“I’m still not fully unpacked,” she said, voice muffled. If he had to guess, he’d say she had her head stuck in a cabinet. “I put most of the stuff away, but the nightstand stuff was in a box by itself, and my mom was over here hovering while I unpacked and I wasn’t about to open that up while she was around and . . . ah!” Emerging, still naked, she grinned foolishly and held up a strip of condoms. “We are cleared for takeoff.”
Jesus H. If the mention of her mother hadn’t softened his hard-on, nothing would. “Get back here and let’s put those suckers to good use, then.”
She pranced, just a little, but danced out of reach when he tried to grab a leg to pull her back in. “I dunno, you look pretty good there. Maybe we should do some stretches first.” Her eyes widened with anticipation. “Oh, some downward dog would be nice. For you, of course.” Her face turned serious and she held the hand gripping the condoms over her heart. “I’m just thinking of your own strength and flexibility. Wouldn’t want you to pull a hammie while we’re doing the mattress limbo.”
“I’ll risk it.” He took one more wild grab for her, managed to connect with her forearm and pulled until she tumbled over the top of him. Her warm, soft skin moved over his so sensually he was ready to burst into flames. “Normally, I’m a lot smoother, but right now I’ve got to get inside you.”
“So much for foreplay,” she complained, but she winked to show she was joking.
“Sweetheart, it seems like anytime I’m alone with you, it’s foreplay.”
Her eyes softened at that. “I think that was really sweet. In a sexual sort of way.” She tore one packet off the line, dropped the rest on the nightstand, and handed it over. “I suck at this.”
In five seconds flat, he was ready to go. He gripped the tops of her thighs as she maneuvered over him. But when he would have positioned his cock, she shook her head. “Let me. I want to do it all.”
Far be it from him to deny her. He raised his arms away, hands laced behind his head, and watched while she rubbed the head of his erection through her slick center. The friction against his sensitive head was exquisite, a stolen moment of foreplay in an otherwise straight-to-the-good-stuff scene. From the way her eyelids fluttered half-closed, he knew she was doing it intentionally.
Marianne Cook knew what she wanted, and was willing to take it, literally, into her own hands to get it.
There was nothing sexier in the world to him at that moment than Marianne Cook.
He felt her body give way as she sank down onto him, pushing his hands back as he tried to steady her. “I’ve got this.”
Realizing she was serious, and wanted no help, he let his arms fall to his sides and rubbed his thumbs over her knees. That, at least, she didn’t see as getting in the way.
Back arched, she rolled and flexed her hips until he was fully inside her. He shivered with the delicious feeling. Then she took it a step further and reached behind her, placed her hands flat on the bed beside his calves, and pulsed.
If his eyes didn’t cross from the pleasure, he’d have been shocked. He fought hard to keep his body still while she experimented with the rhythm she wanted, then worked it until they were both panting. Her entire body was out of reach except for where they were joined. He watched her breasts bounce gently with each thrust, and his arms flexed with the frustration of not being able to cup those soft mounds, to run his fingers over the puckered tips, to feel how they changed as her breathing became more labored.
Next time, he swore. Because there would absolutely be a next time.
She arched even more, and he admired the curve of her torso, the tilt of her neck, the muscles of her thighs as she held the impossible position like it was nothing.
He took the chance to touch her when he felt his orgasm creeping up. With his thumbs, he opened her top folds and exposed her clitoris. He touched with just the tip of one finger, and she nearly bolted off him from the contact.
“Oh, God, do that again,” she panted, her speed increasing, her insides clenching around his cock. “Do it again.”
He was a good Marine. He knew how to follow orders. He pressed and rubbed against that little bundle of nerves until she whimpered, rotated her hips hard around the base of his cock then arched back up like she was ascending through the ceiling with the most magnificent orgasm he’d ever witnessed.
The visual pleasure of watching her come sent him tumbling over the edge of his own climax unexpectedly. And closing his eyes, he released the tension that had been building inside him for months and let go.
* * *
MARIANNE waited until he moved first. Or, he was first if you didn’t count her not-so-majestic flop over his sweat-slicked body.
How was it she had never felt more sexy, more sensual, more womanly in her entire life than when Brad had been inside her, and then thirty seconds after they were finished, she flopped over like a breaching humpback whale?
Nothing said, Yes please, do me again, like imitating the world’s largest mammal post coitus.
“That,” he said as he shifted a little, “was pretty much epic.”
Her hand ran down his chest in answer.
He picked up her hand and wiped it with the corner of the bed sheet. “Sorry. That probably grossed you out.”
“What, the sweat?” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Hardly. Sweat’s a daily hazard for me, if you couldn’t tell. If I hated sweat, I chose the world’s dumbest profession.”
His lips twitched at that. “That’s probably true. Like a doctor who hates blood.”
“Or a lawyer who hates liars.”
“A teacher who hates kids.”
“A Marine who hates guns.”
“Doesn’t exist,” he said firmly, and she laughed.
“You’re a different guy here than in the gym,” she said after awhile.
“Jesus H., I hope so,” he muttered, and she laughed again. He was always doing that, though she was pretty sure he never intended to be so funny.
“Not that way, because, first of all . . . ew. Do you know what kind of germs are on those mats?”
“Don’t tell me,” he warned when she opened her mouth. “I’ll just let my imagination run wild.”
“Just make sure you always shower post workout,” she warned. “But I mean your personality with the guys. You’re so solitary with the rest of them. I know it’s not because you’re shy, or have the social skills of a tin can. We’ve never struggled to talk.”
“You’re different,” he said simply, and she had a feeling he considered that to be the beginning and the end of it.
She wasn’t going to push. Pushing would be bad. Pushing had no place in their little haven of wonder.
After another few moments, he sighed. “I have to deal with the condom. Don’t move,” he said sternly as he got up and walked to the bathroom.
She moved. She couldn’t help it, it was just too awkward sitting there, buck-ass naked, waiting for him to come back. She didn’t even sleep in the nude when she was alone. So she grabbed her pajama bottoms and slid them on. She was still topless when he walked back in, all shiny and muscly and . . .
Bad Marianne.
He scowled at her bottoms.
“I can’t just sit here naked.” She spread her arms out over the mattress. “This bed isn’t a buffet, and I’m not a bucket of crab legs sitting on ice, waiting for you to come back.”
He raised a brow at that, but found his jeans on the floor and pulled them on.
Oh. That wasn’t the intended purpose. “I can take them back off,” she said quietly.
His lips twitched as he buttoned his fly. “I’d say yes, but then we’d just go at it again.”
Well, okay then. She lifted her butt off the mattress to wriggle the pants back down, but he just chuckled and shook his head.
“I’ve got to get back. I just gave four Marines an earful on eating better and getting more rest. And they were already kicking my ass in the talent department. I probably signed my own deat
h warrant with that one. I’ve gotta get to bed.”
She debated playing vixen and suggesting her bed was ready for action—of the sleeping kind. But she could see in his eyes he was earnest in his quest to get a full night’s sleep.
And there was no doubt, if they were together in bed all night, rest would be the last thing on either of their minds.
“Fine, fine.” She rolled her eyes and groped the floor for her top. “Geez, you’d think you cared about it or something.”
He ran his hands down her bare back as she bent to scoop up the shirt. The calluses and rough tips brought goose bumps to her skin. He wrapped them around her front as she straightened, cupping her breasts. With her back pressed to his front, he cupped the heavy weight in each palm, plucking gently at the nipples with his thumbs and forefingers.
He kissed the skin of her neck, just below her ear. His voice rasped, “While you were up there, arched back over me, and these pretty things were straight in the air, I could barely think of anything else but wanting to get my hands on them.”
She pressed his hands harder into her chest. “Anytime.”
“That would make for an interesting icing session.” With a half laugh, he squeezed them and let them fall gently. After she’d put her shirt on, he turned her and kissed her slowly, as if they were about to start the seduction process all over again.
“That arch,” he continued, rubbing one hand over her lower back. “Looked painful. But so fucking sexy.”
She’d be calling Kara tomorrow to thank her profusely for her insistence on yoga. “Not painful. You’ll be having some yoga lessons soon. Maybe you can do it, too.”
“I’d rather just watch you bend and twist.” With a friendly pat on her ass, he walked toward her front door. When he opened it, he turned back. “This isn’t going to be weird tomorrow, is it?”
“What, like am I going to chase you down on the mat to give you a big kiss in front of your teammates?” When he paled a little, she bit her lip to keep the laugh inside. “I’ll restrain myself. It’ll be tough . . .”
He slapped her ass in mock punishment, pressed a kiss to her forehead, then closed the door behind him.
She waited a second, palm against the door, listening for his footsteps away. But she heard nothing. The man was a ghost.
“Lock your damn door.”
She jumped at the sound, then covered her mouth to stifle the gasp. “Go home.”
With a laugh, she clicked the dead bolt over.
With a muttered, “Jesus H.,” she heard Brad walk away.
She headed to her pad of paper, tore off the day’s completed to-do list and wrote at the top of the next day’s list: “Yoga.”
* * *
BRAD and Higgs walked into the gym the next morning to find Marianne front and center on the main mat with Coach Ace and Coach Cartwright. Coach Willis was absent. A few other guys were stretching and talking, but nothing out of the ordinary.
The pile of mats off to the side was unusual, but he ignored that in favor of watching Marianne.
“So Cook’s packing a hot body under those baggy training clothes, huh?” Higgs asked under his breath. “Did you know about those breasts?”
“Fuck off,” he answered easily, but he couldn’t blame the man for looking. Marianne was a compact, hot number, and today she wasn’t hiding it under a loose-fitting polo shirt and shapeless shorts or capris.
Her tank top showed no cleavage, and the straps were wide running over her shoulders. The back, as he saw when she angled to point something out to the coaches, was in a racerback style. But it was as tight as a second skin and stopped about two inches above her pants. Those, too, were tight, molding to her legs and stopping mid-calf. And she was wearing flip-flops instead of her usual white socks and running shoes. Her hair, which she normally wore pulled back into a stubby ponytail, was loose but for an elastic headband thingie that ran around her entire head.
“Interesting outfit for icing injuries and wrapping wrists,” Higgs said, tossing his bag over to the side with the growing pile. Brad did the same and they headed over to stretch with the rest of the group. Marianne’s eyes caught his, and she smiled a little, but didn’t acknowledge his presence otherwise. He followed her lead and gave a brief nod before sitting down to stretch out his hamstrings.
“So where’d you go last night?” Higgs asked, sitting beside Brad and pulling his right arm across his body. “You didn’t come home before I hit the rack, unless you were ninja-like about it.”
“You know me, always the ninja.” He debated a moment, then said, “Went out to eat with my group. What’d you guys do?”
Higgs could tell there was more to the story, but—thank God—he didn’t press. “We went out to a movie, gorged ourselves on popcorn—”
Brad rolled his eyes.
“—and then sat in Johnson’s pickup truck bed for an hour in the parking lot, bitching about whatever. Came home around ten, shocked to find my hermit roommate gone.”
“I’m not a hermit.” Why did everyone think he was a hermit?
“Fooled me,” Higgs said easily, then bent to touch his toes.
Sweeney plopped down beside them. “What’s up?”
Did he have a sign on his back saying, “Please come talk to me”? “Stretching.”
After waiting a beat, he looked to Higgs. “Forgot to drink his happy juice this morning?”
“Ignore Costa. He’s a regular bowl of sunshine, twenty-four-seven.” Higgs grinned. “What’d your group do last night?”
“Cookout at my place. I’ve got a big grill, which I bought before I realized it was pointless to have when I’m only ever cooking for one. So it was good to have an excuse to blow the dust off and use it. Steaks, burgers, corn, and one of my guys made this gooey chocolate dessert thing that cooked in some foil on the grill. It was amazing.” He nodded at them both. “You guys should come over sometime so I have another excuse to use the grill.”
“Does anyone around here stick to a reasonable diet?” Brad wondered out loud.
“Only you,” Higgs answered with a dead-serious look. Both he and Sweeney cracked up laughing, until Sweeney’s smile faded slowly.
“Who,” he asked, voice low, “the hell is that?”
Brad turned to see a woman walking in, a mat under one arm, a tote bag filled with who knew what slung over her other shoulder. Long auburn hair swished from her high ponytail as she walked. She wore an outfit similar to Marianne’s, only her top was shorter and bared much more of her stomach. Though that might have been because she was willow-slender and at least five foot ten.
She bounced the last few steps and straight into Marianne’s arms. They did the girl-hug thing and chattered at each other, though Brad couldn’t hear what they said. Then he watched as Marianne introduced the newcomer to the coaches.
“Cute,” was Higgs’ observation.
“I’ll have one of those” was Sweeney’s eye-glazed announcement.
“You’re both idiots” was Brad’s contribution.
“Marines, on your feet!” Coach Ace barked. They scrambled up and assumed parade rest right where they were on the large blue wrestling mat. “You’re going to do a two-lap warm-up, and then grab one of these . . .” He glanced at the new woman, who muttered something in his ear, and he finished, “. . . mats. Grab one of these rolled up mats and spread out.”
When they stared at him, not moving, he clapped his hands together and grinned. “It’s yoga time, boys.”
CHAPTER
11
Marianne struggled to remember the last time her stomach had hurt so much. Not from eating too much ice cream, or from cramps, but from holding in the laughter too long. Oh, God, they were hilarious, bless their sad, inflexible little souls.
They were all struggling through a downward dog—at least two of the Marine infants had snickered at the name—and now most were moaning at the fact that they couldn’t do the poses even halfway. Marianne, who had never been fantastic at yo
ga and only did the poses for the relaxation benefits, was suddenly feeling a thousand times more flexible by comparison.
“Don’t overdo it,” Kara warned from her mat in the front. She stood and walked around, repositioning men’s hands or nudging their feet apart for a better stance.
A voice called out, “Ma’am, am I doing this right?”
Marianne stood up at that, having recognized the voice. Tressler, in the back, was chuckling like a clown as Kara walked behind him and asked what felt off.
“My hips, I think.” He wiggled his ass in the air, which happened to line up with Kara’s stomach. “Is this right?”
Marianne walked over and quietly took Kara’s hand, motioning for her to be quiet. Then she waved Coach Ace over. The man was a ghost, moving without sound. He shot her an amused grin and gripped Tressler’s hips.
“Is this right?” Face still pointing down, Tressler moved his ass up and down.
“I don’t know, is it?” Coach Ace asked, and Tressler’s arms buckled. He face-planted into the mat and rolled to find the coach standing over him. His face flushed the color of a blood stripe and he stuttered.
Lowering himself to his haunches, Coach Ace said quietly, “Let’s let the ladies do their jobs, shall we?”
“Yes, sir¸” Tressler replied automatically, then scrambled back into position.
“You can keep going,” he said, and Kara nodded regally, wandering back toward the front of the group.
“Walk your hands in,” she said in a calm, soothing voice that matched the babbling brook CD she’d brought to put in the gym’s CD player. “Slowly, slowly . . . If you need to widen your feet more to make it easier, do so. No strain necessary. Just by trying you’re getting the health benefits.”
Marianne wandered back toward her own mat, passing by Brad’s location as she did. She found him already standing, having rolled up as one of the first. “Nice form.”
“I catch on.” He shrugged one shoulder, but his neck flushed in an adorable show of embarrassment.
“Admit it—you’ve taken some yoga classes.”
“Hell no,” he said quickly. “But you know, the instructors are pretty cute when you find one of those classes on TV.”
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