by Janice Lynn
Sure, Clara’s e-mails said she didn’t want Amelia to hold the past against Cole, that Cole was a good man, that they’d just not been meant to be. Her sister was trying to make things easier, trying to lessen Amelia’s burden. If only her sister knew.
Yet like a silly moth flitting into a light, she couldn’t stop the events from unfolding, couldn’t even try. Every instinct she had drew her to Cole, closer and closer until she’d burn.
His hands pressed against the bare skin of her back, his body swaying with hers to the music. “I like your dress.”
“Thank you.” She’d bought the multicolored dress earlier that day and liked the way the material clung to her body, almost making her appear to have curves. Had she worn the dress because the style made her feel feminine? Less of a soldier and more of a woman?
“I like what’s in it better,” he breathed close to her ear.
Puh-leeze. She may have been drinking, but she hadn’t completely lost her senses. Not yet.
“Don’t use cheesy lines on me.”
“Why? Won’t they work? Looked like the lines I interrupted were working quite effectively.” The way his jaw worked when he said it belied the easy tone of his words.
“What’s wrong, Cole? Jealous?”
“Of another man holding you?” he asked, tensing against her, his hands holding her a bit tighter, his jaw practically clenched. “Hell, yes.”
“You don’t own me, Cole. I can dance with whomever I please, whenever I please.”
Some ground rules needed to be established. Like that no matter what happened between them, she was her own woman. She’d do as she pleased, when she pleased, and with whom she pleased. If he didn’t like that, he could get over himself.
“I know,” he agreed, looking smug and like he saw right through her, like he knew just why she protested and found it cute. Cute! “Which is why you’re dancing with me, Amelia. You please me very much.”
He’d twisted her words, which should infuriate her. Instead, warmth spread, settling low in her belly. “I do?”
“Don’t play games,” he warned in a low growl that sent shivers across her skin. “We’re beyond games. You know you please me, that you’re all I think about, kissing you, touching you, tasting you. I want you so much I ache.”
The warmth erupted into all-out explosive heat at the intensity with which he spoke.
He was right. No more game playing.
Biting her lower lip, giving herself up to the inevitable, she met his gaze. “I ache, too.”
“I know.” He sighed, his palms flattening against her back, holding her against him. “I know you do. It’s just the way things are between us. A constant, undeniable ache neither of us can fight.”
“I’m tired of fighting, Cole. So tired.” She rubbed her cheek against the strong wall of his chest, realizing that she was tired. Tired of having to be strong, tired of fighting what she was feeling, tired of the guilt, the frustration, the anger, the pain, the desire of wanting him, the wondering why he’d asked her to wait then left. She was tired of all of it and just wanted to lean on Cole, to soak in his confident strength, if only for a short while.
He kissed the top of her hair, breathed in her scent. “We both are, sweetheart. For the next two days, we don’t have to fight anything, least of all each other.”
Whatever resistance she might have been able to muster vanished. She gave herself over to the music playing between them, moving in beat to the tune, going wherever Cole led regardless of the consequences that were sure to follow.
Too bad that rather than leaving, he led her back to the table where their friends were, because escaping became almost impossible.
Where had the bottle of Jack Daniel’s come from, anyway?
Peyton poured a measured amount into the glasses of everyone at the table. On a high from her dance with Cole, Amelia upended her shot glass and lifted it to the cheers of her tablemates.
They were drinking like the sailors they were.
Round after round, they drank, laughed, recounted tales of shared experiences, pranks pulled and personal blunders.
Amelia sat next to Cole, plastered to his side, their hands locked beneath the privacy of the table, although they probably weren’t fooling a soul.
She laughed, shifted. Their hands slid across her lap. Cole tensed next to her with the awareness that his hand lay across her leg with only a thin scrap of silk between them. An awareness they both felt.
An awareness that was burning her up from the inside out, waiting, burning, building, growing hotter and hotter until she felt she was about to burst into uncontrollable flames.
Without letting go of her hand, he gently raked his fingers over the material, bunching the cloth higher, slowly exposing the flesh beneath. Other than a quick glance his way, she didn’t externally acknowledge what he did, just carried on the conversation without skipping a beat, much as he did. Beneath the table, a whole different conversation was taking place.
One without words. One that didn’t need words.
Cole’s fingers did the talking, praising the toned lines of her thighs, telling her how much he wanted her, telling her all the things he planned to do to her before the sun came up.
They spoke volumes to each other, conveying all the things words couldn’t.
Even when she was at the point of squirming in her seat, he didn’t move to the damp juncture of her thighs. She wanted him. Desperately wanted him to touch her there. But he didn’t. Just traced delicate lines along her inner thighs to almost the brink of where she craved him most.
Over and over he drew the path, circling, toying, rubbing over her skin in teasing little movements, his hand dragging hers along for each erotic stroke. His fingers touched her, but he also played her own fingers against her flesh, guiding each teasing touch. Each movement tugging her insides out until she reached the point she fully expected her skin to retract.
What was he doing? How could he stand it? Oh, God, she couldn’t take much more without climbing into his lap.
Or dragging him under the table.
She glanced at him, her brow furrowing at how relaxed he looked, at how little he seemed affected by his tantalizing caresses. Her gaze settled on the rapid little beat pounding at his neck and she felt the beginnings of a smile.
Mr Hot Shot Doctor could act as if he were immune to what he was doing, but that jumping carotid pulse told a different story. One that emboldened Amelia.
Wiggling her hand free, she began an exploration of her own. One that involved her hand on his rock-hard thigh. Seconds later she discovered his thigh wasn’t the only thing rock hard about his body. Had he just groaned or had she imagined that guttural sound?
No longer able to fake an interest in the conversation going on around them, she lifted her glass to her lips with her free hand and drank deeply. Her other hand remained on him. On the very male part of him that just touching had her panties going damp.
Through his pants, she cupped him, taking slow measure of his girth through the material. Impressive. Wow.
He swallowed, forgot what he was saying and laughed roughly. “Somebody pour me another drink. I need another.”
“That’s funny,” Amelia said low next to him, quite enjoying herself. “I’d say you need something else entirely.”
He turned to her and stopped. He swallowed. Hard.
“Never mind,” he told no one in particular, his gaze not leaving Amelia’s. “I’ve had enough anyway. I’m going to head back to the hotel. Anyone else ready to go?”
“Already? It’s too early to turn in, man,” Peyton denied, glancing at his watch. “The night is barely getting started.”
A perverse part of Amelia wanted to deny Cole, to stay here and torture him, to make him beg her to come with him. But to do that would torture herself.
She’d been tortured two years too long already.
Although she liked the idea of Cole begging. Begging her to open her mouth to his kisses. Beggin
g her to touch him. Begging her to strip off her clothes so he could—
“Amelia?”
She blinked, having missed whatever else had been said.
“Are you ready to go? You’re looking a little flushed.”
Oh, she was definitely feeling a little flushed. Otherwise she wouldn’t be running her hands over the skirt of her dress, smoothing the material over her thighs and then sliding out of her chair. Her legs practically wobbled beneath her.
“Yes.” She glanced around the table, but didn’t meet any of her colleagues’ eyes. “Thanks for a fun evening. I’m going to turn in so I’ll be fresh for sightseeing tomorrow.”
Not a single one of them were fooled by her and Cole’s dialogue. She knew that. Cole knew that. They all knew that. Still, she smiled, waved goodbye and kept her head high.
Until she stumbled.
Cole caught her elbow, steadied her.
“Oh, to hell with this,” he mumbled, wrapping his arm around her shoulder despite the fact they were still in the bar and in view of their friends and colleagues.
His arm felt too good to push away. Besides, now that she’d stood up she felt more than a little light-headed. She wasn’t sure she could walk out of the bar without falling flat on her face if Cole let her go.
So she leaned against him, letting him guide her out of the bar and into a taxi. When the door closed, she turned to him, looking up, waiting for him to do what they’d been working toward all evening.
But he didn’t.
Instead of kissing her, taking her back to that warm happy place she’d discovered on the deck of the USS Benjamin Franklin when he’d kissed her, he took her hands in his, clasped them tight and shook his head.
“Cole?” she asked, confused.
“I can’t,” he bit out between gritted teeth.
“You can’t?” She blinked. Didn’t he want to kiss her? Wasn’t that why he’d rushed them out of the bar? Wasn’t he going to take her back to her hotel room and fill this ache deep within her? Was he going to make her beg?
With the way she felt, she would.
“If I touch you, we’ll end up making out in the backseat of a taxi,” he explained, his expression pained. “As much as I want to kiss you, I want more than desperate gropes in the backseat of a car.”
“Desperate gropes in the backseat of a car aren’t so bad,” she muttered, both pleased and disappointed that he was restraining himself when she so desperately wanted to be kissed.
“It is when you want a lot more,” he clarified, giving her a look that seared to her very core, a look that said once he started touching her, he wouldn’t quit come hell or high water. “And have waited two years.”
Gulping in anticipation, she leaned forward, getting the taxi driver’s attention. “Could you drive faster, please?”
CHAPTER TEN
AMELIA woke with a bad taste in her mouth. A very bad taste.
Oh, God, had something crawled into her mouth and died?
Slowly she became aware of other body malfunctions. Like the steel drums playing inside her skull and the way her brain had swollen to three times its normal size. God, but she had a headache.
And what was that smell?
Not bad. Actually, quite wonderful. She breathed in deeper. Spicy. Musky. Yummy. Mmm, definitely male. Male?
Amelia prised a heavy eyelid open and didn’t know whether to wince or lick her lips.
Cole lay next to her, his bare chest easily qualifying as the most beautiful male flesh she’d ever laid eyes on. And not just her eyes were on him.
Oh, no, even in her sleep she’d reached out and touched him.
Her hand lay across his abdomen. Low on his abdomen. His flat, chiseled, hard abdomen that made her fingers tingle.
She licked her lips.
Then winced.
She jerked her hand back before she did something else. Like move lower to discover just what the sheet riding low on his narrow hips hid.
Or had she already discovered that?
Grimacing, she took stock of the fact she lay in a hotel room bed. She glanced around. His hotel room bed. She wore nothing but her underwear. Thank goodness she’d worn pretty matching blue silk numbers. But why did she still have them on?
Surely she hadn’t taken time to get dressed afterwards?
Afterwards. Had she and Cole made love?
Maybe if her head didn’t hurt so badly she could remember. Somewhere amidst the pounding was the knowledge she desperately needed to recall.
What did it say if they’d finally had sex and she couldn’t even remember? That she was having to rack her brain in hopes of recapturing the moments?
It said she’d drunk way too much after night after night of not sleeping well from stress.
She’d known what was going to happen between them, known Cole would pursue her, would take what he wanted. What they both wanted. But she’d felt guilty knowing she and Cole would make love, that before the sun came up she’d have given herself fully to him and taken every morsel of affection he’d give to her.
She’d drunk her guilt away, but she had still wanted to remember!
She squeezed her eyes closed, willing the memories to come to her.
She thought back, remembered being in the cab, remembered walking through the elaborate hotel lobby, going up in the elevator. Cole had run the back of his hand along her neck, forcing every hair on her body to stand at attention. He’d leaned in, blown hot breath against her nape, his lips so close yet not actually touching her sensitized flesh.
Her nipples had puckered. Her knees had knocked. The elevator door had slid open. Cole’s hand had moved low on her back. He’d guided her two doors down past her room into his own, pushed her inside and kissed her.
No, not kissed. He had devoured her mouth.
She remembered his lips on hers, remembered thinking he was the most marvelous kisser, him moving lower, kissing her throat, telling her how beautiful she was as his hands and mouth moved lower, and then…and then…nothing.
Opening her eyes, she glanced toward Cole, studied his sleeping perfection. From the top of his gorgeous head to where the narrow ribbon of hair disappeared under the sheet, he was perfection. Pure male perfection.
Had she had sex with that male perfection?
“Morning, beautiful.”
Her gaze shot to his. Sleep gave the blue of his eyes a lazy hue, but she didn’t mistake that hue for lack of complete awareness. After all, he knew what had happened between them.
Why was he smiling?
Panic rose up her throat. Disgust? Regret? Shame? She couldn’t stand not knowing.
“What happened last night?”
He rolled onto his side, regarded her with an indulgent expression. “You don’t remember?”
She wished she’d jumped up, brushed her teeth, combed her hair and washed her face before he’d awakened. This would be a lot easier if she didn’t feel so grungy.
“Obviously sex with you isn’t that memorable,” she quipped, determined not to make a bigger fool of herself than she already had.
“Obviously,” he surprised her by agreeing, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Only we didn’t have sex.”
Surprise number two.
“We didn’t have sex?” Had her voice just squeaked? They were practically naked in bed together.
His lips twisted wryly. “When we have sex, I’d prefer you to be awake rather than asleep in my arms.”
She’d slept in his arms?
“Yes.”
Had she asked that out loud? Since he was grinning at her and he’d answered, she obviously had. Brilliant.
The corner of his mouth lifted higher. “You have the sexiest little snore when you’re drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk.” She didn’t even believe herself, neither did she want to tell him about her poor sleep habits as of late, so she added, “Much.”
Scooting up on his pillow, he laughed.
“Okay, maybe I was a litt
le tipsy.” Dragging her gaze back from where the sheet had inched farther down on his hips, barely covering the very male part of him that she’d apparently not seen the night before. Her own state of undress became more of an issue and she tugged on the sheet, tucking the edges beneath her arms to hold the material snugly around her. “I should go.”
The laughter in his gaze flickered and he let out a long sigh. “Are we back to that?”
She thought about what he was asking, what he was really wanting to know. Now that she wasn’t under an alcoholic haze, was he once again the enemy?
She couldn’t find the words to answer, didn’t know how to answer. Could she get past what had happened? Had she already? Was that why she was with him? Because at some point over the past few weeks she’d stopped thinking of him as the bad guy and started seeing him as the attractive man she’d always been crazy about.
“Amelia.” No longer looking amused, he raked his fingers through his short hair. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting you.”
“I didn’t ask you to apologize,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
“But you regret being here with me? That we spent the night together?”
She tugged the sheet more tightly around her. “Nothing happened. You said so yourself.”
“I didn’t say that nothing happened.” Two wonderfully sculpted shoulders shrugged. “Just that we didn’t have sex.”
“But—” She glared at him, feeling at a distinct disadvantage that she didn’t remember what they’d done. Or not done. “What exactly happened?”
A smile once again pulled at the corner of his mouth. “One of the highlights was when you begged me to make love to you.”
She gasped, wanting to call him a liar, to tell him he was remembering wrong.
“And?” Had he said no? She couldn’t believe it. And if he had refused her, what were they doing in bed together?
“You stripped off your dress in the worst—and yet definitely the best,” he added as if recalling a particular memory, “striptease I’ve ever been privileged to witness.”
“Seen a lot of stripteases, have you?” she bit out, wondering how big a fool she’d been and vowing to never drink alcohol ever again. Never ever, ever again.