by Dawson, Zoe
His big body was throwing off some heat, and she unabashedly snuggled harder against him. He tightened his arms, and his voice was husky when he said, “I got you, Willow. Hang on.”
Staring up at him, she was scared to death about her dad and cold to the bone.
She couldn’t imagine how many hostages he had saved over the years, but she bet if any of them were women, even with their terror and abuse, they swooned. Maybe even the men. They might have too.
His eyes were so impossibly dark blue right now, the ring around the iris even darker, his lashes criminal and should have been outlawed they were so thick and beautiful. Oh, yes, they must have swooned. Every one of them. Old, young and everything in between.
The cold water ran down her neck, and she realized she’d lost her beret. The wind made her shiver, and Hollywood picked up his pace, kicking sand up as he crossed the beach. A lifeguard ran toward them, yelling to ask if she was all right.
Hollywood shouted that everything was okay, and the lifeguard nodded and waved. He paused at Ocean Avenue, as she huddled against him for warmth. Traffic must have cleared because he jogged across the street, her face pressed into his neck for warmth, and dear God, he smelled so good.
“We’re hauling ass, lady, so hold on.”
Her mouth curved at the military way he said it as if this was some sort of drill. It reminded her of her dad and all the times he’d told her to “march” or “fall in.”
“Technically, wouldn’t that be asses? There are two of us.”
“I’m hauling your ass, so we’re going with one, since my ass is doing all the work.”
Willow laughed softly. Oh, God, she loved his sense of humor. That and some glue and tape was all that was holding her together right now.
He set her on the hood, pressing himself between her legs to keep her in place, his other arm around her in just a natural show of protection. Her heart ached. At least, that’s what she thought he was doing. It was what it felt like he was doing. He was in SEAL mode, his movements as graceful as usual but with a laser focus and economy of energy as he dug in his pocket for his keys.
The man was almost equal parts charmer and warrior, but right now, the warrior was edging out that easygoing side.
She couldn’t say she didn’t like it.
Then he faltered, the search for the keys apparently forgotten as he focused in on her face. He took a hard breath and looked away, the tension in him changing from I’ve-got-to-get-her-home to I-want-to-devour-her. That was the look she saw there. Jude “Hollywood” Lock. Mr. Cool and Collected, Charmer of the Year, was rattled.
Yeah, she liked him rattled, all right. She liked him rattled because he rattled the hell out of her. His hair, dark as sin, was standing on end. A trace of stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip. His clothes were wet, and he was still beautiful, with features she wanted to slide her fingers over and a mouth she wanted to kiss—thoughts even more alarming now than they’d been an hour ago, when she’d thought she was safe from his charms.
Hollywood pressed his free hand on the hood of the car as if he needed something to ground him. He leaned in, his mouth only inches from hers, and she drew in a ragged breath.
Then she shivered, and everything about her dad came rushing back. Her panic, her fear, her relief at having him there, came dangerously close to the surface, and Willow clutched his T-shirt, her voice breaking badly.
“I thought I’d lost him…that he had drowned himself in despair, and I wasn’t able to help him. Oh, God—” Closing her eyes against the welling of tears, she clenched her jaw, feeling as if she were about to shatter.
He swore then gripped her chin and brought her head up, forcing her to look at him. Water still trickled down his face from his wet hair.
“Willow listen to me,” he commanded gruffly. “I knew your dad from BUD/S training, like I said. He was a hard son of a bitch and relentless, at first. There was no question he was also brilliant and later on, when it mattered, supportive. It was hard not to love the man who would one day be responsible for saving my life over and over again. He taught me how to withstand the cold and the sleeplessness. He taught me that I had grit inside me I never knew was there. He made a SEAL out of some sorry, candy-ass raw material. So, your old man? He’s a fucking survivor, and there’s no way he’s going to stay down for long. Not if I have anything to say about it. We’ll find him. I promise you that, and I also promise you that I will do everything I can to help him. Now, we have to stop dicking around and get you home.”
Startled into stillness, transfixed by his touch, Willow stared up at him, the urgency of his words registering. She closed her eyes, and a violent shiver coursed through her. Then she forced herself to pull it together. Concentrating on what he’d told her, she met his gaze, indicating with a small movement of her head that she understood.
Maybe it was the eternal optimist in her, or maybe she was hypothermic and didn’t have a handle on her rationality, or maybe it was just him and his beautiful, appealing nature. He was contagious, addicting, and for the first time in hours, she got a flicker of humor.
“I’ll try to keep my dick where it belongs,” she said.
Hollywood stared at her, his eyes dark but with a bit of a glow that lit the blue with fire from within. He wiped away the water caught in her eyelashes with his thumbs then let her go, his voice gruff and tinged with humor when he said, “Really, Willow? This is your serious side?”
“You said everything would be all right. I believe you.”
“You should.”
“Because you don’t dick around.”
“Willow.” Her chin lifted, and his expression was intent, his gaze meeting hers with unwavering steadiness, the warmth of his strong grip anchoring her. “We’ve got to get you home. Then we can figure out our next plan of action.”
She trembled, and his expression altered.
“You’re shivering again, damn.” His voice was rough as he pulled out his keys and lifted her from the hood, setting her down on the ground. He popped the locks and opened the door for her. Willow was convinced her shivering had nothing to do with being immersed in a not-quite-warm ocean.
“There’s a jacket behind you on the floor. Grab that and get it on.” God, he was pushy, his voice full of command.
Willow closed her eyes and clamped her hands between her thighs, shivering and too cold to move. Hollywood started the engine, and as a blast of warm air blew across her chilled skin, she felt him turn. Something warm and lined settled around her shoulders, and Willow opened her eyes, numbly watching his face as he tucked the insulated jacket around her. He was so close and warm, and Willow felt fragile and shaky inside. She clenched her jaw against her own emotions. She always handled these feelings alone by bucking up and doing what was necessary. She only ever relied on herself.
When had she ever felt this way…oh, right, on the other side of never. She had been her own touchstone. It nearly put her in sensory overload when he dragged her wet braid free of the jacket and pulled the collar up around her neck, his touch sending a trail of shivers down her back. Tension blossomed in her, and she pressed her thighs more closely together, holding her hands immobile. She wanted to touch him so badly.
He arched back and grabbed a bag behind him. Unzipping it, he pulled out a pair of clean socks. “Here. Put these on,” he commanded gruffly.
Unable to respond, Willow grabbed the flaps of the coat and pulled it tighter around her, and Hollywood’s hold on the socks tightened. He glanced at her, his face only inches from hers. He stared at her a moment, the muscles in his jaw hardening. Then he sat up and swore, hitting the steering wheel with the side of his hand.
Confused, Willow stared at him, her stomach jumping. She whispered his name, “Jude?”
He turned and looked at her, his expression tight, his voice filled with suppressed fury. “I could throttle your dad.”
“He can’t help it. He’s been through—”
“Fuck that shit!
You’re his daughter. He shouldn’t be treating you like this.” He bent down, removed her sandal and dried her foot with a beach towel he took from the back then repeated the action with her other foot. Slipping first one sock then the other on her bare feet, he draped the towel over her legs.
The trip back was a jumble of tenderness, attraction and banked worry about her father. Hollywood’s anger was all about her, and that warmed something inside her that had been cold for what seemed like forever.
Her dad was being a jerk right now.
A bad case of the shakes hit her when they turned into her driveway. Determined not to let fear overwhelm her, she made herself concentrate on taking deep, steadying breaths, making her muscles relax, until the next bout of shivers hit her.
She would get through this. Hollywood promised he would help find her dad, and that made all the difference in the world. Willow clenched her jaw and tightened her grip on his jacket.
His cell chimed on the dashboard, and he set it to his ear staring out the windshield.
“No. No luck. You?” He listened intently. “Sure, we’ll regroup.” He cast a glance at Willow and made a quarter turn away. “We found his jacket in the ocean, had a little freak out, but now she’s home.” Running his hand through his damp hair, he lowered his voice. “No, I don’t think so. Not Shadow.” He nodded. “Copy that, LT, and thanks.”
Through the whole conversation, she sat huddled in his jacket as if it was a refuge, her knuckles white from her grip, so desperately aware of the man beside her. Her reaction to seeing her dad’s green jacket starkly drifting on the waves was a culmination of everything hitting her at once, sending her whole body into shock. The six months of stress, the alarm over her dad’s disappearance, the emotional jolt of the ramifications of that floating jacket—her father dead from suicide because she couldn’t help him brought up an anguish that was debilitating but also a frustration that was gut twisting.
And it didn’t help that she hadn’t slept a wink the night before or that she was soaking wet and cold—so cold. In her mind, she knew her dad was tougher than that, but he had been so broken. He had to be all right. And the harder she tried to stop the awful trembling, the worse it got. It was as if her whole nervous system was shutting down on her, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Swallowing hard, she clamped her thighs tighter together, her vision blurring. God, if she started crying, she would never stop. Vaguely aware of the conversation between Hollywood and Ruckus, she locked her jaw and looked blindly out the window, trying to will away the awful constriction in her chest and throat. Maybe that was the problem. She had bottled up so much over the past few months—it was as if there simply wasn’t room for anything more and it was finally spilling out, whether she wanted it to or not.
Hollywood rummaged around in her purse, pulled out her keys and grabbed his bag from the back seat, dropping his cell and her purse inside. He then got out of the car and slung the bag strap across his chest. Closing the door, he came around to her side. As soon as she stumbled out, he slammed the car door and handed her the keys. Then without looking at her, he simply picked her up again and carried her toward the door. She started to protest, but he shook his head, his jaw set. She closed her mouth and unlocked and pushed open the door when they reached it.
He shouldered his way through then started up the wide stairs that led to the second floor. “Bedroom?”
“The master, to the left.”
Reaching the top, he shifted her weight and pushed open the door, kicking it closed behind him, then set her down on the bed.
“Contrary to my actions for the last forty-five minutes, I’m not a wilting flower.”
“Noted,” he said. “Just stay there.” He disappeared into her bathroom, and she heard the shower turn on.
She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the cold and shivering.
When he emerged, he was bare-chested, having pulled his wet T-shirt off, his dog tags against the center of his chest, reminding her that he was a Navy SEAL for real. They chimed a sexy, musical jingle when he moved. Her jaw went slack at the sight of his powerful shoulders, his thick biceps, the mouth-watering, hard-packed muscle of his wide chest, the shape and beauty of each fiber as it wound around his torso, those amazing hip things and his six-pack abdomen. As an artist, she’d studied the male form, but this man was put to-geth-er.
He said, “Can you manage?”
When she stared at him blankly, he went into serious SEAL mode, thinking she was still in shock. And she was, except it all had to do with his incredible body. He strode forward, lifted her off the bed and carried her into the bathroom. He lowered her until her feet touched the floor, using his body to control her descent, his biceps bulging with the effortless effort, but he didn’t look like he was going to let her go any time soon. Without asking permission, he pulled off her white peasant top and shucked off her capris, steadying her waist as she stepped out of them. His eyes lingered on her body, and she liked that very much, realizing that her sheer bra on a good day barely concealed her breasts, but wet, it was transparent, her underwear just a wisp of a thong.
A look came over his face, one that told her she was in so much danger, she didn’t even realize it. She wasn’t sure what to do.
Oh, yes, she knew exactly what she wanted. The same thing he did. This close to him, it was hard to miss his heavy erection. His eyes flashed.
“We’re a little crazy here,” he said, “and I’m not the kind of guy who doesn’t take advantage of a good thing. You are a good thing, Willow—picket fences, two-point-five kids and happily ever after good. But you’re also a bad thing, naughty-beautiful bad with those innocent, tormented eyes, dangerous hairpin curves and a siren’s mouth that has been quietly singing to me since I laid eyes on you. I’m simply a man with no defense right now, but that’s what courage is all about.”
She reached up and cupped his jaw. She couldn’t help it. Who would have ever believed a Navy SEAL could be so sweet? Sweetly fierce like he’d been in the ocean, sweetly sincere like he was being with her right now and so sweetly gorgeous, it hurt.
His jaw hardened beneath her touch, and without any warning, her eyes filled. A feeling of tenderness washed through her, and she dropped her hand and clutched at his waist, but there was absolutely nothing to hold onto, not one ounce. Fighting to contain her tears, she shouldn’t have touched him.
Hollywood shifted then he cupped her jaw, lifting her face. “Don’t, Willow,” he whispered gruffly. “Please don’t. I have rules, and I don’t break them.”
She looked at him, her eyes awash with tears, and Hollywood brushed his knuckles across her cheek then pulled the elastic out of her braid and unplaited her hair, pushing it back off her shoulders. His expression etched with strain, he let a wet strand curl around his finger then swallowed hard and met her eyes, his dark and tormented.
After meeting him a couple days ago, she had pegged him as a heartbreaker, and he was standing here so noble and chivalrous, trying with all his might not to compromise her because, as she suspected, he had rules of engagement. She figured they didn’t include anything long term. But she couldn’t care about that right now because she was certain he wouldn’t cross the line and his restraint was admirable and surprising.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t do her own line crossing.
“Oh, my God, you are so freaking sweet.” She slipped her hand up around the back of his neck, and with very little pressure, he lowered it.
“Willow, I’m at your mercy.”
He was at her mercy, all this power, muscle and control that made her body ache. Sometimes her and risk were on speaking terms, and sometimes risk was her bitch. This was one of those times.
Her body shivered at the thought of touching that beautiful mouth with hers. She trembled, and thinking she was cold, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his body for the warmth, his eyes laser focused on hers. His erection hard against her belly, he made a
soft, wholly arousing, completely hot sound when she touched his mouth with her open lips and the tip of her tongue. He didn’t move, didn’t do anything but wait. She slanted her lips over his, and it was like getting the best, sweetest sugar high, he tasted so good.
He moaned again when she pressed her mouth harder to his. His lips made her want so much more, that bottom lip, so sensual, so full she couldn’t help using the tip of her tongue to savor the taste and feel of him. His open mouth was so inviting as he groaned again at the slide of her tongue. His chest heaved against hers, the thin bra no barrier against the heat of his broad chest. Her breasts ached, her nipples tightening and hardening. Both of them panting, she took his mouth again. His fingers caressed the back of her neck when she opened her mouth, and the kiss just got hotter.
Warm, moist lips met hers, still open and so inviting, offering. He slipped his tongue inside, tracing slowly around the inner edge of her lips then slipped deeper, probing, exploring. Willow tried to catch her breath, but he kept stealing it every time his mouth moved over hers.
The heat flowed down over her, followed by Hollywood’s hands. He ran his hands down her back, sending shivers, setting off new ones, sliding lower. Desire swelled inside her, pushing aside sanity, blazing a trail for more instinctive responses. She arched against him, losing herself in the kiss and in the moment.
She slid her hand over his damp, short, dark hair. Molding her palms over the curve of his head, she slanted her mouth across his as needs took over with a burning edge. His hands slid over her buttocks, kneading, stroking. Dragging her hips against his, his erection hotter than anything. His knuckles skimmed over the taut muscles of her back, skating along the side of her rib cage. The skin just below her breasts and on her stomach made hard, searing contact with his, and it was her turn to groan.