In a flash he had her sleep pants jerked down and off. His strength was so effortless she could only imagine what he was like when he was in top shape; even now he put most men to shame. She had a momentary qualm about being nude while he wasn’t, more vulnerable, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because he slid down between her legs, lifted her thighs over his shoulders, and put his mouth on her.
Oh, God. She arched, her fists knotting the sheet. He definitely knew what he was doing. Oh—God! He licked at her, sucked at her. She was flooded with sensation, pleasure that spiked and ebbed, only to spike again. Her muscles clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily stronger until she was shaking from the force of it, her body drawn bow-taut and aching. Heat seared her from the inside out until she felt molten.
Her climax roared at her like a freight train, fast and relentless. She gave a hoarse cry when it hit, the pleasure so all-encompassing she could only endure and try to ride it out. At her cry he surged upward, covered her, reached down to fit the head of his penis to her opening and pushed inside while the spasms were still wracking her. She cried out again, a guttural sound of both shock and ecstasy because he was big enough to stretch her to the point of pain, and feeling the bulk and heat of him so deep inside her intensified the rhythmic clenching of pleasure. She needed something to hold on to, to keep from spinning away, and the only rock she could find was him so she locked her legs and arms around him and clung through the tempest triggered by his hard, deep thrusts.
Maybe he did last only fifteen seconds; she didn’t know, didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were both caught, riding out the fury together. She was in his arms and he was in hers as he shuddered and bucked in release.
Then it was over and they lay there like storm wreckage, breathing hard and trembling, unable to muster the strength to separate. Their bodies were sweaty from exertion, glued together. That was good, she thought dimly, managing to lift one hand and put it on his side. He’d finally shed those damn boxers, though she couldn’t have said when. Didn’t matter. Now was what mattered.
“Holy shit,” he muttered weakly, started to lever himself off her, and instead collapsed back with a groan. He was so heavy she could barely breathe, and she didn’t care. She turned her face against his neck, inhaling his hot male scent and drawing it deep inside her.
“Stay here a minute.” She loved the feel of him on top of her, inside her. Had sex felt like this before? If it had, she didn’t remember. She couldn’t remember feeling stretched and invaded and possessed; she never would have allowed herself to be possessed. And yet . . . Morgan had done all of that, and she had reveled in it. As intense as the pleasure had been, it had also been mutual, and she had possessed him in turn.
Slowly their heartbeats returned to normal, their lungs stopped heaving in search of oxygen. Her body felt heavy and relaxed, resembling marshmallow more than muscle. He braced himself on his elbows over her, letting her breathe more easily, and nipped at her lower lip. She nipped in return and he threaded his fingers through her hair and began kissing her, slow deep kisses that impossibly ignited a subtle but unmistakable flare.
No way. Even if he was capable, she wasn’t. Maybe in an hour or two. Right now she wanted to sleep, though the need to clean up was becoming more pressing with every second. She might need to change the sheets if she had the strength to care.
He stretched an arm upward and turned on the lamp. She blinked against the flare of light, then smiled at the expression on his face. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes heavy-lidded from pleasure explored and sated, his mouth curved in pure satisfaction. If ever there had been a perfect picture of masculine sexual triumph, he was it. Her own mouth curved in a smile because the triumph was hers; she had put that look on his face, and she didn’t care if he ever realized it because this wasn’t about keeping score, it was about making each other happy.
Her heart gave a hard thump of recognition, and she curved her hand around his neck to pull him down for another kiss.
Just as their mouths were about to meet, he froze. The look of satisfaction on his face changed to consternation.
Bo frowned in puzzlement. “What’s wrong?”
He was motionless, as if he’d come face-to-face with a rattlesnake. Slowly he cut his eyes to the left.
Bo turned her head. Tricks was standing with her muzzle resting on the edge of the bed, her brows beetled above her dark eyes as if she simply couldn’t believe what she’d seen her humans doing. The accusation in her eyes as she stared at Morgan was plain: he had to be the instigator because Bo had never done such a thing before.
“Ah, shit.” Morgan gently disengaged from Bo’s body and rolled to lie beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “I may never get another hard-on in my life.”
CHAPTER 19
HE WAS, HAPPILY, VERY WRONG ABOUT THAT.
Bo woke naked in his arms, with her head on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. The bedcovers were evidently somewhere on the floor, given that they were nowhere in sight. She hadn’t been cold at all, not with a living furnace lying next to her. She put her hand on his chest, feeling the crisp hair, the raised scar tissue, the padding of hard muscle. Looking down his long body, she followed the trail of hair down his taut abdomen to his penis and testicles. Men were so interesting, she thought sleepily, with everything out in the open to get in the way and have to be constantly adjusted. How did they even sit down?
His penis twitched, and she blinked in interest, watching closely. Then it began to swell and lengthen, and she smiled. At this signal he was awake, she tilted her head up to find him watching her. “Good morning,” she said, then nestled her head back on his shoulder.
“Morning.” His morning voice was always deeper than normal, and rusty. His hand smoothed down her bare back. “Damn, I like your outfit. You should wear it more often.”
“I wear it every day,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, it’s the extra layers I don’t like.”
Just as he was beginning to show her how much he liked her outfit, he jumped and said, “Shit!”
The tone of voice and word choice were dead giveaways. Bo turned her head, knowing what she would see; Tricks once again was standing beside the bed with her muzzle resting on the mattress, staring accusingly at them.
Morgan rolled onto his side and stared at the ceiling. “This has to be what parents feel like when they’re getting it on and then see their kid standing there watching them.”
She snickered. “Not quite. Tricks won’t ask what we’re doing.”
“Yeah? Look at that expression.”
“It’s past her breakfast time.” Her regular mealtimes were very important to Tricks.
He glanced at the clock. “Just five minutes!”
“She doesn’t care. She knows the numbers on the clock, and she knows we’re late.”
Once he would have scoffed at the idea that a dog knew numbers, but not now. He rolled out of bed and paused to vigorously rub Tricks’s ears, which she enjoyed but which in no way got her attention off of food, before going on to the bathroom. Bo sighed in appreciation of the scenery, because such a tight, muscular ass was worthy of an in-depth study.
Then she realized—well, hell; she needed the bathroom too, and she was disconcerted by his occupation of hers. She hadn’t shared a bathroom in so long the logistics hadn’t occurred to her.
All she could do was roll out of bed, grab some clothes, and trudge down to his bedroom and bathroom. Already he’d marked the territory as his: his scent, his clothes, his toiletry items . . . his pistol on the bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room and simply absorbed the excess of testosterone. Yeah, she was loopy this morning, no doubt about it.
Tricks made short work of her inaugural trip outside that morning because she was behind in her schedule. If a dog’s attitude could say “hurry up,” then Bo was being dog-nagged . . . not that it was the first time. Tricks didn’t de
al well with tardiness when it came to her food. Still, Bo bent down and hugged her close, closing her eyes in gratitude that she still had Tricks with her, thinking that she might never completely recover from those moments of terror.
By the time Morgan came downstairs, Tricks had been fed and Bo was sitting at the bar sipping her first coffee. Morgan fetched his coffee, straddled the barstool beside hers, clasped her neck, and gave her a long, leisurely kiss. He hadn’t shaved, and his stubble was rough on her face. Morning stubble was such an ordinary thing, but she laid her hand along his rough jaw and cherished the prickling against her palm. She leaned into him, enjoying the kiss, the touch, his presence. She felt at ease with him in a way she hadn’t since she’d first been attracted to him and tried to fight it. The fight was over, and she’d won. Or lost. Or both. She couldn’t make herself care, not today.
He lifted his mouth but kept his hand on her, stroking it down her back. “Do you want to do anything special today?” he asked
She shook her head, a little suspicious. She didn’t want him, or anyone, to be “careful” with her, as if she were frail and in danger of going to pieces. Okay, so she’d gone to pieces a bit the night before, but she’d held it together until she was alone in her room. She had cried; she hadn’t had a full-bore meltdown.
“I don’t need the kid-glove treatment,” she said.
He shook his head, a little grin quirking his mouth and his blue eyes glinting at her. “You’re the hardest woman to court I’ve ever seen.”
Court? Bemused, Bo considered the idea. First, to stay with his terminology, why would he be trying to court her today? He’d gotten what he wanted last night. That was what courting was, wasn’t it? An effort to have sex? If he meant it in the old-fashioned sense of the word then . . . then she was at sea, because it meant a focus on the future that she couldn’t quite get her head around—not yet, anyway. Deciding to enjoy the moment didn’t mean she was completely changing how she approached life, just how she dealt with him.
“You’ve done my laundry,” she finally offered.
He laughed as he rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “See what I mean? How many women would consider someone doing laundry to be courting?”
“Probably most women. Laundry’s a pain in the butt.”
“Well, hell, then throw down a load of underwear and I’ll get right on it.”
She laughed and said, “I’d rather think about breakfast right now. What sounds good to you?”
Bo was oddly at peace as they went through the morning routine. She had made a decision and she was good with it, whatever happened. Yesterday had taught her that there was no way she could isolate herself from life and the bad things, and she couldn’t predict or prepare for them; all she could do was live.
She might not have the future with Morgan, but she had the now, and that was sufficient. Suddenly she felt free: free to touch him whenever she wanted—which was often—free to walk around in whatever state of dress or undress she wanted, free to want. Wanting and denying herself had been a brand of torture; wanting and being able to fulfill that want was delicious.
They had made love twice more during the night; he was very good at it, and very focused and disciplined, all of which translated into something great for her. She was a little sore this morning but also infinitely relaxed. She didn’t torment herself wondering if it was just sex to him while it was making love to her because knowing wouldn’t change a thing. She could analyze something to death without a single detail being affected. Tomorrow might be different, but today was today.
After they’d had breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, she putzed around tidying things that weren’t very messy to begin with, then she went upstairs. Taking him at his word, she threw a load of laundry down. By balling several garments together she got enough heft and weight to get some distance on it, and a pair of jeans landed neatly across his head as he sat in front of the TV, feet up and channel-hopping in classic male form. She expected him to bolt upright, but instead he laughed, leaned his head back, and said, “I wondered if you’d jump on that.”
“Consider it jumped on.”
While he started the laundry, she changed the sheets on the bed, a little amused and turned on because they definitely needed changing. The dirty sheets went over the balcony too; he’d know what to do with them. Delighted by the game of throwing things over the balcony, Tricks began running and barking, then grabbed a stuffed animal and slung it around to kill it. Everyone else was having fun, so why shouldn’t she?
Morgan grabbed one leg of the toy and began playing tug of war with her; while they were occupied, Bo wandered to her desk and stood looking down at it.
She had a tech-writing project she could work on. She studied it, thought about it, but couldn’t make herself plant her butt in the chair. For the first time in forever she had absolutely no interest in work. As traumatic as the day before had been, and as eventful as the night before had been, she thought she needed a day to do nothing but relax and enjoy the life she had . . . somehow. Doing something. The question was: what?
She was saved by Tricks, who abruptly abandoned the game with Morgan, went to the door and gave Bo her “Well?” look. The first trip outside in the mornings was for necessity, not walking, and now it was past time for her first walk of the day.
Morgan armed himself, she got the house keys and cell phone, and out they went.
The day seemed to call for a long, rambling walk, much longer than usual. At first they didn’t talk; the morning was warm but not yet uncomfortably so, the greenery was still fresh and damp from last night’s dew, and the sky overhead was a clear blue except for cotton-ball clouds drifting by. It always amazed her how noisy nature was; the birds were singing so wildly they sounded drunk, the bushes rustled with what she hoped wasn’t a rabbit because she didn’t want Tricks to give chase, the trees swayed in a light breeze. Bees droned, insects buzzed, arguments broke out between birds.
Morgan took her hand and they walked side by side when they could; when they couldn’t, he kept hold of her hand but walked in front, his head swiveling back and forth as he looked for trouble in any form, reptile, rodent, whatever might take Tricks’s attention. Though she’d been walking this path without incident for years, he used his grip on her hand to steady her as she stepped over logs and rocks.
She felt vaguely guilty, as if she was playing hooky.
“I don’t know how to relax,” she confessed after thinking about it for a minute. “I feel as if I should be doing something.”
He laced his fingers with hers. Having him hold her hand felt new and exciting as well as . . . comfortable. She was comfortable with him. That struck her as sexy, which told her she had it bad when she could equate even comfortable with sexy. She suspected that if he had knock-knees, she’d find that sexy too.
He brushed aside a bush branch for her to pass. “You’ve worked hard since you moved here, digging yourself out of a hole. That takes guts. But I’ve noticed you aren’t a sit-down-and-veg-in-front-of-the-TV kind of woman.”
“Vegging in front of the TV drove you nuts in no time, so you can’t say anything.”
“I’m not much for staying indoors. When I did get some down time, I’d try to go fishing, but that’s not on the table for now.”
Tricks darted out of sight behind a mossy boulder, and Bo pulled her hand free to run forward to keep her in sight, make sure she hadn’t found a snake or a skunk. Instead Tricks was standing in front of a weed with a yellow bloom on top, staring at a bumblebee as it droned from one flowering weed to another. “Come here,” Bo said. “Don’t eat the bee.” Tricks ignored her and continued to watch the bee until Bo said sternly, “Young lady!” That warning was the second tier leading to getting into serious trouble, and with a wag of her tail that said she’d seen enough, Tricks trotted back to the trail.
“Did you know bumblebees can’t fly if their muscles are colder than eighty-six degrees?” Morgan said; he too was watching
the bee. He folded her hand in his again as soon as she rejoined him.
Bo blinked. “I’ve seen them fly when the weather is colder than that.”
“They warm up their thoracic muscles by shivering. Can take up to five minutes.”
“Supposedly they shouldn’t be able to fly at all.”
“That was an error in calculation. Bumblebees go into dynamic stall—they create a little vortex—plus their short wings displace a disproportionate amount of air.”
That was interesting, but the subject matter made her squint up at him. “And you know about the aerodynamics of bumblebees because—?”
“Just something interesting that was covered in flight school.”
She was silent a moment as she digested this new insight into him. Going to flight school logically meant he was a pilot. “What do you fly?”
“Helicopter and small fixed-wing. Flying’s okay. I don’t like it as much as I do the water.” He answered as casually as if it were no big deal, as if flying helicopters and small airplanes were commonplace. Maybe it was in his world; it wasn’t in hers. In her world, people drove. She knew only one other person who could fly small planes. But she wasn’t surprised by this facet of him, or the scope of his experience; she’d known from the beginning that he navigated very deep waters. Was this how a military wife felt? Or the wife of a firefighter, or a cop? As if his experiences were so dramatic and diametrically opposed to hers? How did people find common ground?
She could drive herself crazy trying to find the answer—because there wasn’t one—or she could just let things be. She opted for her new zen attitude. They had slept together; that was the extent of their relationship. For now, that was enough. She might not feel the same way tomorrow, but she’d find that out tomorrow. In the meantime, she wanted to know more about something he seemed enthusiastic about.
“Where do you fish?”
“The Potomac, when I’m home from a mission. I try to get back to Florida a couple of times a year, do some deep-sea fishing, hit some bass lakes. Not that I get that much down time, because even when we aren’t on missions, we’re training our asses off, but I still hang on to my boat.”