.
He raised his head. Control. “Let me show you the cabin.” Before I take you out here.
She blinked once, lashes sweeping those wide, dark eyes. “Okay.”
He could make it to the cabin. He could take her on a bed. He could be what she needed him to be.
He guided her with a hand at the small of her back, reluctant to lose hold of her completely. His thumb found the gap at the top of her waistband, and his hand tingled liked he’d stuck his finger into an electrical outlet. Her skin was moist and warm.
“Wow.” She turned slowly in the cramped space, her gaze traveling over the no-frills cabin as if she could catalog his character along with all his stuff. “So this is you, huh?”
“My place. Yeah.” He hoped like hell he didn’t sound as defensive as he felt.
He kept it clean. He’d made a few upgrades—a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a new microwave in the tiny U-shaped galley. But the Wreck was a fishing boat, not a yacht. Even the rosy light of the setting sun could not disguise the bench seats’ fading navy upholstery, the scorch mark on the countertop from his uncle Tony’s cigar. Seaworthy and comfortable, but not the place you brought a woman. He had steam cleaned the spilled beer from the carpet, but memories still saturated the air, his pop’s big laugh, his cousins playing poker around the table, his brother Paul puking in the head.
“I like it,” Lauren pronounced. “It’s very cozy.”
“Thanks.”
She went down a step into the galley, her bare feet quiet on the smooth floor. He followed after her, trying not to loom, to make her feel trapped or stalked. Although, hell, he was a cop. Using his size to intimidate was part of the job. And maybe he was a dick, but her awareness of him, of his size, of his closeness, was kind of a turn-on. Anyway, the boat didn’t leave him much space to maneuver.
She peered through the narrow stateroom door. His bed, with storage underneath, took up all the available floor space. He had just enough headroom to get dressed in the mornings if he stood in the middle close to the door.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “It’s all mattress.”
He came up behind her, settling his hands at her waist, his thumbs riding the curve of her ass. She gave a little sigh and relaxed against him by degrees, the steel slowly leaving her spine, all the tension in her muscles surrendering to him. It was unbelievably erotic, feeling her yield against him.
He rubbed his jaw against her hair. “You want to test it out?” He kissed her neck, his lips barely parted, all breath and moisture. See? Controlled. No pressure. “Try it on.”
“Try it on?” Her voice shook with laughter and nerves.
He grinned into her throat. “For size.”
* * *
JACK’S DEEP VOICE sank into Lauren, vibrating in her ear, sending ripples through her like echoes in a pond.
Test it out.
Try it on.
Try me on. For size.
She shivered deliciously, feeling him hard behind her, the slight abrasion of his jaw ruffling her senses, prickling all her nerves to attention. Waking all her numbed emotions, all her bruised and stunted feelings, to life. She tingled with an almost painful awareness, as if her whole body was coming awake with returning circulation.
She turned in his arms. They stood toe-to-toe, close enough that she could feel his arousal. She smiled up at him. “It’s awfully big.”
His gaze darkened at her teasing. “You can handle it.”
His roughened voice stroked over her. She could do this. He made her feel as if she could do anything. “Okay,” she whispered and reached for him.
His stomach muscles jumped under her touch. His big hands covered and caught hers, lifting them away. “Hey, easy, there.”
“You said I could handle it.”
His laugh was husky. “I’m not sure how much I can handle, sweetheart. It’s been a while.”
His admission filled her with an odd combination of tenderness and power. “I’ll be gentle.”
His eyes kindled with laughter and heat. “How about we try something different? Let somebody take care of you for a while.”
Her mouth opened on a quick breath, her lungs expanding in excitement and a terrible, yearning hope.
For most of her life, she’d been the responsible one. Giving up that role, even in bed . . . She exhaled. How would that work exactly? Letting it all go sounded tempting, sure, but there were too many things that had to be managed. Egos. Orgasms. Birth control.
“I’m not really the lie-back-and-relax type,” she confessed.
“Why don’t we try it and see?” Jack murmured and lowered his head.
In Lauren’s experience, the way a guy kissed said a lot about him. Her college pals were mostly friendly, enthusiastic, and slobbery as puppies. Her grad student hookups were perfunctory and distracted, already thinking ahead to the main event. The slackers mostly stabbed with their tongues, like they had to get inside you somehow and never mind if you were ready.
Jack kissed like . . . well, like a detective searching for answers, alert for reactions, following up the clues of her response. As if what she felt, how she felt, were pieces of a puzzle he could take apart and solve.
It made her feel funny to be kissed that way, warm, coaxing, tasting kisses that explored every sensitive surface, that exploited every nuance of response. Her stomach quivered. Or maybe that was her heart. She swayed against him, wanting, needing . . . more. More pressure. More kisses. His hands tightened at her waist, holding her close. Not nearly close enough. His thumbs skimmed lazily up and down, soothing and inciting at the same time. Up to tease the lower curve of her breast, down to dip beneath the waistband of her skirt. She held her breath in anticipation. Up and down. Up and . . . His thumb brushed metal, and his body twitched as if he’d been electrified.
“It’s okay,” she whispered reassuringly. “It doesn’t hurt.”
His fingertips dug in before he eased her away. Darn. Not the reaction she was hoping for.
His eyes narrowed intently as he stared down at her piercing: a small gold bar dangling a trio of gemstones like a shower of sparks.
She couldn’t read his face. Her heart sank a little. Too slutty? Too Goth? Too much? She moistened her lips. “It’s agate. To calm anxiety. And—”
“It’s hot.” He dropped to his haunches in front of her and pressed a kiss to the bare curve of her stomach, just beside the glitter of stones. The hot, wet suction of his mouth weakened her knees.
“And, um, blue topaz.
For protection.” She swallowed as he worked her skirt up her thighs. Her heart pounded in excitement. “And tourmaline for . . . uh, tourmaline . . .”
His hot breath gusted across her sex, covered only by a thin triangle of cotton. She squeezed her legs together, overcome with lust and embarrassment. Oh God. She couldn’t remember what tourmaline was for.
“Jack . . .”
He leaned forward, holding her close and still in his strong hands, and kissed her there with the same attention he’d given her mouth, licking, flicking, chasing her response. In minutes, she was gasping, shaking. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand. Her head rolled back and hit the wall.
He raised his head, his black eyes narrowed and gleaming, his mouth wet. “You okay?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God. “Fine,” she said weakly. She waggled her fingers. “Carry on, don’t mind me.”
He laughed, a vibration through her flesh, and went back to what he’d been doing. So good. She grabbed his shoulders, his muscles too hard and smooth for her fingers to find purchase. She clutched his hair. Too short. He slid his finger inside her and she cried out, her body jolting in pure, mindless pleasure.
Selfish pleasure.
She couldn’t just stand here and let Jack do all the work. She gripped his head, rubbing little circles, massaging his scalp, and he made a dark sound low in his throat and surged to his feet. Wrapping her in hard arms, he nudged her back on the bed and followed her down.
“Jack.” She twisted under him, her skirt scrunching around her hips. Too many clothes. She wriggled in frustration.
He levered off the bed in one smooth movement, stripping his shirt over his head, shucking his pants and underwear.
And he was just so . . . Whoa. Wow.
Jack in uniform, armed and dangerous, was enticing enough. Naked, he was all hot, honed strength. His chest was broad and deep, lightly dusted with dark hair, his torso solid with muscle.
He wasn’t like any man she’d been with before. No hint of adolescence, no sign of self-indulgence, nothing pale or soft or uncertain about him. She wondered what her friends back at school would think of him, this plain-spoken cop. What he would make of them. Would he find them, well, lacking in some way?
Carolina Blues Page 11
