She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Porsche Jane."
"Portia? That's not so strange. It's pretty. Like in the Shakespeare play?"
PJ. shook her head. "Nope. Porsche like in the really fast car."
Harvard laughed. "I'm not laughing at you," he said quickly. "It's just... It's so cool. I've never met anyone who was named after a car before. Porsche. It suits you."
"I guess it could have been worse. I could've been Mas-erati. Or even Chevrolet."
"I could see you as a Spitfire," he said. "Spitfire Jane Richards. Oh, yeah."
"Gee, thanks."
"Why Porsche? There's a story there, right?"
"Uh-huh. The nutshell version is that my mother was fourteen when I was born." P.J. crossed her arms. "So are we going to stand here talking for the next six hours, or what?"
Harvard smiled. "First I'm going to marry you. Then we'll get to the or what."
They were going to do this. They were going to go inside that run-down little hut that was guarded by a swamp on one side and a minefield on the other, and they were going to make love.
P.J. was trying so hard not to be nervous. Still, he knew she was scared. But he couldn't help himself—he had to kiss her.
As his mouth touched hers, there was an instant conflagration. His canteen collided with her first aid kit, but he didn't care. He kissed her harder, and she kissed him back just as ferociously. But then his binoculars slammed against her hunting knife, and he pulled back, laughing and wanting desperately to be free of all their gear—and all their clothes.
P.J. was breathless and giddy with laughter, too. "Well, my pulse rate is back up to a healthy three hundred."
Harvard let himself drown for a moment in her eyes. "Yeah. Mine, too." He cleared his throat. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. This marriage thing. I, Daryl Becker, take you, Porsche Jane Richards, to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to love you for the rest of my life—whether it's short or long."
P.J. stopped laughing. "You said only for tonight."
Harvard nodded. "I'm hoping that tonight will last a very long time." He squeezed her hand. "Your turn."
"This is silly."
"Yup. Do it anyway. Do it for me."
P.J. took a deep breath. "I, P. J. Richards, take you, Daryl Becker, as my husband for tonight—or for the rest of my life. Depending. And I promise...."
She promised what? Harvard was standing there, waiting for her to say something more, to say something deeply emo tional. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but she couldn't do it The words stuck in her throat.
But he seemed to understand, because he didn't press her for more. Instead, he bowed his head.
"Dear God, we make these vows to each other here, in Your presence," Harvard said quietly. "There are no judges or pastors or notarized papers to give our words weight or importance. Just You, me and P.J. And really, what the three of us believe is all that truly matters, isn't it?"
He paused, and PJ. could hear the sound of insects in the grass, the stream gurgling over rocks, the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze brought them a breath of cool ocean air.
Harvard looked up, met her gaze and smiled. "I think that since we haven't been struck down by lightning, we can pretty much assume we've been given an affirmative from the Man." He pulled her closer. "And I don't think I'm going to wait for Him to clear His throat and tell me it's okay to kiss the bride." He lowered his mouth to hers, but stopped a mere whisper from her lips. "You belong to me now, PJ. And I’m all yours. For as long as you want me."
PJ. stood in the jungle on the side of a mountain as Daryl Becker gently lifted her chin and covered her lips with his. She wasn't dressed in a white gown. He wasn't wearing a gleaming dress uniform. They were clad in camouflage gear. They were dirty and sweaty and tired.
None of this should have been romantic, but somehow, someway, it was. Harvard had made it magical.
And even though their vows couldn't possibly have stood up in a court of law, PJ. knew that everything he'd told her was true. She belonged to him. She had for quite some time now. She simply hadn't let herself admit it.
"Let's go inside," he whispered, tugging gently at her hand.
It was then she realized they'd been standing within ten yards of the hut the entire time.
It was covered almost completely by vines and plants. With the thick growth of vegetation, it was camouflaged perfectly.
She could have walked within six feet of it and gone right past, never realizing it was there.
Even the roof had sprouted plant life—long slender stalks with leaves on the end that grew upward in search of the sun.
"You said you wanted a house with a garden," Harvard said with a smile.
PJ. had to laugh. "This house is a garden."
The door was hanging on only one hinge, and it creaked as Harvard pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle.
PJ. held her weapon at the ready. Just because the house looked deserted, that didn't mean it was.
But it was empty. Inside was a single room with a hard-packed dirt floor. There were no plants growing—probably because they died from lack of sun.
It was dim inside, and cool.
Harvard set down his pack, then slipped the strap of his weapon over his shoulder. "I'll be right back." He turned to look at her before he stepped out the door. "I should've carried you over this threshold."
"Don't be prehistoric."
"I think it's supposed to bring luck," he told her. "Or guarantee fertility. Or something. I forget."
PJ. laughed as he went out the door. "In the neighborhoods / grew up in, those are two hugely different things."
She set her rifle against the wall, then slipped out of her lightweight pack. It was too quiet in there without Harvard. Too dark without his light.
But he was back within minutes, just after she'd taken off her heavy combat vest and put it beside her weapon and pack. He'd cut a whole armload of palm fronds and leaves, and he tossed them onto the floor. He took a tightly rolled, lightweight blanket from his pack and covered the cushion of leaves.
He'd made them a bed.
A wedding bed.
PJ. swallowed, and she heard the sound echo in the stillness.
Harvard was watching her as he unfastened the Velcro straps on his combat vest and unbuttoned the shirt underneath.
His sleeves were rolled up high on his arms, past the bulge
of his biceps, and PJ. found herself staring at his muscles.
He had huge arms. They were about as big around as her
thighs. Maybe even bigger. His shoulders strained against the
seams of his shirt as he opened his canteen and took a drink,
all the while watching her.
He was her husband.
Oh, she knew that legally what they'd done, what they'd said, wasn't real. But Harvard clearly had meant the words he'd spoken.
She got a solid rush of pleasure from that now. It was foolish—she knew it was. But she didn't care.
He held out his hand for her, and she went to him. Her husband.
Harvard caught his breath as PJ. slipped her hands inside the open front of his shirt. It was like her to be so bold in an attempt to cover her uncertainty and fear. And she was afraid. He could see it in her eyes. But more powerful than her fear was her trust. She trusted him—if not completely, then at least certainly enough to be here with him now.
He felt giddy with the knowledge. And breathless from the responsibility. A little frightened at the thought of having to hurt her this first time. And totally turned on by her touch.
He slipped off his vest, turning away from her slightly to set it and the valuable equipment it held on the floor.
Her hands swept up his chest to his neck. She pushed his shirt up and off his shoulders. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, trailing her lips across his chest as she ran her palms down his arms. "You don't know how long I've been wanting to touch you this way."
/> "Hey, I think that's supposed to be my line." Harvard shook himself free from his shirt, letting it lie where it fell as he pulled her into his arms. Damn, she was so tiny, he could have wrapped his arms around her twice.
He felt the tiniest sliver of doubt. She was so small. And he...he wasn't. The sensation of her hands and mouth caressing him, kissing him, had completely aroused him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so turned on. He wanted her now. Hard and fast, right up against the cabin wall. He wanted to bury himself in her. He wanted to lose his mind in her fire.
But he couldn't do that. He had to take this slow. God help him, he didn't want to hurt her any more than he had to. He was going to have to take his time, be careful, be gentle, stay completely in control.
He kissed her slowly, forcing himself to set a pace that was laid-back and lazy. Because she certainly was going to be nervous and probably a little bit shy—
But then he realized with a shock that she'd already unbuttoned her shirt. He tried to help her pull it off, but he only got in the way as he touched the satiny smoothness of her arms, her back, her stomach. She was wearing a black sports bra. He wanted it off her, too, but he couldn't find the fastener. But then she began unbuckling her belt, and he was completely distracted.
She pulled away from him and sat on the blanket to untie her boot laces.
Harvard did the same, his blood pounding through his veins. His fingers fumbled as she kicked off her boots and socks, and then she was helping him—as if she were the old pro and he the clumsy novice.
She helped him get his boots off. Then, in one fluid motion, she quickly peeled off her pants and pulled her sports bra up and over her head.
So much for her being shy.
As she turned toward him, he wanted to stop her, to hold her at arm's length and just look at her. But his hands had other plans. He pulled her close and touched her, skimming his fingers along the softness of her skin, cupping the sweet fullness of her breasts in the palm of his hand.
She was the perfect mix of lithe athletic muscles and soft curves.
He kissed her, trying his damnedest not to rush. But she wasn't of the same mind. She opened her mouth to him, inviting him in, kissing him hungrily. She was an explosion of passion, a scorching embodiment of ecstasy, and he couldn't resist her. He groaned and kissed her harder, deeper, claiming her mouth with his tongue and her body with his hands. He rolled on the blanket, pulling her on top of him, letting her feel his hard desire against the softness of her belly, as he tried desperately to stay in control.
"I want to touch you," she whispered as she kissed his face, his neck, his chin. She pulled away slightly to look into his eyes. "May I touch you?"
"Oh, yeah." Harvard didn't hesitate. He took her hand and pressed her palm fully against him.
PJ. laughed giddily. "My God," she said. "And you intend to put that where?"
"Trust me," Harvard said. He drew in a breath as she grew bolder, as her fingers explored him more completely, encircling him, caressing him.
"Do I look like a woman who doesn't trust you?" she asked, smiling at him.
She was in his arms, wearing only her trust and a very small pair of black bikini panties. Yes, she trusted him. She just didn't trust him enough. If she had, she would have told him that she loved him, too. And she wouldn't have looked so frightened when he vowed to love her for the rest of his life.
It didn't matter. Harvard told himself again that it didn't matter. Although he would have liked to hear it in words, P.J. was showing him exactly how she felt.
He touched the desire-tightened tip of her bare breast with one knuckle, then ran his finger down to the elastic edge of her panties. "You look like a woman who's not quite naked enough."
She shivered at his touch. "I'm more naked than you." Her hands went to his belt. "Mind if I try to even out the odds...and satisfy my raging curiosity at the same time?"
"I love your raging curiosity," Harvard said as she tugged down the zipper of his pants.
He hooked his thumbs in his briefs and pushed both them and his pants down his legs, and then—damn, it felt good!—
she was touching him, skin against skin, her fingers curled around him.
Her eyes were about the size of dinner plates, and he leaned back on both elbows, letting her look and touch to her heart's content while he silently tried not to have a pleasure-induced stroke.
It was not like her to be quiet for so long, and she didn't disappoint him when she finally did speak. "Now I know," she told him, "what they mean when they talk about penis envy."
Harvard had to laugh. He pulled her to him for another scorching kiss, loving the sensation of her breasts soft against his chest, their legs intertwined, her hand still touching him, gently exploring, driving him damn near wild. And as much as he loved her touch, he loved this feeling of completeness, this sense of belonging and profound joy. Nothing had ever felt so right Or felt so wrong. The clock was ticking. All too soon this pleasure was going to end. He was going to have to lie to her, and then he was going to walk away—maybe never to see her again. That knowledge loomed over him, casting the bleakest of shadows.
Harvard pushed it away, far away. Slow down. He took a deep breath. He had to slow things down for more than one reason. He wanted this afternoon to last forever. And he didn't want to scare her.
But she kissed him again, and he lost all sense of reason. He took her breast into his mouth, tasting her, kissing and laving her with his tongue, and she arched against him in an explosion of pleasure so intense he nearly lost control.
He drew harder, and she moaned. It was a slow, sexy noise, and it implied that whatever she was feeling, it certainly wasn't fear.
He dipped his fingers beneath the front edge of her panties, and she stiffened, pulling away slightly. He slowed but didn't stop, lightly touching her most intimately as he gazed at her.
"Oh!" she breathed.
"Tell me if I'm going too fast for you," he murmured, searching her eyes.
"That feels so good," she whispered. She closed her eyes and relaxed against him.
"If you want, we can do it like this for a while," he told her.
She looked at him, surprised. "But...what about you? What about your pleasure?"
"This gives me pleasure. Holding you, touching you like this, watching you..." He took a moment to rid her of her panties. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. "Believe me, we could do this all afternoon, and I'd do just fine in the pleasure department."
She cried out, and her grip on him tightened as his exploring fingers delved a little deeper. Her hips moved upward instinctively, pressing him inside her. She was slick and hot with desire, and he loved knowing that he'd done that to her.
She was his—and his alone. No other man had touched her this way, no other man before him. No other man had heard her moan with this passion. No other man would ever have this chance to be her first lover.
He kissed her possessively, suddenly dizzy from wanting and damn near aching with need, pressing the hard length of his arousal against the sweet softness of her thigh, still touching her, always touching her, harder now, but no less gently.
She returned his kisses fiercely, then pulled back to laugh at him. "You are such a liar," she accused him breathlessly. She imitated his voice. "We could do this all afternoon...."
"I'm not lying. It's true that I want you more than I've ever wanted anyone—I can't argue with that. But this is good, too. This is beyond good," he told her, taking a moment to draw one deliciously tempting nipple into his mouth. "I could do this for the rest of my life and die a happy man."
He gently grazed her with his teeth, and she gasped, her movement opening herself to him more completely. "Please," she said. "I want..." She was breathing raggedly as she looked at him.
"What?" he whispered, kissing her breasts, her collarbone, her throat. "Tell me, P.J. Tell me what you want."
"I want you to sho
w me how we can fit together. I want to feel you inside of me."
He kissed her again, pushing himself off her. "I’ll get a condom."
P.J. pushed herself onto her elbows. "You brought condoms on a training operation?"
Harvard laughed as he opened one of the Velcro pockets of his vest. "Yeah. You did, too. You should have three or four in your combat vest. To put over our rifle barrels in case of heavy rain, remember?"
She wasn't paying attention. She was watching him as he tore open the foil packet, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. Her hair had come free from her ponytail, and it hung thickly around her shoulders. Her satin-smooth skin gleamed exquisitely in the dim light that filtered through the holes in the ancient ceiling.
Harvard took his time covering himself, wanting to memorize that picture of her lying there, naked and waiting for him. He wanted to be able to call it up at will. He wanted to be able to remember this little corner of heaven when he left tonight, heading for hell.
But then he could wait no longer.
She held out her arms for him, and he went to her. He crawled onto the blanket and he kissed her, his body cradled between her legs. He kissed her again and again—long, slow, deep kisses calculated to leave her breathless. They worked their magic on him, as well, and he came up for air, breathing hard and half-blind with need.
He reached between them, feeling her heat, knowing it was now or never. In order to give her pleasure, he first had to give her pain.
But maybe he could mask that pain with the heat of the fire he knew he could light within her.
He kissed her hard, launching a sensual attack against her, stroking her breasts, knowing she loved that sensation. He touched her mercilessly and kissed her relentlessly as he po sitioned himself against her, letting her feel his weight. Her hips lifted to meet him, and she rubbed herself against his length, damn near doing him in.
The wildfire he'd started was in him, as well, consuming him, burning him alive.
"Please," she breathed into his mouth between feverish kisses. "Dary1, please..."
Harvard shifted his hips and drove himself inside her.
She cried out, but it wasn't hurt that tinged her voice and echoed in the tiny hut. She clung to him tightly, her breath coming fast in his ear.
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