Seal Team Ten

by Brockmann, Suzanne

  Because he didn't want her love, not in any format. Not even quick and easy and free—the way she'd offered it.

  She just lay on her bed, head aching and face numb from the hours she'd already cried, but unable to stop.

  But then she wasn't alone anymore. She didn't know how he got in. Her door was locked. She hadn't even heard his footsteps on the floor.

  It was as if Bobby had just suddenly materialized, next to her bed.

  He didn't hesitate, he just lay down right next to her and drew her into his arms. He didn't say a word, he just held her close, cradling her with his entire body.

  His shirt was soft against her cheek. He smelled like clean clothes and coffee. The trace of cigarette smoke that usually lingered on his shirt and even in his hair had finally been washed away.

  But it was late. If he was going to get to Logan in time to catch his flight to Norfolk... "You have to leave soon," she told him, trying to be strong, wiping her face and lifting her head to look into his eyes.

  For a man who could make one mean war face when he wanted to, he had the softest, most gentle eyes. "No." He shook his head slightly. "I don't."

  Colleen couldn't help it. Fresh tears welled, and she shook from trying so hard not to cry.

  "It's okay," he told her. "Go on and cry. I've got you, sweet. I'm here. I'll be here for as long as you need me."

  She clung to him.

  And he just held her and held her and held her.

  As she fell asleep, still held tightly in his arms, his fin­gers running gently through her hair, her last thought was to wonder hazily what he was going to say when he found out that she could well need him forever.

  Bobby woke up slowly. He knew even before he opened his eyes that, like Dorothy, he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Wherever he was, it wasn't his apartment on the base, and he most certainly wasn't alone.

  It came to him in a flash. Massachusetts. Colleen Skelly, She was lying against him, on top of him, beneath him, her leg thrown across his, his thigh pressed tight between her legs. Her head was on his shoulder, his arms beneath her and around her, the softness of her breasts against his chest, her hand tucked up alongside his neck.

  They were both still fully dressed, but Bobby knew with an acceptance of his fate—it was actually quite calming and peaceful, all things considered—that after she awoke, they wouldn't keep their clothes on for long.

  He'd had his chance for a clean escape, and he'd blown it. He was here, and there was no way in hell he was going to walk away now.

  Wes was just going to have to kill him.

  But, damn, it was going to be worth it. Bobby was going to die with a smile on his face.

  His hand had slipped up underneath the edge of Col­leen's T-shirt, and he took advantage of that, gliding his fingers across the smooth skin of her back, up all the way to the back strap of her bra, down to the waistband of her shorts. Up and back in an unending circle.

  Man, he could lie here, just touching her lightly like this, for the rest of his life.

  But Colleen stirred, and he waited, still caressing the softness of her skin, feeling her wake up and become as aware of him as he was of her.

  She didn't move, didn't pull away from him.

  And he didn't stop touching her.

  “How long did I sleep?" she finally asked, her voice even huskier than usual.

  "I don't know," he admitted. "I fell asleep, too." He glanced at the windows. The light was starting to weaken. "It's probably around —seven o'clock."

  ''Thank you," she said. "For coming here."

  "You want to talk about it?" Bobby asked. "About An-alena?"

  "No," she said. "Because when I say it out loud, it all sounds so stupid. I mean, what was I thinking? That I was going to bring her here, to live with me? I mean, come on—who was I kidding? I don't have room—look at this place. And I don't have money—I can barely pay my own bills. I couldn't live here without Ashley paying for half of everything. I had to sell my car to stay in law school. And that's with the school loans. And how am I supposed to take care of a kid while I'm going to school? I don't have time for an instant family—not now while I'm in law school. I don't have time for a husband, let alone a child, And yet..."

  She shook her head. “When I saw her pictures and read her letters... Oh, Bobby, she was so alive. I didn't even get a chance to know her, but I wanted to—God, I wanted to!"

  “If you had met her, you would have fallen completely in love with her." He smiled. "I know you pretty well. And she would've loved you, too. And you would have somehow made it work," he told her. "It wouldn't have been easy, but there are some things you just have to do, you know? So you do it, and it all works out. I'm sorry you won't get that chance with Analena."

  She lifted her head to look at him. "You don't think I'm being ridiculous?"

  "I would never think of you as ridiculous," he told her quietly. "Generous, yes. Warm. Giving. Loving, caring..."

  Something shifted. There was a sudden something in her eyes that clued him in to the fact that, like him, she was suddenly acutely, intensely aware of every inch of him that was in contact with every inch of her.

  "Sexy as hell," he whispered. "But never ridiculous."

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. He saw it coming. She was going to kiss him, and his fate would be sealed.

  He met her halfway, wanting to take a proactive part in this, wanting to do more than simply be unable to resist the temptation.

  Her lips were soft, her mouth almost unbearably sweet. It was a slow, languorous kiss—as if they both knew that from here on in, there was no turning back, no need to rush.

  He kissed her again, longer this time, deeper—just in case she had any last, lingering doubts about what was going to happen next.

  But before he could kiss her again, she pulled away. There were tears in her eyes.

  "I didn't want it to happen this way," she said.

  He tried to understand what she was telling him, tried to rein himself in. "Colleen, if you don't want me to stay—"

  "No," she said. "I do want you to stay. I want you. Too much. See, I lay awake last night, figuring out ways to get you back here. I was going to make something up, try to trick you into coming here after the meeting and then..."

  Comprehension dawned. She'd gotten what she'd wanted. He was here. But at what price? An earthquake and a war. A body count that included people she'd loved.

  "No," he told her, not wanting her to believe that. "I would've shown up here sooner or later. Even if I'd gotten on that plane—and I'm not sure I would have been able to—I would've called you from Little Creek tonight. I wouldn't have been able to resist."

  She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hands. "Re­ally?"

  "The things you do to me with just a telephone... Man, oh, man."

  Tears still clung to her eyelashes, and her nose was slightly pink. But she was laughing.

  As he held her gaze, he remembered the things she said to him last night and let her see that memory reflected in his eyes. She blushed slightly.

  "I've really never done that before," she told him. "I mean, the phone part." She blushed again as she looked away, embarrassed by what she'd just again admitted.

  He needed her to know what merely thinking about her—about that—did to him. He pulled her chin back so that she had to look into his eyes, as he answered her with

  just as much soul-baring honesty. "Maybe someday you'll let me watch."

  Someday. The word hung between them. It implied that there was going to be more than just tonight.

  "You don't do long-distance relationships," she re­minded him.

  "No," he corrected her. "I don't want to do it that way. I have in the past, and I've hated it. It's so hard to—"

  “I don't want to be something that's hard,'' she told him. "I don't want to be an obligation that turns into something you dread dealing with."

  He steeled himself, preparing to pull away from her, out of her arms. "The
n maybe I should go, before—"

  “Maybe we should just make love and not worry about tomorrow," she countered.

  She kissed him, and it was dizzying. He kissed her back hungrily, possessively—all sense of laziness gone. He wanted her, now. He needed her.

  Now.

  Her hands were in his hair, freeing it completely from the ponytail that had already halfway fallen out. She kissed him even harder, angling her head to give him better access to her mouth—or maybe to give herself better access to his mouth.

  Could she really do this?

  Make love to him tonight and only tonight?

  Her legs tightened around his thigh, and he stopped thinking. He kissed her again and again, loving the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. He reached between them, sliding his hand up under her shirt to fill his hand with her breast.

  She pulled back from him to tug at his T-shirt. She wanted it off, and it was easier simply to give up—tem­porarily—trying to kiss and touch as much of her as he possibly could, and take his shirt off himself. His shoulder

  was still stiff, and the only way he could get a T-shirt on or off was awkwardly. Painfully. One arm at a time.

  Before he even got it off, she'd started on his shorts, her fingers cool against his stomach as she unfastened the but­ton and then the zipper.

  She had his shorts halfway down his legs by the time he tossed his shirt onto the floor.

  He helped her, kicking his legs free, and then there he was. On her bed in only his briefs, while she was still fully clothed.

  He reached for her, intending to rid her of her T-shirt and shorts as efficiently as she'd taken care of his, but she distracted him by kissing him. And then he distracted him­self by touching her breasts beneath her shirt, by unfasten­ing her bra and kissing her right through the cotton, by burying his face in the softness of her body.

  It wasn't until he tried to push her shirt up over her breasts so that he could see her as well as touch and kiss, that he felt her tense.

  And he remembered.

  She was self-conscious about her body.

  Probably because she wasn't stick thin like the alleged Hollywood ideal.

  The hell with that—she was his ideal. She was curva­ceous. Stacked. Voluptuous. She was perfection.

  Man, if he were her, he would walk around in one of those little nonexistent tank tops that were so popular. She should wear one without a bra, and just watch all the men faint as she passed by.

  Someday he'd get her one of those. She could wear it here, in the privacy of her room, if she didn't want to wear it in public. Man, he hadn't thought he could get any harder, any hotter, but just the thought of her wearing something like that, just because he liked it—just for him— heated him up another notch.

  She would do it, too. After he made her realize that he truly worshiped her body, that he found her unbelievably beautiful and sexy, she would be just as adventurous about that as she was with everything else.

  Phone sex. Sweet heaven.

  Phone sex was all about words. About saying what he wanted, about saying how he felt.

  He hadn't been very good at it—not like Colleen. Unlike her, words weren't his strong suit. But he had to do it again now. He had to use words to reassure her, to let her know just how beautiful he thought she was.

  He could do it with body language, with his eyes, with his mouth and his hands. He could show her, by the way he made love to her, but even then, he knew she wouldn't completely believe him.

  No, if he wanted to dissolve that edge of tension that tightened her shoulders, he had to do it with words.

  Or did he? Maybe he could do a combination of both show and tell.

  "I think you're spectacular," he told her. "You're in­credible and gorgeous and..."

  And he was doing this wrong. She wasn't buying any of it.

  He touched her, reaching up beneath her shirt to caress her. He had the show part down. He wanted to taste her, and he realized with a flash that instead of trying to make up compliments filled with meaningless adjectives, he should just say what he wanted, say how he felt. He should just open his mouth and speak his very thoughts.

  "I want to taste you right here," he told her as he touched her. "I want to feel you in my mouth."

  He tugged her shirt up just a little, watching her face, ready to take it even more slowly if she wanted him to. But she didn't tense up, so he drew it up a little more, exposing the underside of her breast, so pale and soft and perfect.

  And then he forgot to watch her eyes because there was her nipple, peeking out. He'd been holding his breath, he realized, and he let it out in a rush. "Oh, yeah."

  She was already taut with desire, and he lowered his head to do just what he'd described. She made a sound that he liked, a sound that had nothing to do with being self-conscious and everything to do with pleasure.

  He drew her shirt up then, up and over her head, and she sat up to help him.

  And there she was.

  As he pulled back to look at her, he opened his mouth and let his thoughts escape.

  Unfortunately, his expression of sincere admiration was one of Wes's favorite, more colorful turns of phrase.

  Fortunately, Colleen laughed. She looked at him, looked at the expression he knew was on his face, the pure pleasure he let shine from his eyes.

  “You're so beautiful," he breathed. "I've died and gone to heaven."

  "Gee," she said, "and I don't even have my pants off."

  He grabbed her by the waist of her shorts, flipping her back onto the bed and, as she whooped in surprised laugh­ter, he corrected that.

  In five seconds flat she was naked and he was kissing her, touching, loving the feel of all that smooth, perfect skin against him. And when he pulled back to really look at her, there wasn't a bit of tension in the air.

  But this talking thing was working so well, why stop?

  "Do you know what you do to me?" he asked her as he touched, kissed, explored. He didn't give her time to answer. He just took one of her own exploring hands, and pressed it against him.

  "You are so sexy, that happens to me every time I see you," he whispered, looking into her eyes to let her see the intense pleasure that shot through him at her touch. "Every time I think of you."

  She was breathing hard, and he pulled her to him and kissed her again, reaching between them to help her rid him of his briefs.

  Her fingers closed around him, and he would have told her how much he liked that, but words failed him, and all he could do was groan.

  She seemed to understand and answered him in kind as he slipped his hand between her legs. She was so slick and soft and hot, he could feel himself teetering on the edge of his self-control. He needed a condom. Now.

  But when he spoke, all he could manage to say was her name.

  Again she understood. "Top drawer. Bedside table."

  He lunged for it, found it. An unopened, cellophane-wrapped box. He both loved and hated the fact that the box was unopened. Growling with frustration, he tried to rip the damned thing in half.

  Colleen took it from his hands and opened it quickly, laughing at the way he fumbled the little wrapped package, getting in the way, touching and kissing him as he tried to cover himself.

  Slow down. She'd told him herself that she hadn't had much experience. He didn't want to be too rough, didn't want to hurt her or scare her or...

  She pulled him back with her onto the bed in a move that Xena the Warrior Princess would have been in awe of. And she told him, in extremely precise language, exactly what she wanted.

  How could he refuse?

  Especially when she kissed him, when she lifted her hips and reached between them to find him and guide him and...

  He entered her far less gently than he'd intended, but her

  moan was one of pure pleasure.

  "Yes," she told him as he pushed himself even more deeply inside her. "Oh, Bobby, yes..."

  He kissed her, touched her, s
troked her, murmuring things that he couldn't believe were coming out of his mouth, things that he loved about her body, things he wanted to do to her, things she made him feel—things that made her laugh and gasp and murmur equally sexy things back to him, until he was damn near blind with passion and desire.

  Gentle had long-gone right out the window. He was fill­ing her, hard and fast, and she was right there with him, urging him on.

  She told him when she began to climax—as if he wouldn't know from the sound of her voice. As if he couldn't feel her shatter around him. Still, he loved that she told him, and her breathless words helped push him over the edge.

  And just like that he was flying, his release rocketing through him with so much power and force he had to shout her name, and even that wasn't enough.

  He wanted to tell her how she made him feel, about the sheer, crystal perfection of the moment that seemed to sur­round him, shimmering and wonderful, filling his chest un­til it was hard to breathe, until he wanted to cry from its pure beauty.

  But there were no words that could describe how he felt. To do it justice, he would have to invent a completely new vocabulary.

  Bobby realized then that he was lying on top of her, crushing her, completely spent. His shoulder felt as if he'd just been shot all over again—funny, he hadn't felt even a twinge until now and Colleen was crying.

  "Oh, my God," he said, shifting off her, pulling her so that she was in his arms. "Did I hurt you? Did I...?"

  "No!" she said, kissing him. "No, it's just...that was so perfect, it doesn't seem fair. Why should I be so lucky to be able to share something so special with you?"

  "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her hair, holding her close. He knew she was thinking about Analena.

  "Will you stay with me?" she asked. "All night?"

  "I'm right here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

  "Thank you." Colleen closed her eyes, her head against his chest, her skin still damp from their lovemaking.

  Bobby lay naked in Colleen's bed, holding her close, breathing in her sweet scent, desperately trying to fend off the harsh reality that was crashing down around him.