by Tawny Weber
He wasn’t looking at her. Eyes half closed, he’d slid into a slouch and with his hat tilted low like it was, looked dangerously close to falling asleep.
Sammi’s foot tapped the floor, her fingers keeping silent time on her knee. She knew this probably wasn’t nearly as big and dangerous and exciting as the stuff he did as a SEAL, but dammit, couldn’t he at least stay awake long enough to advise her on how to rescue her fiancé?
She’d yell, beg or try to shake a response out of him, but Sammi knew better. She’d grown up around enough cowboys to know it was pointless. He’d talk when he was ready.
But as hard as she tried to stop them, her eyes kept straying back to the man sitting on the couch.
He really was gorgeous. She felt as if she were sitting next to a live current of energy, but instead of lighting a room if plugged in, it’d make a body explode in pleasure.
She jumped back to her feet, hurrying across the room.
Just in case.
And wondered what the hell was he thinking?
* * *
WHAT THE HELL had he been thinking?
Coulda stayed at Art’s and had a beer, but no. Coulda spent last night with one or both of the barflies and caught a later flight, but no. Coulda taken the long trail through the national park, but no.
He’d just had to stick with tradition.
Laramie drummed his fingers on his knee and wondered if he should drop and do a hundred pushes for forgetting one of the key points of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training. Habits got people killed.
Or worse.
He eyed the sultry redhead standing next to the fireplace chewing on her thumbnail. She’d definitely grown into the promise she’d shown as a kid with a mile of long legs and huge soulful eyes. Despite the worry lines creasing her brow, the fact that she was wearing a wedding dress and the twig wedged in her russet waves, Sammi Jo Wilson looked pretty damned good for a walking, talking time bomb.
Sammi must’ve been around seven or eight when he’d first made her acquaintance. She’d been trying to hold her own in a fight with three other kids when Laramie had stepped in to even the numbers. Something to this day he wasn’t sure had really been necessary. But even then, he’d been a sucker for playing hero.
His mistake hadn’t been in stepping in, Laramie reminded himself. After the brats had been dispatched with their bullying tails between their legs, he’d asked Sammy why they’d been picking on her.
Red hair tangled around a face dusted with dirt, her lip split and knuckles raw, she’d lifted that chin of hers and told him that it was none of his damned business. Laramie remembered laughing and, being too dumb a kid to let it go, asking a few more times.
But even that hadn’t been his mistake.
Nope, the mistake was upon hearing Sammi’s whispered confession that she couldn’t read—that she was afraid if the teacher realized that, Child Protective Services would take her away from her home—Laramie had taken that hero thing a little too seriously.
And had offered to teach her himself.
He’d often thought in the months after that he should have just kept on walking, instead of stepping into that fight.
Letting the memories roll over him, Laramie watched Sammi shift from foot to foot, her impatience building.
“Please,” she said, her tone somewhere between pleading and threatening. “Say something.”
Laramie’s lips twitched. She’d held out about thirty seconds longer than he’d figured she would. That was something to admire—a woman with staying power.
But when the woman was Sammi Jo Wilson, he knew that staying power doubled as muleheaded stubbornness.
But no matter how stubborn she was or how much that sexy upper lip of hers appealed to him, she wasn’t dragging him into her fight.
Not this time.
“I’m guessing over the last dozen years, you didn’t forget how to read.”
Her brows, shades darker than her hair, drew together. A faint wash of apricot colored her cheeks.
“Of course not,” she said, choosing her words carefully as if sensing a trap.
Smart girl. Laramie smiled.
“Then you shouldn’t have had any problem understanding that sign on the road you passed on your way up here.”
“I’m not trespassing,” she insisted with a roll of her eyes. “You’re the one who invited me into your cabin. Sure you grunted, sighed and pointed your thumb toward the front door. But it was still an invitation.”
Yeah. She was probably right about that. Laramie pushed to his feet and sauntered to what his mother had optimistically called the kitchen. The old Wedgewood stove took up most of one wall, the chipped cast iron a dull white against the rough-hewn wood walls. The squat, 50s-era refrigerator was creased on the side where Laramie had fallen headfirst into it when he was nine. A granite-topped wine barrel and two sawed-off tree trunks made up the dining table.
He ignored all of that to grab a beer from the nice modern cooler Art had left here for him. Still bent over his two-week supply, he tilted the bottle toward Sammi in question.
And took her fists-on-her-hip growl as a no.
Straightening, he closed the cooler with his knee at the same time he twisted the cap free.
“Laramie, I need your help. Now, if you don’t mind, before something worse happens to Sterling.”
Not taking his eyes off her, Laramie lifted the bottle to his lips and drank as he considered how to say no.
He had no doubt that whatever trouble Sterling Barclay had gotten himself into, he deserved. The guy had been an ass all his childhood, he’d been an ass the last time Laramie had seen him thirteen years ago. He had no doubt the man was still an ass.
But it wasn’t Sterling Barclay asking for his help. And there’d always been something about Sammi that made it impossible to flat-out refuse her. He had to work his way around to it.
“Look, Sammi, if you really want him back,” he paused, shrugging when she gave him a wide-eyed nod, “Then you need someone trained in that. Call the cops.”
“They told me they’d hurt Sterling if I called a cop.”
“If you’re not willing to bring the police into this,” he continued in the same tone even as he wondered how a woman could look so furiously stubborn and so damned sexy at the same time. “Take it to his father. The old man has connections. Let him take care of it.”
There.
Considering the matter settled, Laramie tipped back the bottle to finish his beer.
“Absolutely not. First off, Sterling called me, not his father. I’m sure he has reasons for not wanting Mr. Barclay involved in this,” Sammi said with a determined jut of her chin. “If you won’t help me, I’ll find a way to rescue Sterling myself.”
“That’s a good way to get yourself hurt.”
“If that’s what it takes.” She gave a sharp nod. Her bottom lip was trembling, but he could see the determination in her eyes.
She’d do it.
Laramie clenched his jaw.
She’d find a way to jump into the middle of whatever clusterfuck of a mess that idiot Barclay had made and get herself seriously hurt—or worse, depending on how much stupider the man had gotten over the years.
In a rare show of temper, Laramie threw the bottle in the trashcan under the sink, the velocity intense enough to shatter the glass, sending shards across the floor. All year long, he could roll with whatever came his way. He handled enemy fire, exploding mountains, catfights and irritating warrant officers, all with ease.
But these three weeks, this cabin, they were his, dammit.
He scowled at Sammi, who hadn’t flinched or frowned at his nasty little display. Whether it was a credit to her strength of nerve or simply a byproduct of being brought up by a crazy bitch like Cora Mae was a toss-up.
“Are you going to help me?” she asked quietly, those moss-green eyes of hers a liquid plea. Her moves slow and hesitant, as if she were approaching a wild animal, Sammi crossed the roo
m until she stood a few inches from him. She was tall enough to meet his eyes, her body curvy enough that a deep breath would bring them into hot, tempting contact. “Please, Laramie.”
She reached out, laying one slender hand on his arm. Her fingers burned through his shirt, searing his flesh with need.
Laramie studied the woman in front of him the same way he’d study a bomb he was supposed to disarm.
With determination, respect and a great deal of caution.
“If I help, it’s on my terms,” he heard himself say, the words hitting his brain as if coming from a long distance. Not surprising since reckless crazy wasn’t exactly something he was used to.
“Whatever you want,” she promised in a voice as giddy as her smile was relieved. She wrapped her hands around his now, lifting them together as if in prayer. “Anything.”
Anything.
Laramie gave a slight shake of his head as he wondered how the hell she’d ended up so innocent given everything she’d seen over the years.
“My terms,” he repeated. “That means you let me deal with this my way, without question. Whether you agree or not, whether you understand why or whether you don’t, it doesn’t matter. You go along.”
That was the way a military operation ran. That was how he worked. If she didn’t like it, well the door was right there. But like it or not, Sammi only nodded.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get Sterling back safely,” she agreed. Then, damn them both, she reached out to lay one hand against his chest.
The heat seared, need stirred.
Without taking a step he moved closer to Sammi’s lush body.
Laramie liked to live as free as possible, figuring the fewer rules, the less he had to worry about.
But one of his few hard-and-fast rules was that married women were off-limits. And engaged and running around in a wedding dress was close enough to marriage to put Sammi in that category.
But he wanted her.
Shocked at that realization, he watched the rise and fall of those luxurious breasts covered in white lace and felt the need throb in time with her every inhalation.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Then, because rules or not, he simply had to taste her, Laramie leaned down and took her mouth.
5
WELL, DAMN.
Laramie was trained well enough to recognize danger when he felt it. And all the signals were there.
The tight pull in his gut.
The icy finger down his spine.
And, of course, the alarm bells jangling in his head.
He recognized it. He acknowledged it.
And he went right on ignoring it.
To do otherwise would mean pulling his mouth away from Sammi Jo’s, and he wasn’t about to do that.
She tasted too good.
She was as sweet as warm, spiced peaches and as tempting as a welcome sign, inviting him to come on in and enjoy.
Her lips were full, that delicate overbite too tempting not to nibble at. Her indrawn breath slid like silk over his mouth, making Laramie want to dive deeper.
But he held back.
Instead, his lips slid, hot and wet, over hers. Back and forth. Soft at first, then harder, firmer.
In Laramie’s experience—which was pretty damned extensive—all it took was a kiss to know how a woman liked her sex. Hot and demanding? Softly passive? Hungry desperation? He’d felt them all.
But Sammi... Oh, God, Sammi.
She was all of that and more.
She was delicious.
Even as she let him set the pace, her fingers dug into his arms with a demanding bite. The hunger was there, he knew it. It’d be so easy to coax it free, to offer her more. To give her enough pleasure that she’d welcome everything he could offer.
But this was Sammi Jo, that rarely heard-from little voice chimed in the back of his mind. The kid he’d looked out for. The waif he’d taught to read.
No matter how good she felt, there were too many reasons why taking this further was a mistake. Their history, her fiancé, the fact that he was in his yearly no-sex zone, were just a few.
Then, as if hearing his thoughts and determined to challenge his control, Sammi shifted closer. She traced her tongue along the seam of his mouth, as if asking him to come out and play. Her body angled down the length of his so her breasts were cushioned against his chest and her thighs straddled one of his.
Dammit.
She was too tempting to resist.
Despite the multiple warnings flashing through his mind, Laramie slipped his tongue into her mouth for a taste. Hot and moist, it was like dipping his tongue into heaven.
Her moan trembled against his lips and sent a shaft of pleasure through Laramie so strong that he automatically reached down to cup her butt through all that fluffy material. He pulled her closer, pressing her tight against his throbbing erection.
As their tongues tangled together in a dance of desire his hands skimmed up the fullness of her cheek, along the sweet curve of the small of her back where the fluff gave way to rough lace. Ignoring the urgings from his dick, he carefully avoided touching the silky temptation of her bare skin, instead tangling his hands in her hair. The heavy strands felt like silken threads around his fingers, too soft for him to care that they were tying him in knots.
Her hands teased their way up his chest, the move both siren sexy and seductively sweet until she reached the collar of his shirt. She curled her hands tight behind his neck, as if trying to keep him from pulling away.
As if.
Every move he made, she mirrored.
Laramie’s body tightened with desire as familiar to him as breathing. The need, though, was new.
It was unfamiliar enough to force him to pull back, to heed the warnings in his head. To back the hell off before he did something...
What? Laramie wondered as he slowly lifted his mouth from hers, waiting for Sammi to open her eyes.
What could be so bad about giving in to the passion flaming between them?
Her breath was shaky, her breasts pressed in tight temptation against his chest as Sammi Jo slowly opened her eyes. Her lashes were a silky dark fringe, shielding her eyes for a moment before she met his gaze.
The stunned delight in those moss-green depths fed his ego, made him grin. As Laramie’s hands cupped her hips, his smile slowly slid away. Because beneath the delight was a hint of fear that he could have ignored, and passion-fueled curiosity.
The sort of curiosity that said that she’d be open to just about anything—no matter how wild and kinky—that he might suggest they try.
“Sugar, you might not want to look at me that way.”
“What way?” The words were a breathy drawl, her eyes slumberous as they focused on his mouth.
“The way that says you’d be happy to drop that second wedding dress of yours and let me have my way with your body.” His voice lowered to a growl. “I’d show you things you’ve never imagined, Sammi Jo. I’d do things to you that you’ve never contemplated. And I’d make you like every one of them.”
There. That should scare her.
But Sammi Jo didn’t back off.
Instead, her smile widened, slow and curious.
“What kind of things?”
Laramie could only laugh.
With a shake of his head, he set her away from him as carefully as if she were an IED. Then, for good measure since he didn’t have body armor, he took a couple steps back.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She’d find out for herself, Sammi’s expression said.
Even as he mourned the loss of his comfortable, beer-buzzed sabbatical routine, Laramie wondered why he was saying no. She wasn’t married. Her fiancé was a douche who’d probably skipped out instead of facing his responsibilities. And, more important, she had about the hottest mouth he’d ever kissed.
Still...
“Some things, Sammi Jo, you’re better off not knowing.”
* * *
&n
bsp; WELL, DIDN’T THAT beat all.
Here she was, sexually aroused and seriously horny for the first time in her life, and the man responsible was telling her no.
Her breath still coming fast, Sammi stared at Laramie. She felt as if something inside her had melted away, leaving her exposed and unsure. A part of her wanted to grab hold of him, to plaster herself against his body and demand that he relieve these feelings churning deep inside her.
And if he wouldn’t relieve them, then dammit, couldn’t he at least tell her what they were? Was it technique? The dusty mountain air circulating the cabin? Did Laramie have exclusive dibs on whatever it was?
Sammi pressed her hands to her stomach, wishing she could ease the nerves jumping there. Her heart was racing just as fast and it felt as if her blood were on fire.
How’d he done that?
More importantly, why?
She watched as he strode back into the kitchen to pull another drink from the cooler, this time a bottle of water. Sunshine danced through the narrow window to spark gold streaks over his hair, lighting his face as he gulped down the water.
Sammi wet her lips as she watched his throat work, wondering how something so mundane could be sexy. It had to be Laramie. She’d seen hundreds of guys drink from a bottle over the years, and not one had ever made her want to beg for a taste. Until now.
“What was that for?” She had to swallow—twice—because her throat was so dry the words were sticking there. “Why did you kiss me?”
“You’re a smart girl, Sammi Jo. You figure it out,” he challenged, a hint of irritation riding on the words.
Shoulders twitching defensively, Sammi leaned against the back of the couch. Arms crossed over her chest, she welcomed the annoyance moving through her, pushing away the heat.
“Was that payment?” Her words were brittle, even as her chin lifted. “A little something you wanted in return for your help?”
She’d thought she’d come to terms with her upbringing. That she’d moved past the drama of dragging around blame and regret. But as bitterness burned away the last of the pleasure-filled fog clouding her mind, Sammi had to admit she might have been wrong.