Harvard's Education

by Suzanne Brockmann

  So much for her being shy.

  As she turned toward him, he wanted to stop her, to hold her at arm's length and just look at her. But his hands had other plans. He pulled her close and touched her, skimming his fingers along the softness of her skin, cupping the sweet fullness of her breasts in the palm of his hand.

  She was the perfect mix of lithe athletic muscles and soft curves.

  He kissed her, trying his damnedest not to rush. But she wasn't of the same mind. She opened her mouth to him, inviting him in, kissing him hungrily. She was an explosion of passion, a scorching embodiment of ecstasy, and he couldn't resist her. He groaned and kissed her harder, deeper, claiming her mouth with his tongue and her body with his hands. He rolled on the blanket, pulling her on top of him, letting her feel his hard desire against the softness of her belly, as he tried desperately to stay in control.

  "I want to touch you," she whispered as she kissed his face, his neck, his chin. She pulled away slightly to look into his eyes. "May I touch you?"

  "Oh, yeah." Harvard didn't hesitate. He took her hand and pressed her palm fully against him.

  P.J. laughed giddily. "My God," she said. "And you intend to put that where?"

  "Trust me," Harvard said. He drew in a breath as she grew bolder, as her fingers explored him more completely, encircling him, caressing him.

  "Do I look like a woman who doesn't trust you?" she asked, smiling at him.

  She was in his arms, wearing only her trust and a very small pair of black bikini panties. Yes, she trusted him. She just didn't trust him enough. If she had, she would have told him that she loved him, too. And she wouldn't have looked so frightened when he vowed to love her for the rest of his life.

  It didn't matter. Harvard told himself again that it didn't matter. Although he would have liked to hear it in words, P.J. was showing him exactly how she felt.

  He touched the desire-tightened tip of her bare breast with one knuckle, then ran his finger down to the elastic edge of her panties. "You look like a woman who's not quite naked enough."

  She shivered at his touch. "I'm more naked than you." Her hands went to his belt. "Mind if I try to even out the odds...and satisfy my raging curiosity at the same time?"

  "I love your raging curiosity," Harvard said as she tugged down the zipper of his pants.

  He hooked his thumbs in his briefs and pushed both them and his pants down his legs, and then—damn, it felt good!—she was touching him, skin against skin, her fingers curled around him.

  Her eyes were about the size of dinner plates, and he leaned back on both elbows, letting her look and touch to her heart's content while he silently tried not to have a pleasure-induced stroke.

  It was not like her to be quiet for so long, and she didn't disappoint him when she finally did speak. "Now I know," she told him, "what they mean when they talk about penis envy."

  Harvard had to laugh. He pulled her to him for another scorching kiss, loving the sensation of her breasts soft against his chest, their legs intertwined, her hand still touching him, gently exploring, driving him damn near wild. And as much as he loved her touch, he loved this feeling of completeness, this sense of belonging and profound joy. Nothing had ever felt so right

  Or felt so wrong. The clock was ticking. All too soon this pleasure was going to end. He was going to have to lie to her, and then he was going to walk away—maybe never to see her again. That knowledge loomed over him, casting the bleakest of shadows.

  Harvard pushed it away, far away. Slow down. He took a deep breath. He had to slow things down for more than one reason. He wanted this afternoon to last forever. And he didn't want to scare her.

  But she kissed him again, and he lost all sense of reason. He took her breast into his mouth, tasting her, kissing and laving her with his tongue, and she arched against him in an explosion of pleasure so intense he nearly lost control.

  He drew harder, and she moaned. It was a slow, sexy noise, and it implied that whatever she was feeling, it certainly wasn't fear.

  He dipped his fingers beneath the front edge of her panties, and she stiffened, pulling away slightly. He slowed but didn't stop, lightly touching her most intimately as he gazed at her.

  "Oh!" she breathed.

  "Tell me if I'm going too fast for you," he murmured, searching her eyes.

  "That feels so good," she whispered. She closed her eyes and relaxed against him.

  "If you want, we can do it like this for a while," he told her.

  She looked at him, surprised. "But...what about you? What about your pleasure?"

  "This gives me pleasure. Holding you, touching you like this, watching you..." He took a moment to rid her of her panties. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. "Believe me, we could do this all afternoon, and I'd do just fine in the pleasure department."

  She cried out, and her grip on him tightened as his exploring fingers delved a little deeper. Her hips moved upward instinctively, pressing him inside her. She was slick and hot with desire, and he loved knowing that he'd done that to her.

  She was his—and his alone. No other man had touched her this way, no other man before him. No other man had heard her moan with this passion. No other man would ever have this chance to be her first lover.

  He kissed her possessively, suddenly dizzy from wanting and damn near aching with need, pressing the hard length of his arousal against the sweet softness of her thigh, still touching her, always touching her, harder now, but no less gently.

  She returned his kisses fiercely, then pulled back to laugh at him. "You are such a liar," she accused him breathlessly. She imitated his voice. "We could do this all afternoon...."

  "I'm not lying. It's true that I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone—I can't argue with that. But this is good, too. This is beyond good," he told her, taking a moment to draw one deliciously tempting nipple into his mouth. "I could do this for the rest of my life and die a happy man."

  He gently grazed her with his teeth, and she gasped, her movement opening herself to him more completely. "Please," she said. "I want..." She was breathing raggedly as she looked at him.

  "What?" he whispered, kissing her breasts, her collarbone, her throat. "Tell me, P.J. Tell me what you want."

  "I want you to show me how we can fit together. I want to feel you inside of me."

  He kissed her again, pushing himself off her. "I'll get a condom."

  P.J. pushed herself onto her elbows. "You brought condoms on a training operation?"

  Harvard laughed as he opened one of the Velcro pockets of his vest. "Yeah. You did, too. You should have three or four in your combat vest. To put over our rifle barrels in case of heavy rain, remember?"

  She wasn't paying attention. She was watching him as he tore open the foil packet, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Her hair had come free from her ponytail, and it hung thickly around her shoulders. Her satin-smooth skin gleamed exquisitely in the dim light that filtered through the holes in the ancient ceiling.

  Harvard took his time covering himself, wanting to memorize that picture of her lying there, naked and waiting for him. He wanted to be able to call it up at will. He wanted to be able to remember this little corner of heaven when he left tonight, heading for hell.

  But then he could wait no longer.

  She held out her arms for him, and he went to her. He crawled onto the blanket and he kissed her, his body cradled between her legs. He kissed her again and again—long, slow, deep kisses calculated to leave her breathless. They worked their magic on him, as well, and he came up for air, breathing hard and half-blind with need.

  He reached between them, feeling her heat, knowing it was now or never. In order to give her pleasure, he first had to give her pain.

  But maybe he could mask that pain with the heat of the fire he knew he could light within her.

  He kissed her hard, launching a sensual attack against her, stroking her breasts, knowing she loved that sensation. He touched
her mercilessly and kissed her relentlessly as he positioned himself against her, letting her feel his weight. Her hips lifted to meet him, and she rubbed herself against his length, damn near doing him in.

  The wildfire he'd started was in him, as well, consuming him, burning him alive.

  "Please," she breathed into his mouth between feverish kisses. "Daryl, please..."

  Harvard shifted his hips and drove himself inside her.

  She cried out, but it wasn't hurt that tinged her voice and echoed in the tiny hut. She clung to him tightly, her breath coming fast in his ear.

  He could barely speak. He made his mouth form words. "Are you all right? Do you want to stop?"

  She pulled back to look at him, her dark eyes wide with disbelief. "Stop? You want to stop? Now?"

  He touched her face. "Just tell me you're okay."

  "I'm okay." She laughed. "Understatement of the year."

  Harvard moved. Gently. Experimentally. Holding her gaze, he filled her again, slowly this time.

  "Oh, my," P.J. whispered. "Would you mind doing that again?"

  He smiled and complied, watching her face.

  When P.J. wanted to, she was a master at hiding her emotions. But as he made love to her, every sensation, every feeling she was experiencing was right there on her face for him to see. Their joining was as intimate emotionally as it was physically.

  He moved faster, still watching her, feeling her move with him as she joined him in this timeless, ageless, instinctive dance.

  "Kiss me," she murmured.

  He loved looking in her eyes, but he would have done anything she asked, and he kissed her. And as she always did when she kissed him, she set him on fire.

  And he did the same to her.

  He felt her explode, shattering in his arms, and he spun crazily out of control. His own release ripped through him as she clung to him, as she matched his passion stroke for stroke.

  His heart pounded and his ears roared as he went into orbit. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

  He could only love her.

  He rocked gently back to earth, slowly becoming aware that he was on top of her, pinning her down, crushing her. But as he began to move, she held onto him.

  "Stay," she whispered. "Please?"

  He held her close as he turned onto his back. "Is this okay?" She was on top of him, but he was still inside her.

  P.J. nodded. She lifted her head and met his gaze. "Good fit."

  Harvard had to laugh. "Yeah," he said. "A perfect fit."

  She tucked her head under his chin, and he held her tightly, feeling her breath, watching the dappled light stream through the holes in the roof.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such peace.

  And then he did remember. It was years ago. Some holiday. Thanksgiving or Christmas. His sisters were still kids—he'd been little more than a child himself. He'd been away at college, or maybe it was during one of his first years in the Navy.

  He'd been home, basking in the glow of being back, enjoying that sense of belonging after being gone for so long.

  He felt that sense of completeness now—and it certainly wasn't because there was anything special about this little barely standing hut.

  No, the specialness was lying in his arms.

  Harvard held P.J. closer, knowing he'd finally found his home.

  In less than six hours he was going to have to leave. It was entirely possible he was going to die. But Harvard knew that even if he lived, he'd never have this peace again. Because if he lived, P.J. was never going to forgive him.

  Chapter 15

  Blue McCoy paced the ready room of the USS Irvin like a caged panther.

  Crash set the cardboard cups of coffee he carried in down on a table and silently pushed one of them toward the other man.

  He went to the door and closed it in the face of the master-at-arms who'd been following him since he returned to the ship. It was obvious that everyone on board the Irvin expected him to try to get back to the island. McCoy was being watched just as closely. They'd both been warned that leaving the ship for any reason would be a court martial-able offence.

  "I can't stand this," McCoy said through clenched teeth. "He's alive. We should be able to go in after him now. You said yourself you don't think he's going to last more than a few days with the kind of injuries he's sustained."

  It was possible Joe Catalanotto was already dead. McCoy knew that as well as Crash did. But neither of them spoke the words.

  "Harvard's still there." Crash tried his best to be optimistic, even though experience told him reality more often than not turned out to be more like the worst-case scenario than the best. "You know as well as I do that the only thing pinning H. down is his inability to move during the daylight. He's planning to go in after the captain come nightfall."

  "But Bob and Wes are really pinned down." Blue McCoy sat at the table, his exhaustion evident, his Southern drawl pronounced. "Harvard's only one man."

  Crash sat across from him. "He's got P.J. I think between the two of them, they can get Joe out." He took a sip of coffee. "What they may not be able to do is get Joe down the mountain and safely to this ship."

  McCoy pulled opened the tab on the plastic cover of his coffee, staring at it sightlessly for a moment before he looked at Crash. For all his fatigue, his eyes were clear, his gaze sharp.

  "We need a helo. We need one standing by and ready to go in and pull them out of there the moment Harvard gives us the word." McCoy shook his head in disgust. "But I've already requested that, and the admiral's already turned me down." He swore softly. "They're not going to let an American helicopter in, not even for a medivac."

  McCoy looked at Crash again, and there was murder in his eyes. "If the captain dies, there's going to be hell to pay."

  Crash didn't doubt that one bit.

  "You know, now I can add 'sacrificial virgin' to the vast list of employment opportunities that will never be open to me," P.J. mused.

  As Harvard laughed, she felt his arms tighten around her. "Are there really that many on the list?"

  She turned her head to look at him in the growing twilight, loving the feeling of his powerful, muscular body spooned next to hers, her back to his front. It still astonished her that a man so strong could be so tender. "Sure. Things like professional basketball player. Not only am I too short, but now I'm too old. And sperm donor is on the list for obvious reasons. So is the position of administrative assistant to a white supremacist. And then there's professional wrestler. That's never going to happen."

  "Skyscraper window washer?" he suggested, amusement dancing in his eyes.

  "Yup. High on the list. Along with rock climber and tightrope walker. Oh, yeah—and teen singing sensation. That went on the list the year I was an angel in a Christmas pageant. The singing part I could handle, but I hated the fact that everyone was looking at me. It's hard to be a sensation when you won't come out from behind the curtains."

  His smile made his eyes warmer. "You get stage fright, huh? I never would've thought."

  "Yeah, and I bet you don't get it. I bet come karaoke night at the officers' club you're the first one up on stage."

  "I'm not an officer," he reminded her. "But yeah, you're right. I've definitely inherited my mother's acting gene."

  "Your mother was an actress?"

  "She still is," he told her. "Although these days, she's mostly doing community theatre. She's really good. You'll have to see her some day."

  Except it was all too likely they wouldn't have tomorrow, let alone some day. All they had was now, but the sun was sinking quickly, and now was nearly gone. Harvard must have realized what he'd said almost as soon as the words had left his lips, because his smile quickly faded. Still, he tried to force a smile, tried to ignore the reality of their nonexistent future, tried to restore the light mood.

  He cupped his hand around her bare breast. "You might want to put nun at the bottom of your list."

  "Nun's bee
n on the list for a while," she admitted, shivering at his touch, making an effort, too, to keep her voice light. "I say for too many bad words to ever have a shot at being a nun. And then, of course, there's all my impure thoughts."

  "Ooh, I'd love to hear some of those impure thoughts. What are you thinking right now?" His smile was genuine, but she could still see the glimmer of a shadow in his eyes.

  "Actually, I'm wondering why you're not an officer," she told him.

  He made a face at her. "That's an impure thought?"

  "No. But it was what I was thinking. You asked." P.J. turned to face him. "Why didn't you become an officer, Daryl? Joe told me you were approached often enough."

  "The chiefs run the Navy," he told her. "Everyone thinks the officers do—including most of the officers—but it's really the chiefs who get things done."

  "But you could've been a captain by now. You could've been the man leading Alpha Squad," she argued.

  Harvard smiled as he ran one hand across her bare torso, from her breast to her hip and then back up, over and over, slowly, deliciously, hypnotically.

  "I'm one of the men leading Alpha Squad," he told her. "Cat's a good captain. But he's a mustang—an enlisted man who made the switch to officer. He's had to fight like hell for every promotion. In some ways, that's good. He knows he's not randomly going to get bumped any higher into some job he's not suitable for. What he does best is right here, out in the real world."

  "But you would be a maverick, too."

  "I would be a maverick who'd attended Harvard University," he countered. "Every time I was approached by folks who wanted me to go to officer's training, I could see my future in their eyes. It involved spending a lot of time behind a desk. I don't know if the reason they wanted me so badly was to fill a quota, or what, but..."

  "You don't really think that, do you?" she asked.

  Harvard shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. All my life, I watched my father struggle. He was one of the top—if not the top—English lit professors in the northeast. But he wasn't known for that. He was 'that black English lit professor.' He was constantly being approached to join the staff of other colleges, but it wasn't because of his knowledge. It was because he would fulfil a quota. It was a constant source of frustration for him. I'm sure, particularly as a woman, you can relate."