The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1)

by Jane Leopold Quinn

  Culmination, hell! "Yes, yes…"

  "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."

  "You inside me. I want your weight on me. I want to feel your bare skin on mine."

  He thrust a finger inside her. She gasped, sucked in a breath, and lost her train of thought. A second finger, twisting and rubbing, found her G-spot. She whimpered, lifting her gaze to his.

  He grinned at her, his eyes gleaming with lust and heat. "You have something to say to me?"

  She bore down on the fingers stroking deep inside her. "You do that, I forget…ah…everything." She reached out, needing to put her hands on him. "You're so beautiful." Spreading the fingers of both hands over his pecs, she traced the ridges of muscles down his chest to his carved belly.

  He groaned his pleasure. His fingers stopped moving inside her and his teeny nipples stood out. She flicked them with sharp nails. She needed to suckle him. Before she could attempt it, he widened her thighs, donned a condom, and positioned himself at her entrance.

  His eyes squeezed shut in anticipation as he circled his cock, massaging it into her folds, slicking its head with her moisture.

  She moaned as he made short forays inside her and brushed over her very sensitive clit. Her hips rose in response, begging for his full cock. "Marc, oh God, that feels so good."

  His light-blue eyes had darkened in desire, his nostrils flared. She could see how much his teasing of her was inciting him, his face holding a dreamy, concentrated expression. Lifting her legs, she locked them around his hips. "Please. Fuck me, Marc," she cried as she pulled him home. "Yes!"

  He plunged fully inside her and let out a long, satisfied groan. Then he stilled, his eyes glazed, ruddy splotches on his cheekbones. Besides the pure physical rapture of being filled by him, he tugged at her heart. This man had saved her life at the risk of his own.

  But she couldn't stay still one more second and tightened her vaginal muscles around him. "Please." She whimpered when he pulled out almost all the way before stroking back in and staying, his hips making little pulsing movements.

  She arched off the bed in frenzied need. He felt so good, and she was breathless with it. She knew he was getting close—his thrusts growing shorter and sharper. He reached between them to her clit, and she screamed out her orgasm. Her mind spun as her hips pumped and slapped against his, the wet sounds, their climactic grunts loud in the room.

  Even through the condom and her convulsing muscles, she felt him come, felt the heat of it, the force of it. Just that alone threw her over the next edge of climax.

  He collapsed on her, just flat-out collapsed, but she didn't mind. At first. "Can't breathe," she finally eked out.

  He rolled off her, slipping out. She groaned, feeling even that in her sensitized sheath.

  Marc plopped next to her, his chest rising and falling. He gasped in great breaths. "Jesus, Phoebe." Then he realized she was quietly crying. He rolled to her side. "What's the matter, honey? Did I hurt you?"

  "No," she sobbed. "It's just that last night is coming back to me."

  "You're safe now. No one can hurt you."

  She rubbed her nose against his chest, kissing it. "Marc, I'm so sorry about all this."

  "Nothing is your fault, sweetheart." He tightened his arms around her.

  "I know, but I'm so sorry for what Butch put you through. He was crazy, said crazy things. Oh Marc, he forced their car off the road. You were right to suspect him. He said he was helping his father, but his father didn't know what he'd done. Could that be true?"

  "I don't know. I guess we'll find that out. I'm sorry you got mixed up in this. My coming back to town stirred things up."

  "But this is what you came back for. And if you hadn't, Butch would have kept coming after me, thinking I would marry him. Oh God, he's crazy."

  "Yes, but he's in jail now, and he won't be getting out." He held her even tighter. Her shivering was scaring him.

  "Are you sure? He could get bail."

  "I doubt it. Besides acting crazy, he attempted to murder you." He hugged her. "Let me get the covers. You're shaking." Pulling them up, he rubbed his palms the length of the arm she'd slung over his chest. "It's over, love," he murmured, brushing his lips over her forehead.

  "You saved my life," she said in a small voice. "I don't know how to thank you."

  "I think you just did, sweet." He smiled to himself, then sobered. I love you. Holy crap. When had that happened?

  He put a fingertip under her chin to lift her face. He almost laughed. She was not a beautiful crier, not with red, swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks. He loved her anyway. Before he could say it out loud, his doorbell rang.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Phoebe stiffened at the sound.

  "Who the hell could that be?" he grumped. "I'd better find out and get rid of them."

  "Hurry back."

  "You bet!"

  He rolled toward her and kissed her so sweetly. She knew she looked awful. She always did after crying.

  Throwing on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he turned back, pointing at her. "Stay put."

  Chime.

  "I'll be right back."

  The minute he left she swung out of bed and rummaged around in his drawers for something to wear. She found a pair of cotton boxers and a t-shirt and put them on before following him to the door. It was Moira and Davy. Her heart warmed at the sight of them, even with the worried looks on their faces.

  "We knocked across the street and then took a guess at where you were," Davy said. "You okay, kiddo?"

  Marc glanced over his shoulder as she came up behind him. He slung his arm proprietarily around her shoulders.

  Davy smirked. Moira beamed. Oh, don't. You know I can't commit to anyone. Her friends knew that.

  "Come on in," Marc invited as he pulled her back a bit to admit her friends. He waved them toward the sparse living room to sit down. They took the two side chairs. "Do you guys want any coffee? It'll only take a minute."

  Phoebe sat on the couch and gave him a nod. "Please, I'd love some."

  "Coming up, honey. Moira? Davy?"

  They both said yes. When Marc left for the kitchen both of her friends took turns hugging her. Moira moved over to the couch and asked, "Are you sure you're okay? You look awful."

  Phoebe laughed. "I know I look awful, but I'm fine. I just have scrapes and bruises. Nothing broken, no concussion. Thank God Marc followed Butch's car. He pushed me over the falls, or rather I fell over trying to get away from him." She momentarily closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself.

  Moira held her hand. "Butch is being arraigned this morning for attempted murder and kidnapping."

  "Do I need to be there?" Phoebe asked, her heart thumping in a combination of fear and anger.

  "No, it's not a hearing. They'll bind him over for trial."

  "Will he get bail?"

  "He'll probably be remanded. He's been ranting and raving that he did it all for his father."

  "Pretty much admitting his guilt," said Marc, coming back into the living room with two of the coffee mugs.

  Moira added, "And admitting what he did to your parents, Marc. I'm so sorry."

  He didn't respond as he disappeared again into the kitchen.

  This was what he'd come back to find out—but she knew he'd never suspected that his high school friend killed his parents. It was almost over. He could now go back to his unit knowing the mystery had been solved. She would follow her plan to move to Chicago and make the rounds of the clubs there. It was time to take her career to the next level, agent or not.

  Moira followed Marc into the kitchen. It was something Phoebe should have done, but she felt strangely static. Before Moira and Davy had come over, she and Marc had seemed so close, had made such beautiful love. Now there was an end point.

  She should be happy. This cleared the way for her to move forward. Without Marc. There was no place for him in the trajectory of her career. He certainly wouldn't want to be her boy toy and follow he
r from town to town. And she definitely wasn't interested in settling down.

  It was time to leave, to go back to her own house, and pack up. When he and Moira returned with two more mugs, Phoebe stood. "Marc, now that your mystery is solved and I'm safe because Butch is in jail, it's time to get back to our real lives." My heart hurts. I'm in transition and sometimes you must move to the next phase of life. "You have to go back, and I have some singing to do."

  Marc moved toward her. "Phoebe…"

  She glanced at her avidly watching friends. God. The last thing she wanted was an emotional scene. And since she was about ready to cry again, she didn't want Marc to see it. "Thank you for everything you've done—for my life." Her voice stumbled. My God, he saved my life. She began shaking. I could have died. Butch was going to kill me, probably rape me first.

  Wrapping her arms around her body, she turned her back and took shuddering breaths trying to calm herself. She had to get out of there, but she had to let Marc know she'd never forget what he'd done. She had to be brave and strong enough for that.

  Steeling herself, she turned again. "I can't thank you any other way than to just say thank you with all my heart. You know how you found me. I wouldn't have made it without your saving me. I'll never forget you."

  He strode toward her, clasping his hands on her shoulders. His expression was mystified. "You're leaving?" The question was delivered in an incredulous tone.

  Just a little longer. "We have different agendas now. We always did." Almost taking herself to a different plane of consciousness so she could keep it together, she gazed up into his gorgeous pale-blue eyes. His face was surrounded by an unmilitary growth of thick black hair. Memorizing his features, she knew she'd love him for the rest of her life.

  She angled out of his grasp. She didn't want to risk kissing him. If she did that, she might never leave. She'd wanted a singing career all her life. That hadn't changed. "Be careful over there, Marc."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Six Months Later, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina

  Marc marched into the armory alongside the men and women in his unit. He was with them, but then again he was not. Most everyone in the unit would be met by someone in the throngs of friends and family members waiting impatiently inside.

  The Marines were fidgety but silent, their emotions ratcheted up to extremes. Not one of them, man or woman, didn't relish being alive and pretty much in one piece—mind and body. None of them would ever forget the five unit members who didn't make it back. Neither would they forget the seven wounded and lying at Walter Reed or at Landstuhl.

  It was time for Marine Gunnery Sergeant Marc Rahn, Jr. to end his military career, after eight years and three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Time to move on to the next phase of his life. All he knew for sure was that he was alive, and now that the crime of his parents' deaths had been solved, he could go home to Birchwood Falls.

  Coincidentally, it was his twenty-seventh birthday and the first day of this new life. He was going home but wasn't sure he could bear to see it again without Phoebe Barnes.

  No one met him today. No one celebrated with him. After all the heat in the Middle East, now all he felt was cold. Frozen. No emotion.

  It didn't matter that he had no woman to throw her arms around him and weep on his shoulder. It didn't matter that no child would cry "Daddy!" and cling to his leg. This he was used to. There hadn't been anyone in his life, except for meaningless short-term sexual affairs, for all these years. Except for the amazing woman six months ago.

  Well, there were his Marine buddies but none were more stoic than he. Let them have their frenetic reunions. They deserved it—and more. He was just fine as he was. Isolated, single-minded, he'd left his hometown a heartsick eighteen-year-old boy. He'd go back stronger, smarter, resolute, and finally free of the uncertainty about his folks.

  Turning away from all the hugging and kissing, he ordered himself—much in the way he was used to ordering his Marines—to ignore the signs of love. They weren't for him. Love left his life eight years ago, brutally and suddenly, and again six months ago with the disappearance of Phoebe. He didn't need it, didn't want it. She'd left town, her singing career more important than anything he could give her. Apparently.

  Alone in his hotel room, drifting off into sleep, wishing Phoebe was really there…

  Their coming together was religiously cataclysmic. He couldn't believe it had been that long since he'd touched a female body and that long since anything other than his fist had touched his.

  She'd been there when he got off the bus with his unit. Speeches, back clasps, hugs—and suddenly there she was standing in front of him. Embarrassed by his shaking, he reached out a tentative hand. She took it, and they were both trembling. She bit her lower lip. His gaze honed in on that, and without another word they walked, deceptively sedately, to her vehicle.

  The hotel suite, dim and cool, was an oasis of normalcy compared to what he'd been through.

  They stood inside the door. "Do you want to take a shower?" she asked, her voice polite. "Would you like something to eat?"

  His hunger was for more than food. She'd met him in a tight skirt and even tighter tank top with the lace imprint of her bra showing through. He well remembered the ring beneath the lace—and it had been central in his fantasies while overseas. "I'm rank," he warned.

  "I don't care."

  "I do," he responded. "You deserve better."

  "Go." With a promising smile, she urged him toward the bathroom.

  Christ almighty, it felt good. A private shower, unending hot water, and scented soap. He let the water run down his back until he almost fell asleep. Shaved and bathed, he emerged from the bathroom, a towel hooked around his hips, to see her leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, a flimsy pink nightie barely covering the good bits.

  "I don't know if I can do you justice," he said.

  "You don't have to the first time."

  "Good, 'cause it's gonna take more than once." His lips quirked at the provocative smirk on her face. Ooh rah. "I missed you."

  Her slender body felt wonderful in his hands. The nightie came off before they even made it to the bed. His lips roamed the cool, smooth skin of her belly. His mouth heated when it reached her breasts. He wanted to cry at the taste of her raspberry-red nipples. The gold ring, the little hard nubs, all belonged to him.

  His cock hurt. It had been hot and hard, weeping from its hole, since the first minute he'd seen her. This was nothing like stroking himself. This was a real-life cunt, a wet, soft pussy. It was fucking, banging, screwing, everything the guys always talked about doing when they got home.

  "Fuck me," she groaned.

  His hungry dick throbbed. He swept it back and forth in her cleft, wetting its head, washing it in her juices until she squirmed, thrust up, begging him to shove it in her.

  "Fuck me already!" she growled demandingly.

  He did. With a shout. Jesus Christ, he almost passed out. For the first time in six months, in one hundred eighty plus days and nights, his cock had been swallowed whole by her glorious pussy.

  "Phoebe." He opened his eyes. She wasn't there.

  ***

  "Hey Rahn, great to see you, buddy!" Mike Banning strode from behind the bar to pump Marc's hand.

  "I'm glad to see you, too."

  "Are you back for good?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Do you need a job? I can put you to work here for a while."

  "No, I'm good," Marc assured. "Is Phoebe in town?" The intensity of his need to see her again sometimes overwhelmed him, but he wanted to play it cool in front of his old pal.

  "She's working in Chicago. Moira would know where."

  Marc nodded. Not here, but not far away. Okay. He could deal with that. Next stop, Moira Logan's office. "I'll see you later, Mike. I've got some things to do."

  "Will you come back tonight so we can give you a good old B Falls welcome home?"

  "I don't want any hoopla." He gave M
ike a mock frown.

  "How about burgers and beer with my mom and dad? That'll be low-key hoopla," Mike assured with a chuckle.

  "Just that, okay?"

  "Sure, buddy."

  "Okay. I'll see you tonight." Marc left Ollie's not entirely confident in Mike's promise, but he had other business to attend to. He headed across First Street to the courthouse. It didn't take long to be shown into Moira's office.

  "Welcome back, Marc." Moira indicated a chair for him and repeated Mike's question. "Is this for good?"

  "That depends."

  "On?"

  He just looked at her. Surely she knew from Phoebe what their relationship had been like, but she'd have no idea how serious he was about finding her. "On where Phoebe is."

  "Are you sure she wants to see you?" Moira leaned back in her seat.

  "I don't know why not. It's not like we had an argument." He just wanted to know where she was and wasn't in the mood for an interrogation.

  "I know, but she's almost where she wants to be in her career."

  "She's singing in Chicago? Where?"

  Moira hesitated.

  "All respect due to you, Moira, but this isn't your decision to make." He could understand her care for her friend and said so. "But this is between Phoebe and me."

  Moira nodded. "You're right, of course." Digging in her purse, she pulled out an address book. "I like to keep important things on paper. You never know what might happen with your iPhone." Writing on a piece of paper, she handed it to Marc. "Here's her address. She misses you."

  He climbed to his feet. "Yeah? Is she happy?"

  Moira smiled ruefully. "Almost."

  Marc looked questioningly at her.

  "She misses you." Moira shrugged. "If you want her, go get her."

  Before he headed to Chicago, he made a stop at the cemetery, again with gardenias. He murmured as he lay the flowers in front of their stone, "Wish me luck, Mom. I want what you and Dad had." He knelt on one knee to pull some weeds that had grown up around the base. "You guys would love her, and she'd love you." Kissing his hand, he laid it on the top of the stone. "I love you."