Okay, that was more like it.
She moved one of her legs around his hips just to make sure he understood, and found a couple of muscles on his upper arms to hold on to as she braced herself for what was to come.
It didn’t prepare her for the jolt. For the lightning rod of awareness that ran up her spine and claimed her whole body as the thick head of his cock nudged between her legs.
He stopped, and her protective instincts deserted her as her eyes found his. Something warm and unwelcome rose in her chest, but she pushed it down. Hard.
It was five years too late for connections. Five years too late for “what does this mean?” That wasn’t what she wanted from him anymore.
Still holding his gaze, she smoothed her hands down his rigid arms to his back and then down to his half-clad backside. God, he had an amazing ass. Steel was putting it mildly. How many times had she imagined this?
Too many.
Bracing herself for the shock, she bit her lip and pulled him fully inside her. Gasping, nonetheless, at the sensation. No amount of steeling could have prepared her for the feel of him filling her.
She shouldn’t have looked at him then. There was something in his gaze—tenderness? Confusion?—that seemed to penetrate right to the most vulnerable part of her.
But she refused to let those feelings take hold. “Fuck me, John. Please just fuck me.”
That did the trick. No more hesitating. He started to move inside her.
Slowly at first, using the long length of his cock to extend every stroke and then adding a small circle of his hips at the end that sent twinges of pleasure radiating through her. Her pulse jumped, her heart pounded, and her breath started to quicken. Those soft little breaths seemed to urge him on.
His skin was hot, and it soon grew slick with perspiration, as the speed of his thrusts intensified.
Oh God. She might have said that aloud. What he was doing to her felt so good, she couldn’t hold back. The way he moved . . . the perfect rhythm . . . the thick, solid feeling of him sliding in and out of her . . .
She arched her back. She heard him make a pained sound and managed a glimpse out of her half-lidded eyes of him tensing, holding back, tamping down the pleasure she was bringing him.
She was bringing him. She hadn’t been all wrong. They were good together. Very good. It might have even meant something once. Something more than that she was about to come.
She felt the hitch in her womb, the slight tensing of muscle, before everything broke apart.
Her cries triggered the same thing inside him. He stiffened, gritted out some kind of muffled curse, and pounded out his orgasm into the shuddering spasms of her own.
It seemed to go on forever. Her body was fighting to hold on to the connection that was every bit as sweet as it was fleeting.
But all good things had to come to an end—isn’t that the way the saying went? And this one did. Spectacularly. With a loud banging on the door about ten seconds after he collapsed on top of her.
* * *
• • •
John was probably crushing her, but he couldn’t move. And maybe he kind of liked her under him.
Maybe he liked it a lot. That was . . .
He didn’t know how to put it in words. Different? Intense? Fucking incredible?
It was sure as hell quick. That might have been a record for him. Since high school at least. Three minutes had been optimistic. Hell, maybe two had been optimistic. But wow. That had been . . . wow. He’d been seeing stars there for a minute.
Who would have thought that Brittany Blake . . . ?
Shit. His still hammering heart came to a sudden stop. His eyes snapped wide-open as the reality of what he’d done crashed through the lingering euphoria of the one-for-the-books, grade-A-freaking-plus climax.
Blake. As in Brand’s little sister. He’d just had sex with his dead best friend’s sister—the same sister he’d sworn to stay away from.
No, they hadn’t just had sex. That put too nice a spin on it. They’d fucked. Just like she’d asked.
He was about to roll off her and try to think of something to say—though what the hell could he say? He’d screwed up, big-time—when someone started banging on the door.
He cursed, pushing himself off the couch and out of her with a suddenness that he hadn’t intended. It felt oddly harsh and final.
Tossing the condom in the trash, he pulled up his briefs and jeans and managed to get them zippered and buttoned before he reached the door.
What had he been thinking? In the living room of the house he rented with four other guys? What was he, eighteen? He should be glad they were knocking.
“Open up, Joe. I know you are in there.”
Damn it. Not his housemates. His date—his forgotten-about date, Marta. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. And he suspected it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
“Give me a minute.” He thought about grabbing his shirt, but glancing over at Brittany, he knew there was no way it wasn’t going to be obvious what had been going on here. She was finishing buttoning her blouse, but even with her clothes back on, she had that just-fucked look written all over her. Her hair was lightly mussed, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, and he could see the slight redness on her jaw and neck where his beard had scratched a path.
He’d done that to her. He felt something strange lodge in his chest as he looked at her. Something warm and possessive and unfamiliar. Something a little too primitive.
Something that wasn’t him.
He didn’t like it. He frowned and turned back to the door, which was being pounded again.
“I know you have someone in there with you,” Marta said.
At least that’s what he thought she said. Her accent was heavier and harder to understand when she was pissed.
Damn it, nothing to be done. John opened the door wide enough to stick his head out, but hopefully not wide enough for her to see into the living room. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry about tonight, but I’m afraid this isn’t really a good time.”
She looked livid and ready to knock down the door, so he made sure it was good and blocked with his foot. The last thing he wanted was a scene.
More of a scene.
“I’m sure it’s not.” She stood on her toes to try to peer over his shoulder, but he was too tall. “She’s in there with you, isn’t she? The woman you made out with at the bar? Who is she? Your girlfriend? Wife?”
“No!” Surprise made his response a little harsher than warranted. “Look,” he said, starting again in a calmer voice to try to defuse the already tense situation. “It’s just an old friend, okay? She arrived, uh, unexpectedly.”
Marta held his gaze, and behind the anger he could see the hurt. “And you thought nothing of kissing this ‘old friend’ and leaving with her when we had a date? How do you think that made me feel to show up tonight and have everyone talking about you and this woman putting on a show in the middle of the bar?”
John swore and dragged his hand through his probably sex-rumpled hair. He hadn’t meant this to happen. The thing with Marta wasn’t really even a thing, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her—or embarrass her. But neither could he explain. He could hardly tell her the truth: “Had to shut her up to prevent her from blowing my cover” wasn’t an option.
Nor did it explain this.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He didn’t know how to explain. What had happened with Brittany was unexplainable—on so many different levels. Levels he didn’t even want to think about.
Marta looked him right in the eye. “Fuck your apologies, Joe, and fuck you, too.”
* * *
• • •
Something inside Brittany made her want to stand and cheer at the woman’s parting words. It was no less than he deserved.
Why was Brittany s
urprised to hear that he’d had a date tonight? She should be more surprised that it wasn’t two.
Brittany should probably thank the woman for showing up when she did. If she’d been feeling even a twinge of uncertainty about the significance of what had just happened, it was gone.
For the better part of five years, Brittany had wondered what it would be like to have sex with John Donovan. Now she knew. It was every bit as amazing as she’d thought it would be. It was hands down the best sex she’d ever had in her life. No question. He was a master between the sheets—or on a ratty couch, for that matter.
But it wasn’t enough. Nor did it change anything. If this had happened in San Diego, she undoubtedly would have been dreaming of wedding gowns and picket fences. But whatever emotional connection she’d felt for him then was gone. And after the woman had arrived, it was really gone.
What they’d had was sex. And meaningless sex—even really hot, explosive, lights-out meaningless sex—was still meaningless.
Part of her had always wondered whether if they’d had sex all those years ago things might have been different. It was a silly question, of course, and impossible to answer. But this had helped her answer a related question. It didn’t make a difference now. Which put John Donovan firmly in the past where he belonged.
He hadn’t changed at all. Five years and he was still a player, still a heartbreaker, and still an asshole.
Same old dog. No new tricks.
Except this time he’d made her feel like an asshole, too. A cheap, meaningless asshole. The “old friend” that he’d screwed, banged, fucked—pick your favorite crude term—when he was supposed to be out with someone else.
If the woman had asked him whether he had the plague rather than a girlfriend or wife, he probably would have sounded less horrified.
Were he and the woman serious? Knowing him, she doubted it, but that didn’t make her feel any better right now.
This wasn’t her. She didn’t fall into bed with men. She could count on one hand the number of men she’d slept with. She wanted intimacy, and that took time she never seemed to have to build. She couldn’t spare time for a dog or a cat, let alone a boyfriend. And God knew she’d never find that kind of intimacy with John Donovan, whether it would be in five minutes or five years.
Brittany heard the door close, and he came back in the room. He at least had the decency to look uncomfortable, if not a bit shamefaced.
“I’m sorry about that. I forgot I had, uh, plans tonight.”
“Yeah, well, if you want a friendly suggestion, Joe, when you find your girlfriend later to explain, you might want to think of another excuse. Most women don’t like to be forgotten.”
He frowned. “Marta isn’t my girlfriend. I barely even know her. This was only our first or second date.”
Brittany couldn’t hide her outrage. “You don’t know how many times you’ve been out?” She paused. “Or does she have a twin sister, too?”
He gave her a hard look but didn’t bite. “It’s not like that. Our first date got cut short by something.”
Brittany really didn’t need to hear the details. She just wanted to get out of here. She needed to go back to her hotel room and regroup. Process what had happened. Not just with John, but also with her brother. Brandon was dead. Whatever she’d thought before, there was a finality to it now that she needed to absorb.
She stood to leave, giving him a brief glance. He still didn’t have his shirt on, which was a little—a lot—distracting. Especially when she saw what looked like finger marks on his arms. Had she done that when she was . . . ?
Wow. “I should go,” she said quickly.
“Wait.” He grabbed her arm to stop her, dropping it when she looked at it. “I, uh . . . Don’t you think we should talk first?”
She looked up at him, really meeting his gaze for the first time since he’d been on top of her and she’d been about to . . .
Forget it.
“About what? Are you going to tell me what happened to Brandon? Was he killed in the explosion where you got that scar on your brow?”
If he hadn’t been holding her, she wouldn’t have felt him stiffen. But if she’d struck close, his expression gave nothing away. “Stop fishing, Brittany. I didn’t say there was an explosion.”
“How did you get it, then? How did my brother die?”
He was clearly frustrated by the questions. “I told you I can’t tell you anything. I’ve already told you too much.”
She thought so. “Then there isn’t anything left to say.”
She tried to turn out of his hold, but he wasn’t letting go. “How can you say that? We just . . .” He cursed again and let her go. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
It took her a moment, but she finally realized what the real problem was. It was written all over his face. “You don’t need to feel guilty about my brother, John. Brandon is gone.”
“I know he’s gone, damn it!”
Right. He would never have done this otherwise. If she needed any more proof that Brandon was truly dead, she supposed she had it. “Even if he wasn’t, it wasn’t his decision to make. I’m twenty-seven years old. Old enough to choose who I want to have sex with.”
Why she was trying to absolve John of his guilt, she didn’t know. But the mention of sex only seemed to make him feel worse. He looked mildly ill.
“Just tell me one thing,” she said.
“What?”
She looked into his eyes. “Did he ask you to stay away from me in San Diego?”
Nothing. Not a blink, nothing. Just the steady tic of a clenched jaw.
She turned away. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
As she’d said, Brandon was dead. And for all intents and purposes, so was John to her. John Donovan was bad news, and she wasn’t going to make the same mistake again—been there, done that—no matter how spectacular he was in bed.
* * *
• • •
John was at a rare loss. He didn’t know what to do—or what to say. He felt as if he were standing in the middle of a minefield and every potential step he took could blow up in his face.
If Marta showing up when she did wasn’t bad enough, now Brittany was trying to put him on the spot again, asking him questions he couldn’t answer.
She’d guessed right about Brand. Five years ago his friend had given him two options: to state his intentions—and it had better be marriage—or leave her alone. So really, Brand had given him one option.
At twenty-four and a newly minted SEAL tapped for a secret elite team, John sure as hell hadn’t been ready for marriage. He didn’t know if he even wanted to get married. Ever. He didn’t like to let things get to the girlfriend stage. He liked to keep things light. The rest of his life was intense enough; he didn’t need that in his personal life, too.
Not to mention that a serious girlfriend or wife would mean leaving Nine and going back to one of the conventional teams—or worse, HQ or staff.
No connections. That was the rule for Nine. No one to worry. No one to notice if they were gone for too long. Or gone forever. Brittany was all the proof they needed about why connections were a bad idea, with all the hue and cry she’d raised over an estranged brother.
No, none of that was for him. Things were fine as they were. He liked things as they were. He was happy—or he would be soon, when things got back to normal. If that was possible. He needed to get back to frogman work.
He couldn’t tell her about his promise to Brand. It might give her the wrong idea.
But what had she meant by it didn’t matter? And why was she acting so—he didn’t know the right word; blasé maybe?—about the whole thing. Acting like it was no big deal when he was all discombobulated and off-kilter.
They’d had sex, for Christ’s sake. Really incredible, mind-blowing sex. They should t
alk about it for a minute. Make sure there were no, uh, misunderstandings.
“Look, Brit, I know you’re upset.” She picked up the Georgetown messenger bag that she apparently still used as a purse and turned to look at him. Actually, she didn’t look upset at all. She looked perfectly calm and collected. Which couldn’t be right. “But we need to talk about this. I don’t want there to be any, uh, confusion. This can’t happen again.”
That last part might have come out a little more vehemently than he intended.
She raised her brows in tandem. “I agree. Once was definitely enough.”
He frowned. What was that supposed to mean?
She started walking to the door, and he found himself watching her go. She was just going to leave? Just like that?
What the fuck? “Wait!”
She turned to look at him. He was furious, and he didn’t know why. He also didn’t know why he’d stopped her.
The story. That was it. He had to stop her from writing any more stories about the “Lost Platoon.”
“Remember what I told you. You can’t tell anyone about what happened or write about any of this. I mean it, Brit. This is serious.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll forget about this soon enough. But don’t worry. I don’t write bad porn.”
His eyes narrowed. She’d purposely misunderstood him. He hadn’t been talking about that.
And what the hell did she mean by “bad porn”? It might have been short, but it sure as hell hadn’t been bad. It had been bloody, freaking incredible, and she knew it.
Didn’t she?
Maybe she hadn’t had a lot of experience to compare it to. That must be it.
But he’d had lots, and he was tempted to show her just how wrong she was. Very tempted.
Maybe she realized she was treading on dangerous ground because she dropped the clueless act and sighed. “I heard what you said.” She paused and met his gaze. “I won’t tell anyone that you are alive.”
“And the rest of it?”
“The rest of what? You haven’t told me anything. No proof, no story. My publisher has made that very clear.”
Off the Grid Page 9
