And damn it. I don’t want to gawk or ogle or gape. I don’t want to notice the flecks of gold in his brown eyes or the way the towel hadn’t hidden much, before the main event where the towel gave up all hope. Not yet anyway. My mom had started at least two of her marriages based on sexual attraction alone . . . and look how far that had taken her. No, I want this union to last, so I plan to take things slowly. Mutual respect and affection first.
Unfortunately, my hormones are not on board. My skin is probably somewhere near the hundred-and-twenty-degree range, but damn. The man has a body, and I’m so flustered at the moment that I can’t decide if duct tape for his mouth would make things better or worse.
He walks past the table straight to the fridge, and I force myself not to notice the cut of his jeans. Or how they seem to have been sewed just for him. How the pockets ride low in the back. How round and firm his ass looks. I grunt and turn back to the counter, but my mind is stuck on how his jeans hug his body in just the right way, emphasizing his incredible form.
I shake my head in short bursts. No. No, no, no. A serious relationship will never work based on lust. We must build some sort of emotional connection first. I refuse to doom our marriage to failure by giving in to baser needs.
And what if we do have sex and then Tony goes to the committee to say he can’t stay with me any longer? My throat tightens. I’ll lose my home.
Mierda.
Rent is due soon, which means it’s time to talk to my new husband about splitting the financial responsibilities.
The refrigerator door opens and the distinct sound of the milk carton sliding out of its spot doesn’t precede the sound of the cabinet opening or milk pouring into a glass. Nope. It precedes several glugs and I whip my head around because if he’s put his mouth on my milk carton . . . and there he is . . . carton tipped up, head thrown back, carton to face.
“What the hell are you doing?” My fingernails bite into the palms of my hands. Finally, his unbelievable gall does the trick and helps simmer my hormones the hell down. Even if he does look like a walking Got Milk? ad.
Tony sets the carton down on the island and looks at it and then at me. His grin is back, topped by a slim white mustache, and he puffs out his chest. “Does my body good.”
I waste two seconds of my life glaring at him from across the kitchen before rolling my eyes and burying myself in the catalogue to find that it’s women’s lingerie. Fine. Whatever. Anything is better than dealing with my Neanderthal husband at this point. Even half-naked women in . . . I tilt my head. A bra studded with so many Swarovski crystals that it reminds me of a chandelier. Huh, maybe it comes with a hidden switch somewhere that will make the model’s boobs light up.
Before I can close the pages, Tony’s standing over me. He chugs the last of the milk, then places the empty carton down on the table. “You trying to avoid talking to me? Or are you genuinely interested in this nonsense?”
I drum my fingernails against the tabletop and press my lips tightly together, because killing him will get me locked up, and I’m not one who can handle being confined to a small space. I’ll have to figure out how to deal with this jerk eventually, if I want our marriage to work. What I won’t do is sit in my kitchen while he desiccates my milk carton and finds me lacking in the comparison to page twenty-three. I don’t know why I’m so mad, because this is exactly the type of behavior I was afraid of, from the first second I read his name on the matching-program paperwork. Maybe I’m just upset he’s proving me right.
“Since you’re here anyway, leering at my catalogue, now’s as good of a time as any to tell you that I expect you to pay half of the rent every month.” Having someone to split the surprise increase in rent with me hadn’t been the reason for signing up for IPP. I’d been prepared to seek out a roommate. But when the committee called and notified me of a match, I’d been relieved. My new landlord can kiss my ass.
“Not a problem. If you read through the contract, there’s a financial section. No freeloading allowed by members of the military. We’re required to take care of our dependents. And I’m more than happy to go in on all the bills, groceries, the works.”
I blink at him. I hadn’t bothered to read through the entire contract. Maybe I should go through it and see what else is stuck in there.
“I’ll get you a debit card tomorrow since we are also sharing my bank account. But I draw the line on you using my money for crystal bras.” He jerks his head toward the page and studies the picture again, then trails his gaze over me, lingering on my chest. He taps his chin while that wicked grin slides across his face. “On second thought . . .”
I shove back my chair and stomp past him to my bedroom, flinging the door shut because sometimes, I just need the echo of a slamming door to fill the room. It soothes some of the rage boiling beneath my skin. This entire thing is ridiculous. What I need to do—instead of sitting on my bed muttering to myself—is call someone, let them know there’s a flaw in the program and they’ve made a mistake. A big one. The epic kind, with ramifications that could destroy the program’s integrity and kill the success rate. Maybe put funding in jeopardy if word got out how badly they’d messed up this match. Especially if I, say, end up in jail for shoving Tony in a locked closet for the next year with his mouth taped shut. Or worse.
But before I can hunt down my cell, he knocks and pushes my bedroom door open. It’s wrong for my body to immediately react to the sight of his handsome face and the way his form perfectly fills the doorway, or to remind me of how I was hoping for more than a sparring partner to spend the next year with. It’s wrong, but my body buzzes with anticipation anyway.
I exhale as my shoulders slump forward. “What do you want?”
Instead of answering, he walks farther into the room and runs his finger along the edge of my dresser, stopping to test the texture of a doily my abuela made. He picks up my perfume, removes the cap, and sniffs. An involuntary twitch pulls his lips upward at the corners as he puts the bottle back and moves toward the window. “This suits you.”
“It’s a place to sleep.” Though it’s actually my sanctuary. The place I go to when I don’t want to be around anyone, and he’s ruined that for me, because I will forever picture him standing inside my room, touching my things, investigating my life. I’m uncomfortably aware of the way my shoes are visibly jumbled within my open closet and how the thin layer of dust on my dresser and night table showcases I’m not a perfectly tidy person. Then I snort and lift my chin. Whatever. As if a guy who uses someone else’s toothbrush without permission and drinks straight from the milk carton has room to judge.
He moves to sit on the side of the bed opposite mine. There is a stack of books next to him, ignored and ready to teeter to the floor that he straightens and then investigates. One of the classics, a few romance novels and a well-thumbed search and rescue training manual. He picks up one of the romance novels, a historical, and flips to the middle.
After a minute of reading, he looks up. “Love rod?”
I snort and quirk a brow. That one had thrown me too. “Euphemism.”
He pokes his nose back into the book, reads some more, and then flips the page and turns to lie across the bed so that his head is near my hip. “‘Her breasts heave in anticipation. If only he would touch her.’”
Mierda. In his voice, the words come to life and I imagine myself in a turn-of-the-century gown with my hair piled on top of my head and Tony, with his pirate pants unbuttoned, shirt open at the throat. Heat pulses under my skin. I snatch the book because if he reads another word aloud, I can’t be held responsible for my actions. “It helps me sleep to read before bed.”
“You know what else helps?”
He has that look in his eyes—the mischievous, teasing one. But I can give as well as I can take. So, I lower my voice to something in the neighborhood between sultry and breathy. Tracing his ear with my finger probably isn’t fair since I have no intention of backing any of it up, but he’d played with my fir
e one time too many. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He gulps and the sound is as satisfying as it is loud.
“Warm milk.” His voice comes out raspy and deep, like he’s choking on a ball of sand.
For the first time since he entered my home, I’m not all off-balance from his presence. I have the upper hand for a change, and it’s damn good. I trail my finger to his throat and scrape my nail lightly down to his collarbone. “You drank all the milk.” My husky, semi-pouty voice has managed to make the pulse point in his neck kick into gear and I’m proud. I could be a vixen as much as the next girl. It’s only fair, after he paraded around my house half-naked.
He clears his throat and in the blink of an eye, he’s found his control again. The grin that stretches lazily across his face makes my traitorous pulse skip. I try to pull my hand away, but he’s faster and grabs it to press a soft kiss against the pad of my index finger. Talk about heartbeats and shooting into the unknown.
“I have some other ideas we could explore.” He moves on to kiss each of my fingertips. My, oh my, his lips are soft. And the way they brush so sweetly against my skin? Delicious.
When he’s almost done, I snap out of the haze and yank my hand back. “If we keep having this conversation and I have to keep shooting you down, I’m afraid your self-confidence will suffer. Then it’s all shrink visits and psychotropic medication.”
I stand because one more inhale of his cologne and I’m going to lose my shit . . . and by lose my shit, I mean melt into a puddle at his overconfident, annoying feet. Which is absurd. The day I can’t resist a player like Tony is the day the world ends. No, this is less about him and more about me, and my sex drive reminding me that it’s been too long. That must be what’s happening here. My new husband might be hot, but he’s far too obvious and immature for my taste.
I glance down into his smoldering brown eyes, and a bolt of electricity runs along my spine right to my aching sex. Who am I trying to kid? My body has other ideas. Which, when I think about it, is great! Because it’s not like I have to resist him forever. No, I just need to keep my hands off him long enough for us to form some kind of bond that’s not rooted in sexy times. He’s making that a challenge though, because now not only do I have a mental picture of him in my room, but also one of him sprawled on my bed wearing his come-get-me grin, and it’s an image complete with smell-o-vision. Maybe Mami knows a cleaning ritual or a special prayer I can say to clear my head of the clutter. And yeah. My new plan is to think of him as brain clutter for the foreseeable future.
“Get out.” I wave my arm in a sweep toward the open doorway. “I have to . . .” I can’t think of a lie quick enough and he smirks, like he’s filling in my silence with the dirtiest conclusion ever. Insufferable. Ridiculous. Jerk. How am I supposed to form a nonphysical connection with this idiot? “I have to get ready for work.”
Because of my new marriage, I’ve been given the week off, and if I show up at the restaurant, the rumor mill will wind itself into God only knows what. But it’ll involve me and I’m not into being the talk of the town. I don’t even like being the talk of the house. But neither do I want to fall straight into bed with Tony and risk ruining any chance of making our union work for the long haul.
I push him out and slam the door before he can say another word. I walk over to my bed and fall onto the mattress where the scent of him—spice and citrus—mingles with the linen scent of my blanket to form the most intoxicating aroma. I want to bury my face in the material and inhale until it’s all gone, and as I turn my head into the comforter, the door pops open and I jerk my head to find Tony and his smug smirk pointed at me. “I’m going out for milk. You need anything?”
God, yes. I need some common sense, a few unencumbered-by-Anthony-Martinez brain cells, and a big dose of whatever they sold that would form an impenetrable resistance to him. “I’m good. Thanks.”
He winks again and shuts the door, whistling the first few bars of “I’m in the Mood for Love”—an oldie from way, way back I would have never guessed he’d ever heard. And a few minutes later while I shower, I belt out the first verse and the chorus before I realize what I’m doing and switch to an old Bon Jovi tune that seems to sum up the current state of my life. If anyone’s living on a prayer, it’s me.
The shower, with its multi-head spray jets that pulse and massage, eases the tension in my back and shoulders, but the rest of me is coiled like the spring in a jack-in-the-box. Tony being only be a few feet down the hallway from now on is going to be more temptation than I’d imagined.
If only the jackass didn’t speak, maybe we’d get somewhere. Maybe I could get one of those no-bark collars for dogs modified into a no-talk collar.
I grab the towel and wrap it around my body before stepping onto the bathmat. After towel drying my hair a bit, I step into my room and dance like no one’s watching while heading to the closet.
Tony always looks like he just stepped out of GQ magazine and by God, I won’t be outdone by designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren button down. I know how to turn heads, how to dress for my body, how to accentuate my J.Lo-esque ass and Victoria’s Secret cleavage. A little toss of my hair, one final look in the mirror, and I’m following my nose to the kitchen.
The kitchen is small, a U-shaped bank of cabinets interrupted by a dishwasher at the sink, and a refrigerator across from the stove. But at least when I’m standing at the sink hand-washing dishes, I can look out the window to the backyard and the garden of flowers my mom planted when I moved in. Except right now, Tony stands there with his big hands plunged deep into a bowl of peeled tomatoes.
Red juice squirts onto his shirt as he kneads and massages the fruit. My gaze fixates on the capable, rhythmic motion of his fingers. My legs wobble. Mierda. When did cooking become so erotic? This is unacceptable. I place one hand on my hip and drum the fingernails of the other against the countertop. “Tony, what are you doing?”
He grins and continues squeezing the tomatoes as his gaze wanders from my painted toes up my bare legs to the shorts of my romper, then to my halter top and the soft curls in my hair. “Making sauce for lasagna. Women like guys who can cook.”
“Women do, huh?” To be honest, I’m not offended he’s lumped us all into one category. To him, we probably are all one group of adoring fans. Conquests and notches on his bedpost.
Before I can ask about the ingredients scattered across the counter, he leans closer and sniffs the air. “You smell good too.”
My cheeks heat and I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “Thanks. I’m, um, going to the auto parts store to pick up some . . . uh . . .” I can’t think of a single thing we need. “Motor oil.” Oh, sweet Lord. But I can’t stop now. I’m in too deep. “I need to change . . . uh . . .”
He bites his bottom lip as if to keep from laughing. “Your oil?”
Ugh. Of course I’d have to set myself up for one of his lines. And I don’t generally shop at the auto store in three-inch heels and a romper that costs a week’s pay. Plus, I’d just changed the oil in my Wrangler last week. But I’m all in now. “Yep.”
“Don’t you have work?”
“You know, darnedest thing. I forgot I’m off this week. The newlywed-bonus week.” I grimace. Why did I say that?
He looks up at me for a moment, then continues kneading. “Well, don’t be too late. Dinner should be ready in about an hour and a half, tops.”
I shoot the bowl of tomatoes one last suspicious glance. “Sure. Will do. I’ll try to be back by then. Okay. I’m leaving now.”
But instead of heading out the door, I’m standing in my kitchen as my husband washes his hands like he’s performing some complicated surgery, and I’m mesmerized by how thorough he is, by the grace of his long fingers, by the muscles stretching his shirt tighter with each move of his shoulders.
This is bonkers. I shake myself as if clearing cobwebs from my skin and practically flee for my car. It’s a chickenshit escape, but I need some air that isn’t tain
ted by Tony Martinez and his cologne and his presence. Some space that isn’t crowded by his bulging biceps and smirk.
Outside, the air is hot and humid. Another normal June day, and I breathe it in. Deep. Centering. Calming. There. Now I’m more like myself.
Maybe his cologne has magic powers. If so, that’ll be the second thing added to my ban list. Right after kitchen boners.
As I back the car out of the driveway, I start to laugh. One thing is for sure. Being paired with Tony is the opposite of boring.
After I cruise around for a while, flitting through a boutique, and yes, stopping by the auto supply store for motor oil that I don’t need, I finally head back home after an hour and twenty minutes has passed by. My stomach is growling, so I hope Tony didn’t strike out with dinner.
The second I open the door and inhale the delicious aroma of melting cheese, sweet tomato sauce and spicy sausage, my worry dissipates. When I enter the kitchen, Tony’s wielding a metal spatula over a rectangular glass dish that sits on the stove. I head toward him to help, but he shoos me away. “Go sit down at the table. I’ve got this.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I take a seat while Tony dishes up hearty servings of steaming lasagna onto two plates and carries them over to the table. Two goblets full of ice water already sit across from each other, along with two place settings. He sets a plate in front of me with a flourish and then settles opposite me. He lifts his water glass toward me, so I mimic the motion.
“Cheers,” he says, when our glasses clink together.
“Thank you. This looks delicious.”
He takes a sip of water, then places the glass down on the table. “You don’t have to sound so startled. I had three younger sisters growing up, so I did a lot of cooking since my older sister was away at college.”
I nod and use my fork to dig in. The first bite I take is more like a nibble, but even that . . . whoa. So good. I quickly scoop up another bite and this time, close my eyes as the flavors practically explode in my mouth. The ricotta and sauce and mozzarella ratios are perfect, and the flavor is an amazing blend of spicy and sweet.
Matched (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 2) Page 4