Off the Grid

by Monica McCarty

  Ah, hell. He shifted his gaze back to her face at the same time as she dropped her arms. The faint pink on her cheeks suggested the timing might not have been a coincidence, that she’d caught the direction of his stare.

  She stiffened, straightening her spine and lifting her chin to meet his gaze. It might have been more intimidating if she weren’t a good foot shorter than him.

  “No. I’m not going to do any of that. You owe me an explanation.”

  “I don’t owe you a damned thing.”

  There was a sharp silence. John didn’t understand it. He was never harsh. Never abrupt. He never said the first thing that popped in his head.

  Correction. Never except with Brittany.

  She looked at him, and he didn’t understand how a look could say so much. How a look could say everything.

  He’d known her, what . . . three weeks? Five years ago? And he knew her well enough to read her looks?

  Apparently so, because her next words confirmed that they’d both been thinking about what had happened in San Diego. He’d pushed her away without an explanation then, too.

  “You’re right,” she said. “You made that clear the last time I saw you, didn’t you? My mistake for thinking that you might feel bad about lying to me. That you might think I deserved an explanation after traveling halfway around the world to see my brother only to find out that he is dead and his former best friend was pretending to be him to stop me from finding out what happened to him. He’s gone, John.” Her eyes pinned him, pleading for understanding. “My brother is dead. I need to know why.”

  Those eyes left him nowhere to hide, and maybe for the first time in his life, that was what he felt like doing.

  He wasn’t going to let her do this to him. He shook off the guilt. He’d done it for her own good. “I was trying to protect you. I lied because I knew you would be like this. I knew you wouldn’t be able to listen to reason but would keep digging and digging until you had whatever answer you were looking for no matter who was hurt in the process. If anyone finds out I’m alive, I could be targeted. This is dangerous stuff, Brit. You need to steer clear.”

  She turned away. “You’re just trying to scare me to put me off.”

  He took her by the arm and hauled her around to look at him. He swore he could feel the flutter of her heart against his. He knew it wasn’t fear. Anger maybe? Awareness? Whatever the hell it was, it was magnetic, drawing him in. Taking him somewhere he didn’t want to go. He was about ten seconds away from putting his mouth on hers again. Maybe that would make her listen. If he thought he had a chance in hell, he just might try it.

  “I’m not,” he said tightly. “You don’t know what kind of hornet’s nest you are stirring up with this ‘Lost Platoon’ crap, Brit, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  For a moment he wondered if he was getting through to her. But then she shrugged out of his hold, dismissing him—and the warning. “Thanks for the concern, but it’s part of the job. I’ve been stung before.”

  “What about me?” Her eyes lifted to his. “If you don’t put this aside, I could end up dead.”

  “You’re a big boy, Johnny.” She coldly looked him up and down, but somehow it made him hot anyway. “I’m sure you’ll manage to land on your feet. You always do. Everything is always so easy for you.”

  She was right. “It pays to be a winner” had been the story of his life. Things came easy to him. School. Sports. Friends. Girls. Until he’d decided to become a SEAL. For the first time in his life he’d been tested. He’d had to work for something he wanted. Maybe that was why being a SEAL was so important to him. It was the constant challenge.

  But he didn’t like what she was insinuating. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  With that one remark she managed to prick low beneath the surface, beneath layer upon layer of skin, to tap into the one harsh truth that he didn’t want to acknowledge. Didn’t want to think about. That he’d survived and his friends—and his best friend—had not.

  He held her stare, not giving any indication of the raw nerve she’d just struck. “Yeah, you aren’t the only one disappointed about that.”

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I’m glad that you aren’t dead, too.”

  He’d never seen her twisting her hands before, but she was obviously agitated. He knew the feeling. Everything about her made him agitated.

  She uttered a sound of frustration. “I’m not going to let you do this to me. I’m not going to let you confuse me again. You’re good at that. But I’m not twenty-two anymore and susceptible to a good-looking face and a killer set of abs. You aren’t going to make me feel bad for you and stop me from finding out what happened. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out another way.”

  Good-looking face and killer set of abs? Was that what she’d reduced him to in her mind?

  That pissed him off just enough to make him want to return the favor. “Over your little crush, Brit?”

  Her cheeks flamed. He thought he heard a “bastard” under her breath before she gave him a tight smile. “Since the moment I left that beach house. But truth be told, it didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to get over.”

  She’d gotten even more provoking in her old age.

  He took a step toward her. As there wasn’t much space between them to start with, that basically brought him right up against her. “You sure?” He reached down lazily to stroke her warm cheek with his thumb, sliding it down over gently parted lips. “You seemed pretty into that kiss.”

  Her sharp intake of breath only served to stoke that fire a little hotter. But he’d miscalculated. Overestimating his control and underestimating her skill at retaliation.

  Hearing her quickening breath and sensing the arousal buzzing through her was playing havoc with his rationality.

  She leaned in to him, pressing her body fully against his. Letting him feel the soft crush of her breasts and the gentle friction of her hips against his.

  This time it was he who had the sharp intake of breath.

  “I wasn’t the only one into it. Or is this”—she nudged her hips against the hard column of his erection—“not for me?”

  The husky taunt . . . the subtle press . . . John felt a roar rush through his veins. He didn’t stand a goddamned chance of letting that go unanswered.

  It was for her, all right.

  With a groan that was half curse, half relief, he pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with his.

  * * *

  • • •

  Brittany didn’t tease, she didn’t seduce, she was no femme fatale, and she had never pressed herself against a man suggestively like that before in her life.

  Had she wanted this reaction? Had she wanted to see whether she had what it took to make a guy like him lose control? Get a taste of the good times he was so famous for?

  She didn’t know, but the moment his mouth touched hers, it was too late to do anything about it.

  She was lost. Consumed. Drowning in the sensations aroused by his lips and tongue. In the heat. In the feel of his arms around her. In the hard body pressed against hers.

  God, he could kiss. The long, purposeful strokes seemed to reach deep inside and sent shudders of desire racing through her.

  She wasn’t usually into facial hair, but the Viking thing was definitely working for her. It made her feel a little naughty. A little ravished and plundered with the gentle scrape against her skin as his mouth moved over hers.

  And moving it was. Devouring. Inhaling. As if he couldn’t get enough fast enough.

  She knew the feeling.

  The kiss in the bar had been restrained compared to this one. This one was pure carnal sensuality. Pure eroticism. Pure “I can’t wait to get your pants off and fuck you senseless.”

&nbs
p; Sounded good to her. Sounded really good to her.

  For someone who was so easygoing and laid-back all the time, she’d expected him to be more slow and easy. More teasing and relaxed. More detached and controlled.

  But the way he was kissing her wasn’t any of those things. It was aggressive. Possessive. Determined. And wild. Most of all, wild. It was as if they’d both been caught up in a fierce storm and couldn’t break free.

  His hands were in her hair, on her breasts, sliding down her back, and lifting her bottom to bring her more firmly against him. Notching them together right in that perfect place.

  The perfect fit.

  She’d imagined it would be like this. But it was even better. Hotter. Crazier.

  He started to move, small, gentle circles of hips to give her a taste of what was to come.

  She almost did. The rush of heat between her legs was so intense, she felt her body shudder. It felt like she’d waited forever for this, and now that it was here, she couldn’t hold back another second.

  Anticipation was overrated.

  But from his groans—or was that her moans?—and the frantic beat of his heart against hers, she knew the playacting wasn’t going to go on for long.

  He wanted one thing. Needed one thing. And truth be told, she did as well. She wanted to feel his naked skin against hers. Feel the hard flex of his muscle moving under her hands as he surged inside her. Gasp at the sensation of that first push. The sweet jolt of shock as his body opened hers. And just for a moment she wanted to feel the connection. She wanted to know what it was like to be close to him, connected if only for a few minutes.

  It was going to happen. Not the way she’d wanted five years ago maybe, but she was finally going to have sex with John Donovan.

  His mouth slid down her jaw, her neck, her throat. He didn’t stop there, smoothly pushing aside her blouse to reveal the swell of her breasts.

  The warmth of his breath on her aroused skin made it prickle. Or maybe that was the anticipation of what she knew was going to come as he worked the buttons down.

  When he pushed her blouse back to reveal her bra, he paused just long enough to mutter, “Holy shit,” before unhooking the wisp of black lace to show the rest of his admiration with his mouth and tongue.

  She guessed he approved of her underwear choice. And maybe the full D cups that were underneath.

  She’d caught him checking her out earlier, and it had sent unwelcome flickers of awareness through her body. They weren’t unwelcome now.

  She arched when he sucked her deep into his mouth. Moaned when his tongue circled and flicked the taut tip. And felt her legs turn to jelly when he slid his hand between her thighs over the denim of her jeans.

  She was glad when he leaned her back onto the sofa. It was too much, and she needed to catch her breath—and racing heart. He pulled off his polo shirt before kneeling on the couch over her.

  His expression was as intense as she’d ever seen it, his face tight, his gaze fierce with arousal. He’d never looked sexier, which in his case was saying something.

  They exchanged a long, heated glance but didn’t speak. Speaking would mean acknowledging what was about to happen, and neither of them wanted to do that.

  She took a moment—that was all she had—to admire the powerful ridges and planes of his naked torso.

  Her stomach dropped. Jesus. If she thought he’d been built five years ago, she had a whole new definition now. In addition to a new tattoo on his upper chest of what appeared to be a trident and net, his shoulders were broader, his arms bigger, his chest harder, and the muscle more defined. Sharply defined. Everywhere. The term washboard stomach? She knew where it came from now.

  But she’d have to count the lines in the board later. He was pushing her back on the couch, kissing her again, and the heat and solidness of that chest—the shocking sensation of his skin touching hers—was all she could think about.

  That, and what was about to happen next.

  She hoped it was worth it, because when this was over—in a few minutes, if she didn’t miss her estimate—she was going to hate herself.

  * * *

  • • •

  Slow down, John kept telling himself. But he couldn’t. It was like a freight train of need barreling down on him. He couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.

  And part of him wanted to. The responsible, conscientious part that knew this was a mistake. Unfortunately, that part was drowned out by all the other parts that were saying, “Fuck yes,” and that were thinking this was incredible. That kissing her, touching her, and feeling her in his arms was about the best thing he’d felt in a long time.

  And then there was that lust part. The part that made him feel clumsy and anxious as a teenager who couldn’t wait to get inside her.

  That part was going freaking nuts. Especially after seeing that bra. Who the hell would have thought that under her modest, businesslike exterior lurked the sexy, slightly trashy underwear taste of a Playboy Bunny—with the chest to match?

  Color him shocked. And turned on. Big-time.

  Just thinking about those spectacular breasts straining against all that black see-through lace was making his cock hurt.

  Or rather, hurt more. He was aching already. Throbbing. Straining against the confines of his jeans.

  He didn’t have any place left to go. Check that. One place left to go. And he couldn’t fucking wait. Really couldn’t fucking wait. He hadn’t had this kind of anticipation, hadn’t been this wild for anyone in a long time.

  He slid his hand over her stomach and dipped between her legs, nearly growling with satisfaction when she gasped and lifted her hips to meet him.

  Her responsiveness was part of the problem. Everything was too seamless. Too perfect. Too right. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness. Nothing to think about and plan. The way they moved together was too natural.

  Like the moment he stretched on top of her, propping himself up on an elbow so as not to crush her—and have better access—and she slid right under his arm, tucking in tight against his body as if she’d been locked right into position. Then, when the feel of those incredible tits pressed into his chest proved too much and he reached for the button of her jeans, the feel of her hand on his pants nearly made him burst a blood vessel—the important one.

  It was hard to concentrate as he worked her zipper down with her doing the same and her hand so close . . .

  Ah, hell. He let out a powerful groan. Her hand was on his cock as if it belonged there. She reached down behind the cotton of his boxer briefs and circled that hand around him as if it had done so a hundred times before. As if it had been made to hold him. Stroke him.

  He had to grit his teeth against the urge to come as that sweet, oh-so-perfect grip moved from base to tip at just the right beat.

  She paused only when his hand pushed aside the black triangle of lace—the thong was every bit as sexy as the bra—and he spread her legs with his hand.

  He had the satisfaction of hearing her cry out and arch as his finger slid inside that honeyed warm slit. He slid it in and out, getting her used to the feel of him. Slow and deep, making her wet and ready.

  But she was already there.

  And so was he. She was stroking him again, keeping the pace he was setting with his hand.

  He could feel her straining against him. Lifting. Pushing. Wanting to come. Just as he could feel the building pressure at the base of his spine.

  He couldn’t take it. He broke away, propping himself up on one knee again over her. Not even bothering to take off his pants, he reached in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a condom from his wallet. He tossed his wallet on the coffee table and ripped the condom package open.

  She shimmied her jeans down her hips, watching him, her eyes on his every move. That was hard enough to take, but when her tongue darted out to run ove
r her bottom lip, he nearly went over the edge right there.

  She had no idea how sexy that unconscious gesture was—none. If there were time, he’d let her do what she was thinking. But he knew he had about two minutes. Three if he was lucky.

  He rolled the condom down the long length of his erection, trying to get himself under control.

  It wasn’t working. Especially when he glanced down and saw her waiting for him. Sweater and shirt opened wide, bra unclasped, jeans and thong kicked off on the ground.

  She looked like a debauched angel. A sexy-as-hell debauched angel. That couch had never looked so good.

  Her body was a fucking wonderland, as the song went. Creamy white skin flushed with arousal, lush, full breasts with pale pink tips turned deeper pink from his sucking, gently curved hips, taut, athletic limbs, everything compact and neatly proportioned.

  He’d seen her in a bathing suit before, but the modest one-pieces and swim shirts hadn’t prepared him.

  Or maybe he’d never allowed himself to imagine. Maybe he knew that no matter how much he liked her, she wasn’t for him.

  Their eyes met, and almost as if she could see his hesitation—see the moment of sanity peeking through the haze—she reached for him.

  Six

  If John Donovan thought he was going to leave her hanging like this, he had another think coming. This wasn’t the time for second thoughts, and Brittany wasn’t going to let him think of any reason why they shouldn’t do this.

  They were doing this.

  So she made sure of it. She took that impressive, suited-up erection in her hand and pulled him toward her.

  Of course he had a big dick. What big, bad wolf didn’t? “The better to fuck you with, my dear.” She hoped so. She’d been anticipating this for a long time.

  Whatever twinge of conscience he’d had was apparently gone. His face was an intense mask of focus and concentration as he positioned himself between her legs, propping himself over her with his hands on either side of her head.