Back in Service

by Isabel Sharpe

  And she could have a lovely Thanksgiving, a day early, with Jameson, without having to intrude on another family’s traditions. Tomorrow Kendra planned to spend the morning on the beach and drive up the Pacific Coast Highway in the afternoon. She could choose how she grieved, what she could let go, what she wanted to keep—all the advice she’d been giving other people and not living herself.

  As to what she and Jameson would do in the relationship going forward...she’d take Lena’s advice and tell him how she felt, even though she hadn’t gotten much further than “play it by ear.” Breaking off their relationship when he left would be agonizing, but she didn’t feel right committing herself to a long-distance romance when she was only just emerging from the worst of her grief and starting to redefine herself.

  For all she knew, Jameson wasn’t ready to commit either, which would be fine.

  Her instinct rolled its eyes. No, it wouldn’t.

  Yes, actually, it would be.

  Liar.

  Freedom would make it easier to continue rebuilding the life she wanted.

  No, it would totally suck.

  Stop.

  No matter what happened, she and her instinct were going to enjoy the hell out of tonight and however many other times she saw him before he left on Sunday.

  The doorbell rang. Kendra broke into a smile, quickly rinsed and dried her hands, then ran to let him in, her heart lifting into its usual joy at the sight of his unbearably handsome face, faltering only slightly when she noticed he’d gotten a haircut—another reminder that he was leaving. In the next second she noticed his hands behind his back, which he brought forward to offer a bouquet of red roses and a bottle of champagne. “Hello.”

  “Oh, Jameson, how beautiful. You are spoiling me with flowers. And champagne. You are a sweetheart, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He walked in, strong and virile, without any limp, and gave her a sweet, lingering kiss. “Mmm. You smell incredible. Is that...turkey?”

  “My newest scent.” She took the flowers and wine and led the way to the kitchen. “Eau de Thanksgiving.”

  “Kendra, wow.” He took in the food waiting to go into the oven, the table set with her family’s china and silver. “This looks amazing.”

  She found a vase for the roses and took them to the sink, feeling suddenly shy and awkward. “I thought we could have our own Thanksgiving.”

  “That is a really nice idea. And a lot of work, Kendra. You should have told me, I could have brought something. We could have cooked together.”

  “You did bring something. Look how beautiful.” She put the flowers on the table, which was transformed by their color and elegance. The perfect touch. “I didn’t want us to wear ourselves out in the kitchen.”

  “No?” He came up behind her, drew her back against him. Kendra closed her eyes. His hard body and masculine scent turned her into a giant lust hormone. “Is there another room you’d rather we wear ourselves out in?”

  “Hmm.” She moved seductively against him, keeping the mood light, not letting the word leaving enter her head for more than a second before it was firmly squashed. “I’ll give that some thought.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” His lips found the side of her neck; his hands roamed her waist, eventually finding the hem of her shirt and traveling slyly underneath. “Anything in the oven that would spoil in the next half hour?”

  Somehow she kept her breathing under control. “Yup.”

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Timer’s going off in five.”

  “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

  “Five minutes?” She started to turn but he held her still.

  “Shh.” His hand was delicious torture on her breasts. The other started a slow journey down her belly. Kendra let her head loll back on his shoulder, prepared to enjoy his touch, then finding herself enjoying more than just his touch. She enjoyed his solid warmth at her back, the strength of the arms around her, the way his breathing changed, betraying his arousal as he concentrated on hers.

  The fingers of his right hand inched lower, under the waistband of her shorts—she’d worn a stretch waistband for exactly this reason—then eased under the elastic of her panties. Her own breathing changed, came out in a small burst as he cupped her sex with his warm palm and held her like something precious he wasn’t going to let escape.

  “Five minutes, Kendra.” His voice against her hair was low and full of promise. His fingers began undulating, as if he were playing a scale on a piano, one finger, then the next, playing her so sweetly.

  “Mmm, that is nice,” she whispered.

  “Yeah?” His fingers rose, fell, playing her again, A, B, then C—his middle finger dipped, parting her labia, stroking back and forth before he moved on—D and E, then did the whole thing in reverse. “Four minutes.”

  “Keep going,” she whispered.

  His fingers moved again. This time middle C lingered on her clitoris with gentle pulsing presses that made her inhale sharply and hold still, pushing out her hips, wanting him to touch her there again and again.

  “Three minutes,” he whispered. His hand moved side to side, fingers trailing in interrupted sequence across her clit, making her work against the need to move as well so at least one finger stayed where she wanted it to.

  “Jameson, stay there. There. Keep your finger—”

  “Two minutes.” His knees bent slightly, throwing her off balance. She sagged against him. He supported her easily, now making lazy circles everywhere but where she wanted him.

  Her breathing grew frantic. She was desperate with desire, feeling half-foolish to be falling apart like this. “Do you realize what you do to me?”

  “It goes both ways, sweetheart. One minute.”

  “I’m not going to make it unless you—”

  “You’re going to make it.” He bent his knees farther; instinctively she stepped one foot out to stay stable, opening herself to him. “Now.”

  He pushed a finger up inside her, then two, a rhythm that made her cry out until those same fingers returned to her clitoris, slippery with her moisture, and rubbed in earnest, stopping just as her orgasm gathered to slide up inside her again.

  She tightened her buttocks, pushed against his fingers.

  “Thirty seconds.” His arm released her; he supported her with his strong legs like a human chair. His fingers continued making love to her while his other hand reached around to stroke her.

  The orgasm gathered again, faster this time, inevitable. She moaned, straining for it, head pushed back against his strong shoulder, fingers clutching his hard biceps.

  Ecstasy burned through her in a blissful, powerful wave, blinding her for a few seconds, then crashing over.

  Ding ding ding. The timer went off as if she’d triggered it.

  Kendra’s giggle mixed with her panting, muscles still contracting deliciously around Jameson’s fingers. “Made it.”

  “I knew you would.” He helped her stand, get her legs and hips working again. “Is that the turkey?”

  “Yes, it needs to come out.” She wobbled toward the range, feeling as if her legs were being tried out for the first time. “Because, you know, if meat stays in my hot oven too long, the juices pour out and then it shrinks.”

  Jameson cracked up. “Wait, that’s a bad thing? It sounds pretty great to me.”

  “Bad for turkeys.” She sent a lascivious glance at his distorted jeans and took the half breast out of the oven, burnished beautifully brown and smelling like heaven.

  “That is a thing of beauty.” He cleared his throat pointedly. “So, um, now that the turkey’s out, how long until the next thing?”

  “The turkey should rest.” She threw him a smile, turned up the temperature, slid in the pans of stuffing and brussels spr
outs and tossed her oven mitts across the room, where they landed neatly on the counter. “Half an hour.”

  “I’m thinking a glass of champagne.” He crossed to where she’d stood the bottle on the counter.

  “I’m thinking the same.” She took down flutes from the cabinet near the door to the deck. She’d miss this house. But a new one would be fun to make her own, to fill with her own memories.

  A place to share with Jameson when he was in town?

  Yeah, sharing tidbits of vacation for the next twenty years. She might as well face it, there was no way they could continue this with anything but frustration and pain.

  Stop.

  She handed him the flutes with a determined smile. Fun now, serious conversation later.

  “I wonder, Ms. Kendra.” He twisted off the cork with a loud pop, tipping the bottle to keep the champagne from rushing out. “If you have any objections to drinking this champagne in bed.”

  “How could anyone have objections to drinking champagne in bed?” She picked up the glasses, gave him a come-hither look over her shoulder and headed for her bedroom, hearing him follow, at first at a distance, then closer and closer until she broke, giggling, into a run. “In a hurry?”

  He set the bottle on her nightstand, grabbed the glasses from her hand, then tumbled her down on the bed. “Yes.”

  “What about my champagne?” Her protest was lame; she welcomed him on top of her, closed her eyes, her mind and her heart to how much she would miss him, how deeply she felt about him, and kissed him, wrapping her legs around his thighs, pulling his erection close, feeling it warm and insistent between her legs. She wanted to please him. She wanted him inside her, going crazy from how much he wanted her, how desperately he wanted to come.

  And she wanted him to love her, just a little, as she loved him, just a little, even knowing it would make Sunday that much more painful when it came.

  No matter what they decided, she’d make sure their parting was beautiful and dignified and something he’d always remember fondly. A tear, a smile, a heartfelt wish for his future happiness, and then she’d hold herself straight, waving until he was out of sight.

  After that, she could break down for a while, wallow in her brokenheartedness and then get over it. One thing about surviving tragedy—after the first time it happened to you, and after seeing it happen to so many others, you knew it was not only possible but inevitable to move on and thrive and find happiness again in new and sometimes unexpected places. Spirit the hawk, reborn.

  Jameson undressed her slowly, reverently, kissing every inch he uncovered, lingering in places they both liked best. Naked, she pushed him onto his back and did the same to him, dragging her breasts over the firm planes of his chest, her hair over the long hardness of his thighs and her hands and lips over the jutting pride of his erection.

  He lay back as she expanded the range of her kisses, across that chest, down his belly, let her mouth hover tantalizingly over his penis before she drew it into her mouth, fisting the base, swirling her tongue around its tip. Jameson’s breathing became harsh, labored; his head rolled to one side, eyes closed, brows down, full, sexy lips parted ecstatically. She wanted a picture of him like that to keep by her bed.

  Except whomever she made love to next might not appreciate it.

  She didn’t want to make love to anyone else.

  Stop.

  She took him all the way in, sucking hard, up and down, a furious denial of her feelings, even knowing there was little point denying them except to make their separation easier.

  Jameson clamped a hand on her shoulder, holding her still, then pulled away from her mouth and hauled her up next to him, breathing deeply. “That was close.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded.”

  “I would have minded. We have half an hour. That would have been about three minutes.”

  “Mmm, good point.” She nuzzled his neck, trailing her fingers gently down the soft skin of his penis, loving that contradiction, the erection so hard and masculine and the skin velvety soft and so very sweet.

  He lay back again while she idly stroked him, his eyes closed, lips curved in bliss. She studied his face, the high slope of his forehead under the short spikes of his hair. The straight Cartwright nose and high cheekbones, the strong Cartwright jaw. And that soft full mouth, so finely shaped, that called him out of the mold, gave him the look of sensuality his brothers and father lacked.

  She’d miss him.

  Stop.

  She drew her hand up his chest, over to his shoulder, then pushed herself up to straddle him, sliding her sex up and back, pressing his penis flat against his abdomen.

  His breath came out in a soft groan. Impressively muscled arms came around her and pulled her down against him; he kissed her hair, her mouth, a long, sweet kiss that made Kendra wrap her arms around his neck and give herself over to it, kiss after kiss, lips clinging, exploring, slow and lovely, involving way too much of her heart.

  She loved him.

  Oh, hell.

  In self-defense she unlocked her arms from around him, rose onto her hands. “Condom?”

  He opened his eyes slowly, their clear blue a sudden contrast with his golden skin and the white bed linens around him. “We could go without, Kendra. You’re on the pill.”

  “Pills don’t protect against—”

  “I tested clean after my last lover.”

  “I did, too, but there are viruses you can’t test for that—”

  “Kendra.”

  Something about the way he said her name stopped her midsentence, made her climb off and sit facing him. “What is it?”

  “I want to make love to you. Not just today but for a long time into the future. I’d like us to stay together. I’d like to give this a real shot.”

  Me, too.

  No, it was crazy. But there was no more calling stop. They were going to talk about this now, with her Thanksgiving dinner nearly ready and the champagne still untasted.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, Jameson got up, poured them two glasses and handed her one. “Here. Either way you answer, having met you again calls for celebration.”

  Answer? He hadn’t asked her anything. He must mean her reaction to his announcement that they should stay together.

  It was impossible.

  It was so tempting.

  She sipped her bubbly, vaguely noticing the wine was delicious, not able to concentrate fully on enjoying it.

  “My future plans have changed.”

  Kendra was so startled she aborted her next sip. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not extending my commitment to the Air Force.”

  She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m out after four years. I can come back here to live.”

  Kendra’s heart started beating faster. Four years. That was a lot shorter than twenty. But four years. Anything could happen in that time. “You’re coming home.”

  “And I’ll be back as often as I can be in the meantime. Depending on your answer.”

  Answer again. To which question? Would she like that? Would she still be here for him when he visited? Was she happy he was shortening his commitment?

  She didn’t know. “Jameson, this is a huge change. What does your family think?”

  His jaw set. “They’ll get over it.”

  She had to smile. Good for him. Good for Jam-Jam, telling his family what he wanted instead of just doing what they did. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned that irresistible grin, sitting naked in her bed, holding a bubbling champagne flute, behind him through huge windows the vista of L.A. and the ocean.

  She could keep seeing him. They could turn this relationship into something serious.

  No. S
he didn’t want to be serious.

  Why not?

  She wasn’t sure anymore.

  “I will never regret the years serving my country or forget what the Air Force has done for me. It’s my family I’ve served for much too long in too many ways.” He posed ridiculously, an overbright smile on his face. “This is the start of me time!”

  Kendra cracked up, nearly spraying champagne over her sheets. “Don’t ever say that again.”

  “Sorry.” Jameson gazed at her, his smile gradually fading into something darker and warmer that began a serious spring thaw in her chest. He toasted her with his glass, drained it, then took hers over her protests and put them both on the bedside table. He grabbed his pants and began rummaging in the pocket.

  Good boy. Condom. They could put this confusing and uncomfortable conversation on ice while they—

  It wasn’t a condom he’d pulled out.

  Unless they put condoms in jewelry boxes now and she hadn’t gotten the memo.

  “Kendra.”

  She sat there, blinking, unable to comprehend what was happening. Maybe it was a necklace? A bracelet? Earrings? A friendship ring?

  Depending on her answer. To what question?

  “We met under strange circumstances. Twice. The first time was elementary school when a serious, chubby girl sat next to me and said hello and I threw a spitball at her. The second was in Mike’s apartment, when I opened the door to this incredibly funny and beautiful woman and nearly drove her off with my bad mood.

  “Matty was right. I’ve been telling you I love you my whole life. But I’d like to tell you again, in two different ways. The first is to say it. I love you, Kendra. And the second way is to show you that I always will.” He opened the box.