Renegade

by Catherine Mann

  She smiled her appreciation against his mouth. She tasted like raspberry tea with a hint of mint from her toothpaste, and he wanted more. Without breaking contact, she eased back on the bed, her head settling to rest on the plump pillows, wafting the scent of fabric softener—his new favorite erotic smell, right up there with roses.

  He almost groaned his relief at finally being able to stretch over her, their bodies crushing petals, releasing a fresh swell of perfume. Feeling the way their bodies fit together in a preshow of things to come. Her foot skimmed down his calf and up again, ramping up his desire.

  Tunneling his hands deeper into her hair, he nipped along her lower lip. “You’re so beautiful. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve watched the light play off your red hair and fantasized about taking it down. Seeing it against the pillow is definitely fantasy worthy.”

  She laughed against his mouth, husky and low. “It can’t have been that many times, given it’s been less than a week since you parachuted into the desert.”

  He levered up on his elbow. “I’ll make a deal with you. How about we both toss away preconceptions about each other?”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea.” She tugged him closer again insistently. “What were you saying before my insecurities interrupted?”

  “I was telling you how beautiful you are”—he kissed her mouth—“how sexy you are”—he kissed her jaw—“how much looking at your long legs turns me on.” He sketched a hand over her hip and down her thigh.

  “Clothes,” she whispered, her voice husky with passion, “we have too many clothes on. I want to see more of you.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you over that.” He scrunched her shirt in his fingers.

  She swept aside his hands and tossed aside her own shirt to rest by a stray rose petal. “Time for you to stand up.”

  Her words took a few seconds to sink in, since he couldn’t process more than the sight of the creamy swell of her breasts in her copper-colored lace bra. Then his brain kicked into high gear. Getting both of them naked soon took top priority.

  “Damn, you’re bossy.” He held up his hands. “But hey, I’m not one to argue with a chick who carries her own gun. Although I wouldn’t object if you put it on the bedside table.”

  He stood, and she pulled her gun from the holster clipped to her jeans waistband. She passed him the 9 mm, a sign he understood full well was her way of displaying her trust—here in the bedroom anyway. He set the weapon on the end table. She stayed back on her pillow, reaching to tease at the tab of the long zipper that extended down the front of his flight suit.

  He folded his hand over hers, and she sat up, swinging her legs to either side of him. She inched the zipper down, inch by torturous inch. The woman was a helluva temptress. She pushed the uniform over his shoulders until it bunched around his waist, taking her sweet time as her hands teased over his T-shirt before finally sweeping it over his head. With a sassy flick of her wrist, she sent it sailing. He kicked away his flight suit, leaving him only in his boxer shorts.

  “Valentine’s Day underwear. You wore cupids in the desert.” She teased her finger along the waistband. “Conversation candy heart designs this time. Hmmm . . . All-star. Loverboy. Awesome.”

  His stomach muscles went taut against the taunting tease of her caress so damn near where he needed her to touch. “Can we read my underwear after?”

  “Of course, Loverboy,” she teased. Jill rose to her feet, her wrists draping over his shoulders. “Do you celebrate all holidays this way or just the lovers’ day?”

  “Guess you’ll have to stick around long enough to see my bunny rabbit boxers this spring.”

  He made fast work of her jeans, all the faster as she shimmied the denim down and away. He kissed her again, and the next thing he knew, finally, finally they were naked. Her skin was smoother and softer against him than he could have imagined, made all the sweeter by the tantalizing way she arched closer, her curves imprinting themselves on him as fully as in his memory.

  Angling back, he lowered her to the bed in a controlled glide, a whole lot more controlled than he felt inside. In fact, before he lost what little ability he had left to reason, he needed to take care of . . .

  “Birth control. In my flight suit.” He reached down to the floor. “I’ll be back before you can . . .” He slid over her again, small packet in hand. “. . . before you can miss me.”

  “Hmmm . . .” She nipped his ear, stole the condom, caressed it in place until his head fell to rest by her ear with a groan.

  Drawing in a ragged breath to steady his control, he kissed along her shoulder, lower, lower still, until he drew her nipple into his mouth and rolled the tip with his tongue. She grew tighter in his mouth, her fingers digging into his back until he could feel the pierce of close-clipped nails leaving little half-moons.

  He touched her, just touched and stroked and fell into the sensation of learning everything about her, her feel, her taste. Best of all, her wants. Part of him wanted to rush, to be inside her now, but another, stronger part of him needed to make the most of this night.

  From the start, Jill had made it clear he wasn’t her sort of guy, so he might well not have another chance. Although he would be doing his damnedest tonight to persuade her to show up for an encore.

  He’d meant it when he said he hadn’t expected this with Jill, and he damn well wasn’t squandering a second of his time with her. And afterward? They’d both come so close to death over the past few days, living in the now seemed the wisest course.

  He eased his mouth away and kissed along her chest, charting his way.

  Her hands played along his back. “What are you doing?”

  “Playing connect the freckles, my new favorite game.”

  “I think,” she gasped, “that I like this game a lot.”

  “You only think? I’ll have to work harder then.”

  Her hand tucked between them, and she stroked him. “I don’t think you can get any harder than this.”

  His eyes slid closed, and she caressed again. His forehead fell to rest against hers, and his hands shook as he swept back her hair. Her fingers climbed around to grip his hips. He positioned himself over her, against her, nudging. Her nails dug in deeper, sinking into his flesh, urging him deeper as she bowed up. He thrust inside and damn near came apart like an untried teen. He clenched his jaw and held back, held still, held himself in check until he could hold her again.

  And then he moved, and she moaned, moving with him. Her legs locked around him, lean and toned, holding strong in the moment. He couldn’t stop taking in everything about her—her sighs of pleasure, the way her jaw tensed and she bit the tip of her tongue.

  He tamped down his release, determined to make this last as long as possible—or at least until she finished first. Something that seemed increasingly imminent if her breathy gasps and soft, writhing body were anything to judge by.

  Her orgasm pulsed around him, massaging him over the edge. He drove into her body, taking her as high as he could until they both shuddered against each other in the after-waves.

  Mason slid from her body and rolled to his back. His head dug back into his pillow, his chest heaving for air. He inched one hand over to brush his knuckles across her hand, about all the movement he could muster for the moment.

  He damn well hadn’t expected this with her, and no way could he have seen how being with her would rock him on some level he’d never felt before. He’d never been so into the moment, into this particular woman. Already he wanted to have her again, to learn what made her tick and deliver it right to her doorstep.

  But he couldn’t escape the sneaking sensation, the question of what could this strong, intensely confident—and competent—woman ever need from him?

  Sitting on the counter in the kitchenette while Mason made breakfast, Jill needed space. Soon.

  However, space was in short supply while locked up in a little condo on base with a watchdog and the hottest man she
’d ever met. Of course, he was the very reason she needed breathing room. She’d been with men before—not a lot by most measures, but enough to know that something different had happened last night. Mason was different.

  She wrapped the sheet closer around herself, tucking it tighter under her arms. The scent of roses clung to her “sarong,” reminding her of how long they’d rolled together in those petals while they’d loved each other with their bodies, their mouths, even their eyes.

  Never had she been with a man who was so completely and totally focused on her. He’d said he wasn’t into toys or gymnastics, and he didn’t need to be. The man’s total and undivided attention provided enough stimulation to send any woman into orbit with a pleasure so intense she’d forgotten to breathe.

  Sex was about the physical and the mind stroking. And without a question, Mason’s mind, his attention, his focus had caressed every inch of her, inside and out.

  Was it this way for him every time? If so, no wonder he had women falling at his feet.

  His currently bare feet. He stood at the stove in his jeans only, with the top button undone. His buffed chest rippled as he shuffled pans and ingredients in his breakfast prep, making the most of the basic food products prestocked in the refrigerator, cabinet, and fruit basket. The stubborn cowlick in his hair ramped up, still damp from their time washing each other.

  She wanted him all over again, even though every well-worked muscle in her tender body told her they’d both maxed out for a few more hours at least. Her mouth watered, and it had nothing to do with the delicate crepes he cooked in the pan, the scent of brown sugar, nutmeg, and cinnamon teasing her nose.

  She tore her attention away from him and eyed the black leather combat boot with doggie teeth marks along the edges of the soles. “Sorry about your boot.”

  He shifted back and forth in front of the stove with unmistakable ease, a paisley hand towel draped over his broad, naked shoulder. “I thought Phil said he was trained.”

  “Phil apparently hasn’t taught him everything.” She stroked Boo’s head with her toe as he sprawled on the floor, chewing away happily on a knotted sock. “Or maybe we left him alone too long last night. That walled-in patio where we let him out to do his business doesn’t provide much room for exercise.”

  Mason shot a sideways glance her way, his green eyes deepening to the same gem tone she’d seen when he moved inside her. “That could be. Hopefully we won’t be contained like this for too much longer.”

  She sipped her mug of raspberry tea she’d found by the bedside when she’d woken alone to only the sound of him in the shower. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

  He slid a pair of banana crepes on a dish, spooned warm sauce over them, and topped them with a dollop of whipped cream. “As much as I’d like to spend the whole afternoon here with you, Agent Barrera will be by to pick us up in a couple of hours.”

  “He’ll have a plan in place for us to bait the serial killer?”

  “That’s what he’s hoping.” He filled two small juice glasses with OJ.

  “And what are you hoping?”

  “What I want doesn’t always matter in these cases.” He spooned up a bite of banana crepe and brought it to her mouth. “Now eat. It could be a long day.”

  Her lips closed over the spoon and . . . Oh. My. “You really can cook.”

  “Those crepes aren’t only about looking pretty.”

  She swallowed down the bite, taking the spoon and plate from him and feeding a taste to him. Mason probably wouldn’t appreciate being compared to a plate of pretty crepes, but she couldn’t miss the parallel as she learned there was a lot more to Mason than just his looks.

  She leaned over the plate to kiss him. He tasted of caramel and a light sheen of his perspiration, the perfect balance of salty and sweet. “Amazing.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  She laughed and leaned back to take another bite. “I still can’t believe you used all those healthy cooking tricks in something so decadent.”

  He tugged the towel off his shoulder. “You weren’t supposed to notice that. When folks hear something’s healthy, they expect it to taste like cardboard, and expectations are half of the eating experience.”

  She shoveled in another bite. “My taste buds are too busy having orgasms to think that deeply.”

  “Food orgasms? I’ll have to remember that.”

  She dug into a second crepe, hating that she’d even thought about the calorie count. “I know firsthand that not all low-cal food tastes this good.” She tried to bite back the words bubbling up, then decided, what the hell? She’d grown beyond those years sitting at the school lunch table alone, whispered about on the bus, picked last in gym class. “I was an awkward preteen. I wasn’t just clumsy. I was the chubby kid.”

  Mason stayed silent, his silence giving her the room she needed put her thoughts together. “Uncle Phil really supported me, helped me look beyond Mom’s hurtful asides. He never asked me if I really wanted that Twinkie. Or would I like to take a nice bike ride instead of reading another book? He just accepted me as I was and taught me how to blast a strobe light across a mountain.”

  He stared at her intently. “Acceptance is a rare gift.”

  The intensity, the insightfulness of his eyes made her uncomfortable. She’d bared enough of her body and soul for one day.

  Jill cleared her throat, dabbing a napkin along the corner of her mouth. “Uh, where did you learn a healthy heart recipe? I’ve seen you eat, and you most definitely are not counting fat grams.”

  He swiped the cloth along the counter. “One of the guys I fly with—Jimmy Gage—is engaged to a diabetic with a serious sweet tooth. I passed along some recipes to Chloe. She gave them two thumbs-up, so I thought you might enjoy them.”

  “I hope you didn’t serve them to her the same way you dished them up for me.”

  “Jimmy would kick my ass. I’m still walking, so you can safely assume I’ve never hit on Chloe.”

  His fingers stroked along her bare arm. “Are you having regrets about last night?”

  “No.” Not much. “I went into this with my eyes open. We’re both consenting adults in a high-octane situation. It’s only natural we would ride an adrenaline wave that could lead two single people, who were already attracted to each other—”

  He kissed her silent.

  “What was that for?”

  “You were about to give me the brush-off.”

  “Or give us an out.”

  He passed her the plate again. “Eat your breakfast.” He drained his glass of juice. “We don’t have much longer here in safety. Don’t bring the outside world in to wreck it.”

  She looked away from the intensity in his eyes she didn’t know what to do with. “Okay, for now.” She eased her plate back to the counter. “But I need to give Boo some water, and he needs another trip out onto the patio.”

  Mason’s hand fell to her arm. “I’ll let him out. Enjoy your food.”

  He walked to the table, reached into the bag of supplies Phil had sent for the dog, and pulled out the bottle of vitamins Phil insisted Boo needed for some condition or another. He shrugged his leather jacket over his naked chest while slipping his bare feet into his loafers. He could stand in the open patio doorway and watch both the dog and Jill at the same time. “Come on, big guy.”

  He slid open the patio door and twisted the bottle to squirt a few drops into the water bowl just inside.

  Boo growled low.

  Mason’s body tensed. He scoured the small patio, looked at Jill and back out again. “It’s all clear,” he reassured her, then snapped his fingers for the dog. “Come on, fella. It’s just your vitamins. See?”

  Mason held up the eye-dropper.

  Boo sprang forward and body-slammed Mason’s legs. Jill gasped at the dog’s uncharacteristic aggression and hopped off the counter. Mason extended his hand to keep Jill back. Boo headbutted him again. Boo nipped at Mason’s jeans and tugged, snarling. What the hell?<
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  The bottle of vitamins fell to the carpet, the liquid spilling out and bubbling along the carpet.

  The bubbling increased to a frothing volcano that steamed an acrid stench. The carpet melted away under the liquid.

  Jill’s chest went tight with horror.

  Tears stinging her eyes as hotly as whatever seared the carpet, Jill raced across the room and hooked her arm tightly around Boo’s neck, fear stinging like acid over her nerves. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to explain this away to housekeeping.”

  FOURTEEN

  Rex rolled open the silver server on the breakfast buffet at the Officers’ Club, probably not the wisest place to have brought Livia Cicero for their “date,” given the crowd, a very curious throng of people in uniform along with the occasional civilian family member, most of whom recognized his famous breakfast companion. But he’d been more concerned about keeping things with Livia low-key and quick. Breakfast wasn’t even lunch, which was certainly less of a relationship statement than dinner.

  Unless people assumed breakfast followed a night together.

  Damn, he wasn’t any good at this kind of thing. He’d only ever been with Heather. Not that this was a date. This was about turning a page and moving forward with his life.

  His work plate was even fuller than the warmed stoneware in his hand—currently piled with eggs, sausage, hash browns, and a side dish of pancakes. He often missed lunch and ate supper late, if at all, so he always doubled up in the morning. Or rather, Heather had gotten him in that habit after realizing how often he skipped meals so he could cram in more work.

  He dipped the ladle through the heated syrup and poured it over his stack of pancakes, added some melted butter, and done. Nothing left to do but return to his table for two. He balanced his plates and turned back toward Livia.

  She perched on the edge of her chair with her fruit compote and tall latte, linen tablecloth brushing the top of her bare knees. She almost managed to hide a yawn behind her napkin. Livia obviously wasn’t a morning person, not surprising, since he would guess music industry people worked more in the afternoons and evenings.