Steel Rain: A Military Romance Collection

by A. Gorman

  Fuck…

  Rayanne turned around and headed toward the stove. I was still leaning up against the counter next to the fridge watching her. She lined up all her ingredients neatly on the countertop, opposite the stove, and crouched down and began rifling through cabinets. What was she looking for?

  Opening and closing them, I watched with amusement as her eyes raked over me then down to my legs. Walking straight up to me, stopping much closer to my body than was necessary, she pointed at my crotch and said, “I need in there.”

  One of my eyebrows rose and then I looked down, suddenly conscious that she could see my boner behind my pants. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized she was actually pointing at the bottom cabinet between my legs, which I was blocking.

  “Ah, okay,” I grunted, moving to the side so she could find what she was looking for.

  I went to leave the kitchen, deciding the sexual tension in there was just too damn much, when, as I was one foot out of the kitchen, a loud clang echoed in my ears. I turned to see nothing but Rayanne’s ass all up in the air, picking up a small saucepan that had clamored to the floor.

  Righting herself, she placed the saucepan back into the cabinet and pulled out a larger one, along with a big boiling pot. Without looking at me, she and her fine ass sauntered to the sink to fill the pot with water. But I didn’t care about the pot or what she was cooking. My eyes refused to leave the plump, delicious roundness of her ass in those damn pants.

  No wonder people hated WPD duty. I was gonna get fired for sexual harassment if I didn’t stop staring…

  She turned around abruptly, catching me gawking at her. With a rueful smirk on her perfect lips, she said, “You gonna help, or just stand there with your mouth open?”

  Oh, fucking hell. My mouth wasn’t open, was it? I need to get out of here.

  “Don’t worry, Cowboy, your mouth wasn’t really open. I was just messing with you.”

  Trying to regain my composure, I crossed my arms over my chest and said, “Why do you keep calling me cowboy?”

  She didn’t face me, but began searching the drawers until she found what she had been looking for – a wooden spoon. Turning around to face me, the spoon gripped firmly in her hand, she said, “Because your name is Duke. You know, like John Wayne – ‘The Duke’. The original cowboy.”

  Well that’s one I hadn’t heard before. Especially since Duke wasn’t even my real name, just a nickname. I never told anyone my real name. Raising an eyebrow, I just shook my head and left the kitchen. I had to get out of there. She was looking way too cute cooking, and the way she’d smirked at me with her full lips as she’d explained the cowboy thing to me was going to be my goddamn undoing.

  Chapter 14

  Rayanne

  From the corner of my eye, I watched Duke leave the kitchen. After I’d put the meat and sauce into a skillet and stirred it, I added the spices. The water began to boil, so I opened the box and pulled out a handful of stiff spaghetti. I broke it over the sink into thirds, then dumped it into the boiling water, adding a few shakes of salt.

  I glanced once again at the doorway to the kitchen and saw Duke was long gone. Biting my lip, I reached up into the cabinet and moved the remaining spices aside. I grinned as my fingers wrapped around the bottle of Jim Beam. Chancing a glance once again at the kitchen entryway, I looked back down at the bottle. I slowly twisted off the metal lid and carefully brought the bottle up to my nose and inhaled – which was quickly followed up by a cough.

  Whew, that’s potent stuff! Shouldn’t take more than a shot or two to relax me. This guy, this cabin, this whole entire bizarre situation had me on edge. I just needed a little something to take that edge off.

  I searched the cabinets but did not find any shot glasses. I poured a small measure into a beveled green glass that looked like it belonged in the 70s. I stared at the amber liquid for a long time before working up the nerve to take a sip.

  A sip! my subconscious teased me. Just shoot it, you wuss.

  Lifting my shoulder in a shrug, I tossed back the glass, wincing as the bourbon burned its way down my throat, warming my belly. I slammed the glass on the counter and had to ball up my fist to keep from letting out a whoop at the wonderful burn.

  The sizzle of the skillet captured my attention, and I stirred the sauce mixture again, turning down the heat as it was beginning to splatter on the outdated yellow gas cooktop – and me.

  The whole damn kitchen was outdated. It looked like my grandmother’s growing up. Yellow and brown linoleum floors, sparkly yellow and silver countertops, mustard-colored appliances. I giggled at the absurdity of this kitchen, hell, this whole cabin, and then hiccupped. Slapping a hand over my mouth, I shook my head at my silliness. Yet, I really wanted another shot of that bourbon.

  Just one more.

  “Just one more,” I said out loud.

  Glancing again toward the kitchen entryway and seeing no Duke, I poured another small amount and quickly shot it back, enjoying the burn.

  Smiling, I looked at the boiling noodles, realizing I hadn’t set a timer and now had no idea how long they’d been in the water for. The sauce was most certainly done.

  Hiccup.

  Cheese! I need cheese. I always make cheesy spaghetti. I get compliments on my cheesy spaghetti!

  Opening the fridge door, I stared for a good, long minute, trying to remember why I’d opened the fridge. Then I spotted the bag of already-grated cheese.

  “Well, thank the lawrd for pre-grated cheese,” I said, okay I think I slurred, in the most exaggerated Southern accent ever. I already had a slight one, or so I’d been told, but now I just flat-out sounded like my grand-mama from Mobile, Alabama. Bless her heart.

  Hiccup.

  I set the cheese on the counter and poured more bourbon into the ugly-ass green glass. Was this glass or plastic? I tapped my fingernail against it. Glass. I think. Cool. I grinned.

  I slammed the liquid back and quickly placed the glass in the sink. No more. I need to stop.

  The water continued to boil. Since I was already practically in her kitchen, I remembered Granny’s advice about spaghetti. So with a shrug, I used the spoon to carefully remove a noodle. I inspected it close up, then, with all my might, I chucked it against the wall behind the stove. It did stick, and I smiled in victory. My pasta was good and cooked.

  I turned off the burners to both. As I was about to begin to look for a colander to drain the pasta, a voice made me jump.

  “What are you doing?”

  Blinking in surprise, I cocked my head to the side and smiled. “Cooking.”

  “Why are you throwing pasta?” Duke asked, standing at the entryway to the kitchen looking way too delicious.

  “Um?” What was I gonna say? Wait, what was the question?

  Fuuuuck it. I’ll just ignore him. I picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the sauce. Wait, what was I doing? I need to drain the pasta. Did this kitchen even have a colander?

  I didn’t know, so I just stirred the sauce some more. Suddenly, a warm hand gripped my arm, then spun me around. I was met with stormy blue eyes.

  I giggled. “Hi, Cowboy.”

  He narrowed those beautiful eyes at me. The dark lashes framing them were just too much. “I asked you a question.”

  Furrowing my eyebrows, I said, “What was the question?”

  I noticed the wooden spoon was still in my hand and was dripping sauce all over the floor. As if in slow motion, I looked at the drips, then the spoon, and without thinking, I brought it up to my mouth. My tongue snaked out and licked the sauce, from the base to the tip of the spoon while I stared unblinking at Duke, waiting for him to tell me what his question had been.

  “Holy fuck,” I heard him whisper, his eyes now fixated on my mouth.

  I was suddenly acutely aware of how his hard chest was almost pressed against mine. While one hand still held the spoon, the other reached up. My fingertips grazed his rock-hard pec under his T-shirt. My eyes flicked back up to h
is.

  Before I could register what was happening, his mouth crashed down onto mine, his right arm snaking around my waist and then down to my ass, grabbing it with his strong hands, pushing my body into his.

  Wait.

  Duke was kissing me. What the hell? He’s not supposed to kiss me! He’s a jerk. I don’t like him. I bit his lip – hard. He pulled himself away from me, his thumb grazing his bottom lip.

  “You bit me!” he said, incredulous.

  “You kissed me!” I replied, as if I had to remind him.

  He stared at me dumbfounded for a few seconds, then said, “You were licking… you were ignoring me when I asked… you were giggling… oh, my God. What the hell is that?”

  He reached around me and picked up my bottle of bourbon, holding it up. “Where did you get this, Blondie?”

  I shrugged and giggled.

  Hiccup.

  “My spaghetti’s burning,” was all I said.

  Turning my back on him once again I began to rummage through the cabinets for something to drain the pasta in. I grinned as I located a colander and placed it in the sink. Before I could pick up the heavy pot of water and noodles, Duke spun me around and pinned me against the countertop. This time, he pressed his hard body into mine, while shoving the booze bottle into my face.

  “Where. Did. You. Get. This?” he asked.

  Jerking a thumb behind me at the cabinet in which I was now pressed against, I said with a grin, “In there. You want some?”

  It didn’t go unnoticed by me that he was pressing a very hard member of his body against my belly. I kinda liked it though, and began to wonder what he was working with under those jeans.

  He sighed and pushed off of me, scrubbing a hand over his beard and storming out of the kitchen with my bottle of contraband in his hand.

  Damn him!

  I continued to make the spaghetti, hoping the noodles were done.

  Aside from the roaring of my blood in my ears, the kitchen was awfully quiet. After carefully draining the noodles, in which I’m shocked I did not spill, I let them cool in the sink and put my hands on my hips. Looking around the kitchen, I spotted a small transistor radio, complete with antenna, and smiled. This kitchen was looking more like my grandmother’s by the minute. I walked over to it and picked it up. It was plugged into the wall by a black cord and it took me a few seconds to figure out how to turn it on. It crackled to life and soon, Patsy Cline was crooning though the tiny scratchy speakers. I used the side dial to adjust the station and smiled at the old country song.

  Humming along to I Fall To Pieces, I carefully began to mix the sauce with the noodles, layering them in a small dish with cheese.

  Hiccup.

  Still humming along to the song, I smiled at what had just happened. That Duke, not so tough, is he? I had showed him. He shouldn’t have kissed me, as much as I might have liked the temporary feel of his hot mouth on mine.

  My fingers slid up to touch my lips where his had just been. The feel of his hand on my ass as it squeezed. Lord knows I have enough back there to grab. He definitely liked it, too. I smiled.

  Once the spaghetti was mixed, I called out, “Spaghetti’s ready!” and then giggled at my little rhyme.

  Seeing double, I fumbled around in the kitchen until I found some plates and set them on the counter. Still humming to another classic country song, I scooped some onto a plate, and groaned when it splattered on my shirt. Then I giggled when I realized I had already splattered sauce on me long ago while cooking.

  Noticing Duke hadn’t shown, I yelled out again, “Spaghetti!” and sat at the small table after grabbing a fork.

  I was starving. Forking some spaghetti into my mouth, I groaned at how delicious it was. I was proud of myself for improvising and totally slaying this meal. I then realized that the meal was almost gone. Why did I eat it alone?

  Placing my plate in the sink, I went out to the small living room to see Duke sitting in front of the TV, watching some sort of sports. I leaned on the doorjamb between the kitchen and living room and said, “What, you have something against spaghetti?” Then I giggled.

  Hiccup.

  He turned to look at me and said, “No.” He then turned his face back to the TV.

  Nodding, I said nothing more and went back into the kitchen. I spooned some the meal I’d worked so hard on to a plate and went into the fridge and grabbed a can of iced tea. I spied a large curio cabinet in the corner of the ancient kitchen and opened its old doors. They squealed on unoiled hinges and I looked inside. There was a medium-sized sterling silver serving platter and I suppressed a giggle as I removed it. It wasn’t as dusty as I thought it would be but I wiped it down anyway with a dishtowel.

  Placing the plate, a napkin, knife and fork on top of it, and the can of tea on it, I carried it out on one hand like back in my college waitressing days and walked out to the living room. Honestly, I was surprised I didn’t drop the damn thing. I was still sorta seeing double.

  Smiling, I stood right in front of him, blocking the TV. His eyes slowly traveled from my stomach, up my chest, neck, lips, then to my eyes. “You’re blocking my view.”

  Since I was already being a brat, I decided to lay it on thicker. Turning my head around to glance at the TV, I turned back around and said, “Oh, but this view is so much better. So much deliciousness.”

  His eyes went wide momentarily, and I had to bite back a laugh as I slowly leaned forward and placed the tray on his lap. He grabbed it because he had to, and then I stood up. “A peace offering for biting you.”

  Grunting in response, he said nothing else, and picked up the fork and began twirling spaghetti around on it.

  I walked away, satisfied with myself for some reason, and yelled out, “You’re welcome.”

  “You have sauce all over your shirt.”

  Laughing from the kitchen, I pulled it off over my head and with a few dramatic twirls, I tossed it into the living room and snorted when it smacked him in the back of the head and landed on the sofa cushion behind him.

  Chapter 15

  Duke

  I reached behind my head and pulled the assaultive fabric around to inspect it. Her white T-shirt, splattered with red sauce but smelling deliciously like her, was gripped in my fist. Resisting the urge to put it up to my nose and really inhale it, I tossed it aside and continued eating.

  Damn, she could make a mean spaghetti!

  Wait. She just took her shirt off. That must mean she’s shirtless in the kitchen. I inhaled my food faster than I should have, scraping the plate until it was gone. I never left food on my plate. Not ever.

  I got up to put it in the sink, because I was a gentleman like that, and stopped dead in my tracks when I saw her at the sink washing dishes. The jeans she wore hugged that curvaceous ass of hers, and she had nothing but a white bra on. Her back muscles clenched as her hands worked on the dishes in a sink full of suds. Dammit, why did she have to drink? I had the sudden urge to touch her. I wanted to put my hands on her waist and run them up and down and feel her soft skin.

  Real professional, Duke, I chided myself with a shake of my head.

  But really, how was I supposed to remain professional? I was a 28-year-old dude who, admittedly, hadn’t had sex in weeks. Okay it had been months. I think.

  Adjusting myself behind my pants, I walked over to her and decided since I was so bored, I was going to have some fun with her. Placing myself up behind her but not touching her, I leaned down and whispered into the side of her face, “Do you need any help?”

  She didn’t flinch. She must have been expecting me. She shook her head slowly. “I think I can handle dishes, Special Agent.”

  Grabbing her shirt, which was hanging out of the pocket of my jeans, I slipped part of it into the small gap at the back of her jeans where, if I pulled them down just a little, I’d be able to make out exactly what kind of tattoo she had stamped there on her lower back. Instead, I shoved the shirt in it, and let it dangle over her very fine ass.
>
  She gasped a little, then giggled, then hiccupped.

  Arching an eyebrow, I stood next to her at the sink and said, “I hope there are no sharp utensils in there.”

  Rayanne shook her head and said, “Just a pot, a skillet, and a wooden spoon, two forks and two plates.”

  My fingers twitched. They wanted to touch the bare skin on her back. Her hair was short, so I could see her bare neck and it was taunting me to touch it. I wanted to kiss it, lick it.

  Fuck…

  “You can dry,” she suddenly said, bending over and pulling a dish towel from the cabinet near her knees where she stood. She tossed it behind her and I caught it. She still hadn’t turned around, even when I’d shoved her shirt into the back of her jeans.

  I tossed the towel over my shoulder but stayed behind her. I couldn’t take this anymore. My fingers skated up the smooth planes of her back and I slid one finger under her bra strap and stretched the material as I swung my finger back and forth underneath it, caressing her soft skin.

  She shuddered, and I smiled.

  “Dry the dishes, Cowboy,” she whispered.

  “No,” I said back.

  She stopped washing and slowly turned around and looked up at me, her warm, honey-colored eyes skating back and forth between mine. “What are you doing?”

  “Punishing you for disobeying me,” I replied, trying not to grin.

  Her eyes momentarily widened in surprise, but I felt her body lean in to mine, as if on its own. “I didn’t disobey you.”