by Jo Davis
And there could be no doubt that was exactly what Sean had in mind as he hurried toward his bedroom. She must be an idiot at best. Insane at worst. But she needed him over and around her, pressing into her, owning every inch of her body, as he’d done last night. Despite the fact that it was stupid as hell, might alienate many of their friends, put their jobs in jeopardy. All of it.
Didn’t matter. Her need for this man was as simple, and complicated, as that.
At the end of the hallway, he made a right and carried her into a big bedroom filled with tasteful, dark masculine furniture. As he crossed the room and laid her on the king-sized bed, she admired how the large window let in plenty of light, bathing the gorgeous space in golden tones. There was nothing feminine about the space with its clean lines and no frills.
“When I got out of rehab, I bought new furniture and redid the room,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “No one has slept in this bed but me.”
Relief nearly overwhelmed her. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized the prospect of making love on the same bed he’d occupied with his wife would be so abhorrent. But she should’ve known Sean would not be so thoughtless a lover.
“I’m glad. And the pieces are beautiful.”
“I needed a new start, and for me, the bedroom was the most important place to begin. I wanted to turn a place of misery into one of peace and sanctuary.” His green eyes shone. “I never dreamed it could become more.”
She didn’t ask what he meant by more. For now, being here with him would feed her starving soul, fuel her fantasies. The future seemed an elusive thing, a dream without a promise, and the present might have to hold her when the dream vanished into mist.
Sean walked into his bathroom and she could see his rear as he bent over, rummaging in a drawer. In a few moments, he returned and flashed her a smile. “How old do condoms have to get before they disintegrate into dust?”
A giggle escaped, sounding strange to her ears. “I have no clue. But I have some in my purse if—”
“That’s quite all right. These will do.” He tossed a couple onto the nightstand, leering. “Strip for me, honey.”
She arched a brow. “We’re really going to work on your delivery. When we’re in the bedroom, you are not my boss.”
His feral grin was all the warning she got before he bounded onto the bed, pushed her onto her back, and straddled her hips. His hard-on rubbed low on her abdomen, right above the pubic area, as he crouched, placing his palms on either side of her head. “I beg to differ, baby,” he murmured.
He kissed her senseless to back up his claim, an activity that was fast proving to be one of his favorites. Hers, too. The spike of arousal plucking her nipples, heating between her thighs, attested to the fact that not all of her objected to his taking charge—in the bedroom or anywhere he wanted.
She might as well face that the man was the perfect match for her strong personality. In every way. Whatever she gave, he gave back in spades. No other man had ever turned her on like Sean, and no other ever would.
He finally broke away and sat up, giving her a bit of room to maneuver. “You’re too clothed.”
“So are you.”
“Ladies first.”
“Lady, singular.”
“Figure of speech. You’re stalling.”
“I’m not.”
Pushing up, she pulled off her shirt and tossed it. When she went for the bra, he forestalled her, flicking the clasp himself. He peeled the cups apart, baring her breasts to his hungry gaze, and pushed her down again. Despite his demand for her to undress, he continued to do the task himself, taking off her shoes and socks, then unzipping her jeans.
After working them off her hips and down her legs, he shoved them off the bed along with her underwear. His own clothes went next, and she could only stare in appreciation at the sight of his hard, muscled body. His wasn’t the form of a man in the bloom of his youth, but that of a mature man who’d seen plenty of battles and lived to tell. No question about it, Sean was in amazing shape and could hold his own with any guy.
Ogling him, her attention focused on the tattoo she’d noticed last night but hadn’t asked about. With her finger, she traced the eagle on his upper right arm. The bird had an American flag in its talons, and its wings were spread to wrap around his bicep. “The artwork is beautiful,” she said, admiring it. “Where did you have this done?”
“Bangkok, when I was in the service.” A fleeting shadow crossed his face. “During one of the many stupid moments of my youth.”
“I think it’s gorgeous.”
“No, gorgeous is you.” Crouching over her again, he nipped and suckled each breast, sending little shocks through the brown nubs. “What do you want, baby? You need my mouth?”
“Please,” she said, voice thick.
He tongued the peaks, lavishing each one with equal attention before venturing south, to her tummy. She was ticklish there, which he quickly discovered and ruthlessly used to his advantage, making her squeal as he nibbled and blew raspberries, licked her insy. But when he moved lower still, she gasped in delight as his mouth found her sex, laved the folds with a sound of pure male satisfaction.
He wasn’t shy about seeing to her pleasure, and indeed made it his mission to be certain she was writhing mindlessly, legs splayed, surrendering to his mouth. Gripping his hair, she bucked her hips as he suckled the bud of her clit, sending off little sparks that danced behind her eyelids.
“Sean, please . . .”
He lifted his head. “Yes?”
A whimper escaped, and she would’ve been embarrassed if she weren’t so far gone. Hell, she never made noises like that—much less begged—for any man. “Please! I need you inside me.”
Moving to the side, he retrieved a condom from the nightstand and ripped open the package, sheathing himself quickly. “Roll over on your stomach.”
Stomach? Apparently Sean wasn’t much for missionary, if their encounters so far were any indication. The idea excited her, and she knew there was definitely something to be recommended for having a man for a lover instead of a boy. She complied, wondering what he’d do next.
“On your knees.”
His tone, and maybe a bit of intuition, told her that he might have something in mind besides simple doggy-style. Eager to find out, she presented herself on all fours, feeling completely slutty. Free. Always before she’d held a part of herself back, but with this man, there was no reason. He’d take care of her.
One hand gripped her hips while the other brought the head of his cock to her folds. He nudged with care and she opened for him with a moan, loving how he filled her inch by inch, his thick length sliding deep. At last he was seated to the hilt, stretching her more than she’d thought possible, their position adding to the delicious friction.
“God, yes.” His fingers dug into her hips as he began to move.
His thrusts were strong, steady. A long slide in, then all the way out. In again, not too fast, just enough force and control to let her feel the unleashed power, thrill her to every nerve ending. A few more thrusts and he had her writhing on his cock, owning her, small sounds of pleasure escaping her lips.
Before she realized his intention, he rose up and sat back, wrapping an arm around her middle and taking her with him. Now she was sitting in his lap, back to front, impaled. So decadent, erotic. Connected in a way she’d never been to another man, and the sheer sensuality made her fly.
He began to move his hips, and her head fell back onto his shoulder. If she’d been free before, she was soaring now, dancing with this man making love to her like a dark angel.
“God, Eve,” he rasped. “I’ve wanted . . . for so damned long . . .”
Me, too. Oh, yes!
But she wasn’t sure if she said the words aloud or only in her head. Wasn’t sure of anything but the stroke of his cock, fingers splayed on her throat, lips nuzzling her neck. Unintelligible rumbles of encouragement, satisfaction. Arousal built to a fever pitch,
a white-hot ball gathering, growing heavy. . . .
The explosion swept her into space and she cried out, pulsing around his length. Another thrust, two, and he stiffened, arms tightening around her with a hoarse shout. He held her through the storm, rode it gently back to earth with a sigh. Soothed her with lips and hands, made her feel like the most wanted woman alive.
All too soon reality intruded. Eve disengaged and rolled to her back, a smile lighting her face. One that was short-lived when she saw him staring wide-eyed at his condom-clad cock.
The condom that was split and leaking cum onto his new comforter.
“I . . . shit, Eve! I’m sorry,” he said, stunned.
Oh, God. Elation morphed to a sick sinking in her stomach. Still, she tried for a bit of levity. “Guess that answers your question about when condoms will disintegrate.”
“Jesus, I’m such an idiot.” He raised stricken green eyes to hers.
She shrugged, feigning calm. “Hey, we’re both clean. We know that because we have regular tests through work, and on top of that, I’ve never had unprotected sex until now. Plus, I’m on the pill. We’ll be okay.”
Some of the panic drained from his expression. “You’re on the pill?”
“Yep, no worries.” The knot of dread grew cold, especially given the relief evident in the slump of his shoulders and relaxing of his body.
“All right, that’s good. Not that I wouldn’t do right by you, but—”
“Sean, breathe. We’re fine.”
He nodded, pushed a hand through his hair. “Okay. You’re right. Why don’t I get us a washcloth to clean up?”
Without waiting for an answer, he jumped from the bed and ducked into the bathroom. She blew out a breath and tried not to imagine his reaction if her reassurances proved wrong.
Fortunately, the chances of that were slim.
Thank goodness.
7
1991
“Line up, losers! Operation Desert Storm, here we come!”
“Hey, Rose,” one of them called. “Think we’ll get to kill anybody?”
“Does a camel shit in the desert?” He said it like a joke, and that’s how everyone took it.
Everyone but Sean. A cheer sounded among their buddies, but Sean managed only a hint of a smile as they lined up in front of the helicopter for a picture. God, he missed Blair and his son. What the fuck was he doing here?
“Get me a copy of that pic, will ya, Wilson?” Jesse said, slapping the man on the back. It was more of an order than a question.
“Sure thing, Jess.”
Sean never did get around to asking Wilson for the same favor.
Amelia Marshall pulled an apple pie out of the oven, just about the time another one of those big blasted trucks came barreling down the road in front of the house. All hours of the day and night, rumbling past, not constant, but frequent enough to annoy. And raise her curiosity.
The activity certainly was an unwelcome change from when the previous couple had owned the place down the road. The Byrds had been quiet, friendly. They raised some livestock, dropped in to visit from time to time. But they’d been getting on in years and wanted to sell, take their money, and move to a condo in the city. Less upkeep and more amenities for two older folks who couldn’t run a farm anymore, a farm their kids and grandkids hadn’t wanted.
Lester Byrd had been deliriously happy the day he’d dropped by a few weeks ago to tell Amelia the news that not only did he have a buyer willing to pay the asking price, but he’d paid in cash. And Amelia had been happy for Lester and Beatrice, but who in the world had that sort of cash handy in this economy? When she’d posed the question to Lester, his eyes had clouded.
I don’t know, Amelia, but Bea and I ain’t gettin’ any younger. Best not to look that gift horse too close in the mouth.
Well, after days of listening to that racket, Amelia had no such compunction. Curiosity might not kill the cat if the cat showed up bearing apple pie and a neighborly smile. Humming, she covered the pie with foil, then grabbed her purse and keys. Using pot holders, she carried the pie to the car, placed it in the passenger’s seat, and headed in the direction of the Byrds’ old place.
On the way, her mind drifted toward her only child. Something had been going on with Eve for a while now, not that her daughter would let on. Eve had always been the light of her life, and she couldn’t fool her mother. A mother knows when something is wrong in her child’s world, and Eve’s had been about two inches off its axis for months. Longer, maybe.
Before she could think on it more, she reached the Byrds’ driveway and turned. Until she had a new name to put with the place, she’d always think of it as belonging to Lester and Bea. Perhaps she always would even after being introduced to the new owner.
As she parked, the first thing she noticed was . . . stillness. Almost as if the land itself held its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. How odd, after all the noise of the trucks traversing up and down the road. When the Byrds had lived here, the property had bustled with life. Chickens, cows bellowing, a couple of hired hands always around doing some chore. She opened the car door and there was simply nothing in the way of life. Not even a dog came out to bark and greet her.
Around the side of the house was a squat, square vehicle she thought was a Range Rover. About fifty yards out, next to the barn, something heavier. One of those half-ton pickups? A Dually? She didn’t know a lot about trucks.
Gathering the pie, she made her way to the house, up the porch steps, and knocked on the door. Movement could be heard inside, a shuffling of footsteps on creaky boards. Then the door swung open and she found herself face-to-face with a good-looking man with long, dark blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She normally didn’t care for long hair and tattoos on a man, but on this one, the look fit him.
Not to say she approved, because she didn’t. There was a difference.
The long hair and tattoo suited the man’s deceptively loose stance, like a cougar preparing to pounce. An air of nonconformity, rebelliousness, settled about his shoulders like a black cloak he wore well and never removed. Perhaps that image was perpetuated by the tilt of his chin, the way his smile of greeting came nowhere close to those cold, dead eyes.
“Ma’am?”
Remembering the purpose of her visit, she shook off the impressions and hefted the pie. “I’m Amelia Marshall, your neighbor. I thought I’d welcome you to the area, and what better way to do that than with homemade apple pie?”
“Homemade?” The man whistled through his teeth. “Yes ma’am, that’ll do it. Why don’t you come in?”
Said the spider to the fly.
Her smile faltered, but she shoved aside her misgivings. The man didn’t look like any of her friends and neighbors, but one could hardly hold that against him. Her Eve knew better than most how it hurt to be judged on appearance.
He stepped aside to let her in, and she studied the interior of the Byrds’ former home, noting the changes. Before, the house had looked like a home, complete with well-loved furniture, pillows, doilies, and photos of family parked on every surface. Now the inside was . . . barren. Desolate. Only a minimal amount of furnishings graced the living room, and what she could see was cheap, functional. There were no personal touches, no photos.
Save one.
“Can I take that, put it in the kitchen?”
“What? Oh, yes! Here you go. Enjoy.” She handed over the pie and her host disappeared into the kitchen to put the dessert away. Immediately, her gaze homed in on the one concession to any sort of nostalgia. She walked over to the scarred coffee table and picked up the framed picture, a close-up snapshot of a group of soldiers in combat fatigues, smiling for the camera.
She easily identified one man by the tattoo on his neck—her host, who’d answered the door. Former military. Much, much younger, his hair buzzed in a high-and-tight, but there was no mistaking him. Well, that would certainly explain the utilitarian feel of the Byrds’ old home, him being mi
litary and all.
What arrested her was her host’s open, carefree expression. In the picture, his arm was around the shoulders of another young man, one with a rugged but handsome face, brown hair and brilliant green eyes shining in the sun. The closeness between the two was unmistakable, and so at odds with the man who’d answered the door.
“Desert Storm, 1991.”
Startled, she jumped, clutching the frame guiltily. Wasn’t like she was snooping, exactly, since the picture was in plain sight, but those cool eyes left her trembling. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this photo caught my eye. Such handsome young men you were, and you looked so close.”
“That we were.”
No emotion. Strange.
“Anyway, where are my manners?” He offered his hand. “I’m George Sparks. I bought this place from the Byrds, but I guess you already know that. I’m not much for keeping animals like they did, but I prefer my space.”
Was there a warning in that statement? If so, she couldn’t detect it as she shook his hand.
“What do you do, Mr. Sparks?”
“George, please. I dabble in electronics, computers, video games, and such. I’m developing a game now called Total Annihilation.” He smiled.
“Oh! How . . . interesting.”
“I enjoy what I do, though it’s hard to break into gaming. Very competitive. How about you, Amelia?” On his lips, her name sounded like an intimate caress, one she didn’t care for.
“I work in downtown Nashville as an executive assistant. Really that just means I’m a glorified gofer, but it will pay the bills until I retire.”
“Retirement,” he mused. “What a concept. I don’t think I’ll ever see that day, but it’s a nice idea.”
She laughed. “You’re awful young to be talking like that! You’ll need time to relax one day, spend lazy days with your family.”
An odd look entered his eyes, quickly masked. “Family. Sure. One day, maybe, when I have the time.”
What on earth did that mean? It seemed to her then that this man didn’t have the foggiest concept of family, or warmth of any sort. “Oh. So you live alone?”
