She kissed him back, using her tongue, and his hands slid down her back to her butt. He pulled her tight against him, rough and aroused, tasting her, taking her with his mouth, and she trembled because he was so hot, hot and insistent, his touch searing. She was burning up, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She pulled away—Let’s not lose our heads—and instead of letting her go or lunging for her mouth, he wrapped his arms around her and held her, simply anchored her against his body and held on.
He was hard all over, his back, his hands, his erection pressing against her stomach, and immobile as a rock. A warm, living, breathing rock. Her personal statue. His heartbeat thudded in her chest. His breath stirred her hair.
She clung to him and felt . . . cherished. Safe.
Gradually, his heat seeped inside her. She was conscious of him in a way she’d never been aware of a man before, every breath, every twitch, every shiver communicating between their bodies, passing from him to her, awakening longings under her skin. She wanted him.
She wanted him to move. She wiggled against him, hoping he would get the message, and when he didn’t, she made a sound of frustration and yanked his shirt from his waistband in back, seeking skin. His back was hot and smooth and sleekly muscled. His chest expanded with his breath. He raised his head from her hair, exposing the strong, tanned column of his throat, and she pressed her lips to his rapidly beating pulse, tasting salt.
• • •
LUKE SHUDDERED UNDER Kate’s lips, under Kate’s hands. He felt amazing, all powerful and out of control at the same time, his blood pounding, his heart too big for his chest. She was soft and warm against him. Her hair, tickling his chin, smelled exotic and comforting, like Chinese spice and soap, and he wanted to grab her up and do her on the table or against the wall, but there was something different and painfully arousing about standing there as she worked his shirt up over his ribs, as she ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, exploring him with her touch.
He helped her, yanking his shirt up and over his head, his body hers to do . . . whatever she wanted. And she wanted him, he could feel it in the tremor of her body, see it in her darkened eyes. He swelled under her gaze, under her touch, his skin tight, his dick pulsing against the fly of his jeans.
She dipped her fingers just under his waistband, light and cool against his bare, hot skin, and stopped. “Do you want . . .”
“Yes.”
Her smile broke across her beautiful face. “To go into the bedroom?”
“Anywhere.” Anything. Anytime.
She moved out of his arms, toward the door. He followed, determined not to lose contact, one hand sliding from her shoulder to the small of her back. She reached back and gripped his hand, hard, and his body jolted as if she’d wrapped those small, strong fingers around his heart.
He wanted to see her naked. To be with her, skin to skin. As soon as they crossed the threshold to her dimly lit bedroom, he put his hands on her sweater, under her sweater, feeling her pretty tits. She sighed and melted against him while he learned her shape through her bra. Nice. Soft. He plucked her nipples to tight little points and then eased her sweater up, over her head.
“Oh, yeah.” She wore a little gold necklace that dipped into the shallow indentation between her breasts, her slight cleavage rising above the smooth, shiny cups of her bra, with a spattering of freckles like cinnamon on ice cream. He wanted to eat her up. “You’re so pretty.”
A flush started halfway up her chest. “Let me just get the light.”
He caught her hands as she turned away. “I want to see you. You’re beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.” Her gaze slid over him, and he flexed a little, wanting to see the admiration in her eyes. “You’re, um, really in shape.”
“You’re really sexy.”
She made a disbelieving noise and moved away, toward the lamp by the bed. Her turn revealed a mark high on her right shoulder blade, dark against her smooth, pale skin.
“You have a tattoo,” he said on a note of discovery.
“So do you.”
“Wings?”
“Scales of justice.” She popped her shoulder so he could see. “To celebrate passing the bar.” Another shoulder hitch, like a shrug. “Not very original.”
“Classic,” he corrected.
“Like yours.” She switched off the lamp and returned to him, her smile bewitching in the dark. Her fingers traced the eagle, anchor, and globe on his shoulder, reading the ink like braille. “When did you get this?”
“Marine Corps graduation.”
She flattened her palm against his chest. “And this?”
Semper Fi. “After my first tour.” He twitched under her hands like a racehorse, his muscles jerking under his skin. “Kosovo.”
She kissed him there, pressing her warm lips over his heart, and he put his hands on her waist, pulling her hips into his, feeling the satin cups of her bra, the silk of her skin against his naked chest.
“Oh, God, Kate.” He filled his hands with her, undoing the hooks of her bra as she tugged at his belt, bending to unlace his boots as she wriggled her jeans down her thighs.
She wore some kind of boy shorts, dark and brief, bisecting the smooth curve of her hip. He had to touch. To take. He plunged his fingers under the elastic, and she looked down. “Crap.”
He froze.
She shook her head, obviously disappointed. “I was hoping I was wearing my good underwear.”
A laugh filled his chest, strangled his throat. “Kate.”
She glanced up.
“I don’t give a fuck about your underwear. Except maybe how long it takes to get it off you.”
Her smile made him feel like he’d won the lottery. “All right, then,” she said, and pushed him, tumbling with him onto the bed, making the world go away, becoming his world, surrounding him with heat and light in the dark, all sensation, sleek and fast and hot.
He wasn’t expecting . . . this. Her. Maybe in his head he’d had some fantasy of the uptight lawyer and the big bad Marine, but this was her show now. He liked it. She was different, focused and real and alive, better than anything he’d imagined.
She straddled him with a bounce. Her breasts gleamed above him, pale moons in the dark, and he cupped them. They were already tight and swollen for him, and he raised up, kissing her nipples, taking as much of her as he could inside his mouth, making her gasp and quiver, making her squirm and moan. Until she pushed his shoulders down on her pillows and took matters—took him—into her own hands.
His stomach muscles jumped. His brain blurred. “Condom. In my pocket.”
She held up the foil packet. “Got it covered.”
“Well, you will in a minute,” he said, and she laughed.
He loved her laugh, rusty and surprised, like she didn’t use it very often.
She fumbled with the condom. He let her have her way with him, arching his hips into her touch, losing himself in the beat of his blood and the brush of her fingers on his cock, stroking her now and then wherever he could reach. Her knee. Her hair. Finally, finally, he was ready. She leaned over him and kissed him hard, making his brain spark and burn, and while he was still sizzling from her heat, she sat up in one quick motion and rammed him inside her, taking him deep.
His mind detonated. Bang.
Everything was heat and light. She was slippery hot, melting down around him, and so tight he was afraid to move. His fingers dug into her damp thighs. They lay plastered together, fused, as her body adjusted to his. He listened to her ragged breathing in the dark, holding onto control, hot pressure building at the base of his skull and in his balls.
“Kate?”
She leaned forward and kissed him in answer, her mouth soft and tender, and his heart squeezed in gratitude. Kate.
Cautiously, she began to move, up and down, up, then—oh God—down again. And again, faster. He opened his eyes and watched her rocking above him, slick, wet, riding him, taking him in, taking him
over, taking everything she wanted. Being everything he needed. She felt so good, connected to him. Right. He slid his hands down her back, pulling her closer, holding her tight. She could do any damn thing she wanted as long as she didn’t stop. She was breathing faster, deeper, almost sobbing, and then he realized her movements were losing rhythm, becoming frantic. She wasn’t quite there, she couldn’t get there without him, she needed him. He reached between them, his hands urgent, insistent, wringing her response from her. With a cry, Kate dropped her head to his shoulder, clutched and convulsed and came, again and again. Her shudders grabbed and shook him. With a groan he thrust deep and emptied himself, holding nothing back.
Twelve
A HEAVY BEAT crashed Kate’s dreams, blasting her out of her afterglow.
“That’s mine.” Luke surged up beside her, big and warm and out of place, reaching for his jeans, digging for his phone.
She snuggled deeper into her pillow, trying to hold on to an unaccustomed feeling of happiness. “Really? Because I always use rap as a ringtone.”
He shot her a smile over his shoulder before he glanced at the display. “It’s Josh.” He rolled away from her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I told him I’d be back by . . . Shit. It’s almost ten thirty.”
He switched on the bedside lamp. Kate winced. Squinted.
“Hey, Josh.” Luke’s voice was deep and easy. “How’s it going?”
Holding his phone to one ear, he leaned down to search for his boxer briefs. The yellow lamplight slid over his smooth, muscled back as he bent, picking out the tattoo on his shoulder and . . . That was a scar, cutting like a sickle along his ribs. And another, like a constellation of stars under his arm. He’d been hurt. Wounded. Her flesh puckered in sympathy.
“Yeah, sure.” Luke stood, his weight and warmth leaving the mattress, and tugged his jeans up over his hips. “Half an hour. Forty minutes, tops. Appreciate it, buddy.”
He disconnected the call.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He looked up from buckling his belt. “I’m really sorry. I have to go. I need to get home. “
She’d meant his scars. But of course he wasn’t thinking about that. Or her.
She sat up, grabbing the pillow like a shield to cover herself. “Don’t worry about it. No problem.” No expectations, she told herself. No objections. But what came out of her mouth was, “It takes more than thirty minutes to drive from here to Dare Island.”
“Traffic will be light.” He pocketed his phone and keys. Hesitated. “I’ll call you.”
She smiled brightly. “Drive safely.”
“Will do.” He leaned down and kissed her—a hard, hot, brief kiss. “Sorry. Thanks.”
Thanks for the best sex of my life? she wondered as he walked out.
Thanks for not making a fuss?
Thanks for putting the food away?
Impossible to know or to ask. She felt as though she’d been dragged down, tumbled, pummeled and submerged by an overwhelming wave of sensation. Her body felt weighted. Her mind struggled to surface.
She listened to him put on his shoes—and his shirt, presumably—on his way out the door.
Well. She climbed out of bed to lock up, breaking back into the real world with painful clarity. That certainly eliminated any morning-after awkwardness. No need to make eye contact or plans or conversation in the morning. No worries over whether the man she’d brought home the night before wanted eggs or orange juice. No nasty little beard hairs in the sink. It was practically the perfect evening.
Her space was her own again. As if she’d been tossed alone onto a familiar shore, naked and exposed, listening to the rough sound of her breathing and the beating of her pitiful heart.
Belting her robe, she wandered into the living room. Snowball crouched in the center of the dining table, eating shrimp out of a takeout carton.
“Snowball! Down!”
The cat scrambled off the table, sending napkins and silverware flying.
Kate lunged forward, grabbing at glasses. Thank God Luke had at least started to clear the table before they . . . before he left. She dropped to her knees to retrieve a fork from under a chair.
He left the cat.
Kate sat back slowly on her heels, a flutter under her breastbone like hope.
“He forgot you,” she told the cat. Us.
But he’d be back. I’ll call you, he’d said.
Kate gripped the fork as if she could tighten her hold on reality. It was just sex, she told herself. She could not let herself be swept away into some romantic fantasy simply because she wanted so desperately to believe. But the possibility tugged at her like the tide.
He’d left the cat. She had an excuse to see him again.
Snowball slunk out from under the end table.
“Don’t even bother sucking up,” Kate said. “You belong to Taylor. This thing with you and me . . . it’s just temporary.”
She didn’t even have to wait for Luke’s call. Tomorrow, she would drive out to Dare Island to give Taylor her cat. She wanted to see the little girl again. Almost as much as she wanted to see Luke.
The cat pressed close to Kate’s knee. She stroked it absently. Really, returning Snowball was the best, the smartest thing she could do. Eliminate the obligations and pretenses. If Luke still wanted to see her after that, then that would mean . . .
But here her imagination floundered. She had no idea what it would mean. She had nothing in her experience to compare it to.
A thin, rusty sound vibrated from the cat’s throat as it began to lick shrimp sauce from the floor.
• • •
HE SHOULD HAVE called, Luke thought the next morning. As soon as he reached the bridge and realized he’d forgotten the cat, he should have called Kate and . . .
Woken her up, probably.
Not a smooth move.
He was uneasily aware he could have handled things better last night. Not the sex. The sex was amazing. The talking and the dinner before that had been great, too. But the gotta-go-I’ll-call-you bit at the end needed some work. Like the invasion of Iraq, the evening had been strong on shock and awe, weak on exit strategy.
He spooned grounds into the coffee maker; glanced at the display on his phone. Seven thirty on a Saturday. Too early to call. Kate was probably sleeping in.
He thought about her, warm and soft and naked against her pillows, and his body stirred. Good morning. He wanted to sleep in. With her.
But he’d had to get home to Taylor. And this morning he’d been up early to take the dog outside.
Luke regarded JD, sacked out under the table.
Last night Kate had blown him away. He still wasn’t thinking clearly. He just knew he wanted to see her again, and that the logistics of any kind of relationship were going to be a bitch.
Good thing the Marines prided themselves on multitasking.
His cell phone rang while he was pouring his first mug of coffee.
His day suddenly looked bright. “Kate.”
“Good morning.” Her voice was brisk and cheerful.
“I was going to call you.”
“Well, now you don’t have to. Is it okay if I drop by this afternoon? With the cat.”
His blood leaped. He wanted to see her. But she’d already done too damn much. “Not necessary. I’ll come to you.”
“I wasn’t thinking ‘necessary.’” Her tone slipped from brisk to hesitant. “I thought it might be fun. But if you’re busy . . .”
“Not busy.” They were both feeling their way, he realized. Both unsure of their footing in unfamiliar terrain. But he wanted to see her again. “I wanted to repay you for last night.”
“Repay,” she repeated, like she was testing the word.
“To thank you,” he said hastily. Jesus, he needed more coffee. “For taking care of the cat. The vet and the flea bath and everything.”
“You brought me dinner.” Her voice warmed a few degrees. “And flowers.�
��
“Hardly a fair trade.” Especially since we had sex. No, no, dumbass, don’t say that.
“I wasn’t aware we were keeping score.” Did she sound . . . amused?
Or was he totally in the doghouse because he hadn’t called?
Before he could think of how to ask or what to say to make things better—Sorry I stuck you with the cat, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep on you, Do you want to have sex?—his daughter walked into the room.
“We’re not. I’m not. Taylor’s here,” he added desperately.
“Great. So I’ll see you both this afternoon?” He was pretty sure he heard her smile this time.
“That would be good.” He swallowed coffee. “Looking forward to it.”
He disconnected, watching as Taylor poured cereal into a bowl, trying to drag his head back into the fatherhood game. “You’re up early. I figured after your big Need for Speed marathon with Josh last night, you’d want to sleep in.”
Taylor yawned. “You said we were going out with Uncle Matt on the boat today.”
Shit.
He’d totally forgotten. Sam Grady’s little sister Chelsea was getting married in two weeks, and Sam had arranged to take her fiancé out on Matt’s boat. Luke had planned to tag along with Taylor. Not to crew—Matt had Josh and Tom for that—but to enjoy a day on the water.
JD pranced forward, roused by the sound of Taylor’s voice, and attacked her slippers.
“Hey, JD.” She grinned and sat cross-legged on the floor.
Luke got out the milk for her cereal, watching his daughter with the squirming puppy, wondering how they both would deal with Kate’s visit. And the cat. “Yeah, about that . . .”
Taylor looked up, alerted by the tone of his voice.
“I thought maybe we’d stay home this afternoon,” he said, testing the idea. “Grandma’s making Christmas cookies.”
She considered, her head cocked to one side like Bibi regarding a treat. “Can JD come?”
“Sure,” Luke said, relieved.
Carolina Man Page 15
