The Marine Next Door

by Julie Miller

  John wanted a better answer. “Can’t you arrest him on suspicion or take him in for questioning and lose the key to his cell? Who else would do something like this to Maggie?”

  “We have to find him first,” the detective pointed out. “But we will. Doing something like this seems like suicide for a man who wants to stay out of prison. But because he’s so keen on going back, I’m happy to put together a case and oblige him.”

  John liked the cool, methodical thoroughness he saw in Montgomery’s documentation of the crime scene and questions he’d asked Maggie. If there was evidence to be found and a case to put together, this guy would get the job done.

  He slipped his hand to the middle of Maggie’s back. There was nothing more he could do here—Wheeler was smart enough to be long gone. “Is it okay if I take Maggie and Travis home? It’s getting late and he’s got school in the morning.”

  The detective nodded. “Sure. Let us work on this. I’ll order an extra patrol unit to keep an eye on your building.”

  “Thank you.” Maggie leaned back against John’s hand, no doubt feeling the emotional fatigue of the day.

  Montgomery may have noticed it, too, because he reached out to give Maggie’s shoulder a supportive squeeze. “I need you to focus on the Rose Red case, and that talent you have for getting the victims and witnesses to open up and talk. You don’t need to be dealing with this sick…” The tension in his voice faded away to silence. “I guess that’s why you relate so well to the victims.”

  “Call me if you find out anything,” Maggie said, turning toward her son.

  “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” John paused, a step behind her when Montgomery put up his hand. “Are you military?” he asked.

  “United States Marine Corps, sir.”

  “Are you staying with her and the boy?”

  Maggie came back, making a polite argument that John wouldn’t hear. “John lives next door. I wouldn’t ask—”

  He’d answered the call of duty more than once in his life. He’d answer it again.

  “Yes. They won’t be alone.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “We’d better put these away.” Maggie slipped the navy blue Marine Corps jacket from beneath Travis’s limp hand and tucked his arm beneath the blanket and sheet. She swept the shock of chestnut hair off his forehead and leaned over the bed to kiss his sweet, unfurled brow. “I don’t want anything to get wrinkled or broken.”

  As stressed out by the clear threat against her as he’d been excited about the ball game, Travis had been too wired to sleep. But John had had the brainstorm of bringing over his uniform and medals and sidearm to reassure her son that he was someone who could keep him well and truly safe.

  The gun had quickly been stored away alongside Maggie’s, but the ploy worked. Soon enough, Travis’s natural curiosity kicked in and he’d begun to ask questions. Maggie had sat on the bed beside Travis while John patiently answered each one, sharing the meaning of the USMC logo and the brass buttons. Why he had captain’s bars and what a major, colonel and general’s brass would look like.

  And then he’d brought out his boxes of medals and Travis’s face had lit up with real awe. Maggie listened, too, tearing up with heartbreaking sadness as John glossed over the more gruesome details of a routine patrol cut short by a roadside bomb, and the selfless sense of duty it took for a man with a shattered leg to crawl back and forth between a bunker and the burning vehicle to retrieve his wounded and deceased friends.

  For once, Travis had been silent, hanging on to every word of John’s story. “You never gave up, did you, John?”

  “No, son. A marine never gives up.”

  Tears burned along Maggie’s cheeks and dripped into her lap at John’s matter-of-fact account of the tragedy that had earned him his Silver Star. And even though Travis might not have fully comprehended the magnitude of John’s sacrifice, he understood enough to know that with this man, he would be cared for and safe.

  “Oops.” Just as Maggie reached for the felt box in Travis’s other hand, he rolled over in his sleep, hugging John’s Purple Heart medal as close to his chest as he’d held his ball glove the night before.

  “Let him keep it.” John picked up the other medals from the bedside table. “If it helps him sleep.” He cupped his hand over the crown of Travis’s hair. She could see the impulse to lean in before he stopped and asked, “Do you mind?”

  Maggie smiled her permission. “He’d love it.” She could easily understand how safe and assured Travis felt when the tall, muscular marine bent down and gave her sleeping son a gentle goodnight kiss, as well. “You’re his hero. Mine, too.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  She swiped the dampness from her cheeks at the humble comment and closed the door to Travis’s bedroom before following John out to the living room.

  “Don’t tell me you’re all heroed-out. The man I saw tonight—” she paused to turn on a lamp and summon the courage to say what was in her heart “—the man I’ve seen every day since I met you is a hero.” She shook out the folds in his jacket and held it out for him to put on. “May I?” When he reached out to take it from her, she pulled back a step and tilted her face up to his. “Please? I’d love to see you in it. I have a feeling you’re stunning in your dress blues.”

  “Stunning?”

  Okay, maybe not the word a marine wanted to hear. But when she refused to let go, he relented and turned his back to her so she could help him slide his uniform jacket on over his T-shirt.

  “There you go.” He held his arms out to either side and turned. “Semper Fi.”

  When he faced her again, Maggie saw the man she knew him to be inside, the same man she wished he could see. She supposed she should come up with a different word to describe the man she was looking at right now—hot, impressive, noble, sexy, patriotic, proud, powerful, handsome.

  “Well?” he prodded, waiting for her opinion.

  “Stunning.”

  John grinned, shook his head and started to shrug out of the jacket.

  “Wait.” Maggie picked up the box with his Silver Star and opened it.

  “Sarge…”

  “It’s not complete yet.” She pulled out the prestigious medal and unhooked the clasp.

  His hands settled at either side of her waist and he tried to look stern with her. “Maggie…”

  “Shh. Let me.”

  He touched his fingertip to the corner of her eye and traced the salty track of a tear down her cheek. “Will it make these go away?”

  She nodded.

  “Then do it.”

  Humbled and honored by the permission bestowed on her, Maggie slipped her fingers inside the front of his uniform to protect his heart as she pinned the medal above the pocket. She felt his chest heave against the back of her hand as some deeply hidden emotion surfaced. His fingers slid beneath her blouse and massaged the skin above the waistband of her jeans, as though holding still for her was almost more than he could endure. She pulled the pin back through the material and sealed the clasp. John leaned in to rest his forehead against hers.

  Maggie outlined the ribbon with her finger and touched each shiny point of the star. Then she rested her hand over the medal, over his heart, and smiled. She tilted her eyes to look up into the unblinking intensity of his. “Your character, your commitment, your caring—those are the things that make you a hero, John. Not this medal.” She slid her hands higher, framing the stubbled warmth of his jaw between them. “But maybe every now and then, if you look at this or your Purple Heart, you’ll remember the men whose lives you saved. And the ones who helped save yours.” She stroked her thumb across his lips and felt him shudder beneath her touch. “And maybe you’ll remember what makes you a hero to my son. And to me.”

  She stretched up on tiptoe to replace her thumb with her mouth. She kissed him gently, felt his hands nip into her waist. She kissed him again, more firmly this time, and his lips chased after hers when she pulled away. Green-g
old eyes locked onto hers. And then John’s arms snaked behind her back, drawing her tight against his chest and lifting her so he could claim her mouth in a fierce, passionate kiss.

  Maggie wound her arms around his neck and held on as the emotions she’d unleashed poured out of him with every kiss and caress. She met each foray—taste for taste, touch for touch, need for need. He squeezed her almost painfully tight, imprinting brass buttons against her breast and stomach. His hands slid inside her blouse, dipped inside her jeans, stroking her skin, sending shivers along her spine even as she grew feverishly hot.

  “John,” she whispered, brushing her lips across his cheekbone, nibbling at his jaw. As much as she loved seeing him in uniform, she was beginning to think he needed to take it off. She wanted to touch the heat of his skin. She wanted to learn the supple movements of his body beneath her hands. She wanted to feel his thudding heart beating against hers.

  His mouth opened warm and hot over the bundle of nerves beneath her ear and she gasped at the instant response in the tips of her breasts and deeper inside. With blind impatience, she pushed at the collar of his jacket and he quickly shrugged out of it and tossed it onto the couch. His lips moved from her throat down into the V of her blouse. He slipped one button free and rasped his tongue against the open spot.

  “Your skin is so soft.”

  Another button opened and he dipped his tongue into the cleavage between her breasts.

  “So pretty, so hot.”

  Her blouse fell open to her waist and John fit his big hands to her breasts, gently kneading, squeezing. His thumbs teased the proud tips straining against the confinements of satin and lace.

  Each touch was a torment, every kiss a call that beckoned her to answer. She ached to feel his skin on hers, to feel his hardness against her curves. She wanted to feel the weight of him on top of her, inside her. It had been so long since she’d wanted. And she’d never wanted like this.

  She tugged at the hem of his shirt and pushed it up beneath his arms to take the same liberties he had. She touched. His smooth muscles quivered beneath her hands. She closed her lips around his flat nipple and coaxed it to attention, tasting the musky flavor of his skin.

  He groaned in response and slipped his hands down to cup her bottom and drag her up against the hard evidence of his desire. “Maggie, I want… I need… Can you? Will you?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was too breathy, too unsure. Say it louder. “Yes,” she repeated. Make this right, Maggie. Do it. She pulled his mouth back up to hers and whispered against his lips. “Yes.”

  Seconds later, they were in her bedroom with the door closed behind them, tumbling onto the bed. Her blouse was gone, her jeans MIA. Maggie reached for the snap of his jeans and eased the zipper over his erection. But she got no further before his hands closed over hers and pulled them away. “Wait a second. Slow down.”

  “I don’t need slow right now, John. I just need…” Oh, no. Had she done something wrong? Been too bold? Danny had never even asked her what she wanted, much less encouraged her to take the lead. Scrambling up onto her knees beside him, she grabbed a pillow from the head board and hugged it over her chest, feeling suddenly unsure. “I’m sorry. What should I—”

  John sat up and pressed a finger to her tender lips, silencing her. “Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop it. And you don’t need this.” He plucked the pillow from her grasp and tossed it to the floor. “I want to see every beautiful inch of you.”

  Maggie followed him to the edge of the bed where he swung his legs over the side. “Then what’s wrong?”

  “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you—with this.” He combed his fingers through the loose waves of her hair and draped the ends over the swell of her breast, stroking her with the backs of his knuckles and raising chill bumps there. “I know my timing sucks, but…” He released her hair and raised his hips off the bed to tug his jeans down to his knees. “I need to take my leg off. It’ll get tangled in the covers or it might knock against your shins or hit the bedpost if I’m not thinking about what I’m doing with it, and I don’t want to bruise you or spoil the moment.”

  The self-conscious cloud cleared and Maggie knelt on the floor in front of him to help him pull off his shoes and jeans. When he was naked and vulnerable in front of her—his desire for her as obvious as the worry shining from his eyes—she bent forward to press a kiss to the elastic brace encircling his knee. She gently touched the strong, surprisingly lightweight post that extended down to his false foot. Tears scratched beneath her eyelids. “Oh, John. How you must have hurt.”

  “Actually, the burns killed most of my nerve endings.” A tear spilled over at the suffering he’d endured. He cupped her cheek and brushed away the tear. “Hey, I thought these were going away.”

  If he could come to terms with his past and focus on this moment together, then so could she. With a brave smile, she sniffed away her sorrow and began peeling back the elastic band that covered the joint between his real and artificial leg. “Show me how.”

  “Ah, Sarge.” She’d exposed the joint itself, revealing the miraculous testament to medical genius and the human will. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I want to.” With gentle, reverent touches—and fingers that were more sure than she’d expected—she followed his instructions and removed the prosthetic. She pushed his hand aside and took over the job herself when he massaged the rounded stump. “I’m not scared of this, John. It’s a badge of honor, even more than your medals. I’m scared of…”

  “Of what?” He pulled her up and fell back across the bed with her. He propped himself up on his elbow beside her and flattened his palm at the center of her stomach. “Maggie, what scares you?”

  She was obliquely aware of the shorter leg falling on top of hers. Yet it wasn’t the handicap she noticed, but the erotic differences between his crisp, masculine hair and her smoothly shaven thigh. She was aware of the corded strength in his leg, the arousal nudging against her hip. She was aware of the desire shading his hazel eyes and knew he was a powerful, potent man.

  Maggie splayed her fingers over John’s and looked down at them, embarrassed to speak the truth. “I haven’t had sex in ten years, and I was never great at it, even before the rape.”

  For several awkward moments, John said nothing. And then he pulled his hand from beneath hers. “I’m not having sex with you, Maggie Wheeler.”

  Shocked at how easily he’d changed his mind, her eyes darted up to his. Embarrassed, heartsick, she tried to scoot away. “You don’t have to do me any favors. If you think you’re being noble or you’re worried I’ll freak out or—”

  John rolled his body half on top of her, caught her chin in his hand and silenced her protest with a kiss. She went completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath his, and the needy, inevitable response his lips triggered in hers.

  He finally pulled back when she was clutching at his shoulders and shamelessly giving whatever he asked for in that kiss. She lay back on the bed, trapped in his eyes and confused by the delicious promise of his embrace. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know what kind of garbage Danny put into your head, but we’re not having sex.” He pushed a bra strap off one shoulder and then the other. “I’m making love to you. Slow, wonderful, make-you-cry-out-my-name love to you.”

  The vow in those words made her blush. She felt the heat of them sinking into her blood and shimmering throughout her body. John dipped his head to kiss the rosy stain of heat on her breast. He kissed her again, pulling away the satin covering and tonguing the puckered nub of the nipple that sprang forth to meet him. Beneath his tender, thorough seduction, she moaned with helpless need. “Neither one of us is perfect. But together, I think we just might be.”

  It was an intoxicating promise. Maggie framed his face between her hands, drew his mouth back to hers and nodded.

  “Yes, what?” he whispered against her swollen, tender lips.

&
nbsp; “You’re a good talker, John Murdock. Now show me perfect.”

  Soon, she was just as naked, just as needy, just as sure that being with John was what they both wanted. With her body on fire in ways it had never been before, she willingly climbed into John’s lap as he sat up and pulled her onto his thighs. He entered her in a slow, patient stroke that finally bound them together as one. There was no need for words as they fell into a rhythm that took him deeper, faster, completely inside her.

  She wanted to feel, to fly, to know the joy of loving a man who wouldn’t hurt, who wouldn’t take, who wouldn’t force. She wanted to be with John Murdock tonight as much as she’d ever wanted anything in her life. He held her close, chest to chest, as the tiny tremors inside her quaked and grew.

  And when he thrust up inside her, groaning with his release, and waves of sensation cascaded down all around him, Maggie buried her face in his neck because she did, indeed, cry out John’s name.

  * * *

  LATER IN THE NIGHT, John awoke to the clinging blanket of the sleeping woman wrapped in his arms. Maggie’s freckled skin was somehow both pale and warm in the dusky moonlight filtering through the blinds at her window. For all her height and strength and courage, she seemed fragile and vulnerable and oh, so feminine draped against his side, her bare breasts pillowed against him, the even rhythm of her breathing fluttering across his skin.

  Humbled by the gifts of her passion and trust, he pressed a kiss to the soft jut of her shoulder. Then he extricated himself from her bed as gently as he could and pulled the covers up over her.

  Dressing in nothing but his boxer shorts, he made a quick trip to the john to freshen up. Hopping on one leg, bracing his hand against a wall or door frame when he needed some balance, he made his way throughout the apartment, double-checking the locks on the front door, securing each window and making sure the answering machine was clear of any vile messages from Danny before he went into Travis’s room.

  The ten-year-old was sprawled out in sleep, covers kicked to the floor. John removed the medal box and set it on the lamp table beside the boy’s ball glove before tucking the covers around him again and heading back to Maggie’s bedroom.