by RC Boldt
“Lie back on the bed.” Relinquishing his hold on me, he steps back, reaching for a condom in the nightstand drawer. Scrambling to lie back on the bed, I watch him as he quickly rips the packet open, carefully sliding the condom over his length. Climbing onto the bed, the muscles in his arms strain, bracing his weight above me, his hard body pressing against mine. His cock is prodding me, right where I want him the most, where I’m aching and soaking wet for him.
“I…” I falter with my words, unsure of how to say what I need.
Those eyes of his, the heat subsides in them ever so slightly, concern evident. “What is it?”
Pressing my lips together, I finally decide to blurt it out. “I need you to be gentle because it’s been a while.” Lowering my eyes, I focus on his firm, right pectoral muscle. Which is ridiculous, by the way. No one should have such perfect pectorals. They’re freaking hot.
Wait. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m so far gone I’m gawking and swooning over pectorals?
Kill. Me. Now.
“Noelle.” Startled, my eyes fly up to his. He rarely calls me by my first name. I could probably count on one hand how many times he’s done so. “I’ll be gentle with you.” His lips curve up a fraction, and he dips his head to mine, whispering against my lips, “Until you decide you don’t want me to be gentle anymore.”
Oh, hell.
I hear a whimper and… Damn it. Another freaking whimper. Because of Foster Kavanaugh. What was the deal with this guy? It was like he had superpowers. Like he was the Vagina Whisperer or something.
Before my mind can run further on its tangent, he pushes inside of me, and within seconds it becomes crystal clear why this man has had a harem. Because that piercing of his? It hits, rubs, slides against all the right spots in all the right ways.
When he pushes as deep as I can take him, he ducks his head, grazing the side of my neck with his teeth as he begins to find a rhythm. Gripping his back, I feel the play of his muscles beneath my fingers as he thrusts into me.
“Your pussy is so tight around me.” His lips brush against my earlobe, voice low, hushed, and slightly labored as he works himself inside of me. “You like it like this? Or can I fuck you harder?” At his words, my inner muscles clench around him, and I know he feels it when he inhales sharply.
I turn my head toward his and whisper, “I want you to fuck me harder.” While running my lips across his jawline. The moment my words are out, he lifts his head, eyes burning with intensity, and his hips begin working faster, thrusting harder and pushing deeper.
“Foster,” I gasp, my body arching as if attempting to get even closer.
His head lowers to mine. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” Our mouths meet in a powerful, frenzied kiss, tongues clashing as the pacing of his thrusts hasten. His piercing is hitting that place—that place that’s been elusive to anyone else I’ve ever been with—and I feel the sensations begin, knowing I’m about to orgasm. Tightening around him, my gasp breaks our kiss. “Foster, I’m—”
“Come for me.” His voice is gravelly, his breathing harsh. His pace is bordering on frantic, but it’s his words sending me over the edge. There’s a hint of desperation in them, like he’s barely holding on. As I call out his name, my inner muscles spasm around him. He lets out a short groan, stiffening as he gives two final thrusts, finding his own release.
We’re both breathing hard, his arms are still braced on either side of me so he doesn’t crush me with his weight, his face in the pillow next to mine. A million things are running through my head right now as the high of the orgasm is receding.
“Stop thinking.” His words are slightly muffled by the pillow.
“There’s nothing wrong with thinking, Kavanaugh.” I smile because, hey, I had pretty awesome sex just now. That and I can’t help but harass this guy. Trying for a casual tone, I say, “I was just thinking that I probably should’ve just waited another year. Maybe it would’ve been better.”
His head snaps up to stare at me with a mixture of incredulity, disbelief, and suspicion. Raising up above me, he stares. “Really.” He says this as a statement, not a question.
“Really.”
“Well, then.” There’s only one way to describe his smile, the gleam in his eyes—predatory. He shifts his hips, and I work hard to stifle a moan.
Damn it to hell. This is what happens when you unleash a vagina that’s been on strict lockdown for so long. It becomes a complete ho-bag.
His eyebrows furrow, and he tips his head to the side as if to hear me better. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that? Was that a moan?”
Ha, Foster Kavanaugh is a funny man, isn’t he?
“Nope,” I pop the p doing my best to school my expression. Except for one problem. He’s a freaking former SEAL, who I swear can manage to read minds.
And see through bullshit.
“Huh.” His face is a mask of mock confusion. “So if I do this,” he rocks inside of me and it feels so good, it sends shivers through me, “you don’t feel anything?”
I refuse to give in. “Not a thing.” With a sympathetic look, I pat his shoulder. “Sorry, buddy.”
When his hand reaches down to begin toying with my clit, rubbing his thumb in circles, I swallow hard, feeling myself get wetter, while simultaneously hoping he won’t noti—
His grin turns dangerous, and I know he felt it. His thumb continues to wreak havoc on my clit, and I know I’m getting closer. I can’t stop it—it hits me hard, eyes falling closed, body arching as I contract around him yet again.
When the tremors finally subside, my eyes are still closed as I concentrate on calming my breathing. He leans in close, his hot breath washing against my neck. There’s no denying the mischievousness in his voice.
“Sorry to disappoint you, yet again. Maybe I should try with my mouth.”
“Good plan,” is all I can manage to get out.
I choose to ignore the husky laugh that follows.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Foster
I make it—barely—through the work week trying to act the same around Noelle at the office. Five damn days. Her window was fixed Monday after we got off work and everything was safe for her to stay at her place. It should have been great; I should have been thrilled to get my space back. Instead, I ended up stalling her when she started packing up her stuff, insisting that the window sealant had to dry fully before she moved back in.
Because, fumes.
I googled some shit about inhaling fumes and spouted it off until she agreed to stay longer. Which is unlike me, but damn it, I want her to be there on my couch, watching Aladdin or Strike Back with me. I want her in my damn bed, watching her come apart beneath me. I want to watch her eat.
Okay, I’ll admit the last one sounds creepy as shit. But the way she eats prosciutto and cheese is sexy as hell. Last night, I got so turned on I stripped her naked and ate some prosciutto off her body. Which is problematic since that’s pretty much a staple at my mother’s house, and I really don’t want to get a damn hard-on in the house I grew up in. Over cured meat.
Shit. This woman’s making me crazy. But part of me doesn’t even care as long as I can detain her, get her to stay one more day.
“Stop, Kavanaugh,” Noelle holds up a hand as soon as I’m about to spout off my latest excuse as to why she needs to stay at my house. “I have to go home. It’s Friday, okay? Plus, I’ve got to get ready for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” My tone is sharp because she’d better not tell me she has a date. Just the idea has me feeling murderous.
She gives me an odd look. “We’re all meeting at Raine and Mac’s place.”
Shit. I’d completely forgotten. A bunch of us often hang out at Raine and Mac’s on Friday nights, some of the guys playing their acoustic guitars and singing, the rest of us chilling and catching up.
“I can pick you up and give you a ride over there.” I fucking hate the tinge of desperation I hear in my voice.
Her expres
sion softens and she gives me a patient smile. “I can drive myself. I need to try and get back to normal at some point.” Stepping closer, she rises on her tiptoes to press a quick—far too quick—kiss to my cheek. “Thank you for everything.”
Moving back, she stoops down to Harley. “You be good, okay, sweetie.” Then, with her bag over her shoulder, hanging clothes already in her car—the car she had insisted she go back and get because she didn’t want everyone at the office to get the wrong idea if we were to ride in to work together each morning—she turns to head to the door.
“Harley’s going to miss you.” I’m going to miss you.
Her hand stills on the doorknob and when she turns around, I find myself wanting desperately to detect some sign that she’ll miss this—miss me—too. But I can’t see it in her beautiful blue eyes.
“I’ll miss him, too,” she says quietly before slipping out, the door closing softly behind her. Leaving me and Harley surrounded by the silence of my home. A home that feels awfully empty without Noelle in it.
And if I’m being completely honest, it isn’t the only thing that feels empty.
* * *
“Hey, man,” Mac greets me, opening the door to allow me to enter the beach home.
Mac and I go way back. He’s a good guy who had a rough go of life from the start and his last mission as a SEAL was a complete clusterfuck. When he was finally transferred to a hospital stateside, he was in a bad place—both physically and mentally. Ma and I flew up to see him and I convinced him to come down to Fernandina Beach and recuperate.
We found this house—a foreclosure that had needed a shit ton of work—but it was just the thing for him. He and I worked our asses off at bringing the place back up to speed. Now he and Raine, my pseudo kid sister, are happily married.
Walking down the wide hallway, we make our way toward the oversized sliding glass doors leading out to the large outer deck where everyone is gathered. Mac opens the doors and my eyes instantly settle on Noelle where she’s sitting at a table with the other women. Raine is gesturing animatedly, telling some anecdote which is evidently entertaining as Noelle throws her head back in laughter, her expression so open and breathtakingly beautiful.
Here’s the thing about Noelle. She’s not waif-thin, doesn’t have a super tiny waist or perfect features. She’s got curves for days—those luscious, pin-up style ones—and while her nose might not be symmetrically proportionate to her face, she more than makes up for it with those light blue eyes and her sassy, sharp-witted personality. God knows, the woman can match wits with me any day of the week.
But all of that pales when she lets out a genuine, honest-to-goodness laugh. The way her entire face transforms is—Shit. It makes it hard for me to breathe, just looking at her. Makes my chest feel tight. Even so, it’s a sight my mind instantly wants to memorize.
“So that’s how it is, huh?”
I didn’t even realize Mac and I had been standing in the opened doorway to the deck. Attempting to hide the fact that he’d startled me from gawking at a woman like a fucking teenager, my lips part to give him my best nonchalant brush-off.
Instead, the moment I meet his gaze which isn’t mocking or derisive, but understanding, what comes out instead is, “Yeah.” I blow out a long breath. “But hell if I know what to do about it.”
We step out and after he pulls the door closed behind us, he veers off to the side of the deck to lean against the railing. I follow, knowing he wants to talk before we join the others. I also know it’s serious since the dimple that makes all the women swoon is nowhere in sight.
“I heard about the trouble she’s got hanging over her head.” Mac pauses, his dark blue eyes conveying his seriousness. “You just feeling protective or is it something more?”
I falter for an answer because, the truth is, it’s both.
“If it’s both,” Mac begins and I’m reminded he knows me well, “then you need to be able to decipher whether or not you can get past your shit and have something with her. Something lasting.”
Yeah, my buddy just called me on my shit because, well, Mac knows. While I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know the actual specifics, he knows what it’s like, knows the horrors we’ve seen during some of our missions. It’s the stuff that would keep most people awake at night.
It’s stuff that keeps me from sleeping through the night.
Except for when Noelle spends the night, an inner voice whispers. And I can’t deny it. The nights she stayed with me were the first nights in I don’t know how long I actually slept through the night. And slept well with her in my arms.
Shaking my head, leaning against the railing, looking out toward the ocean, I try to find the right words. “A part of me has been thinking about what it would be like to have something with her.” Hell, every single night that she’d spent at my place, that she’d spent in my arms, in my bed, I’d wondered about it. “But you and I both know…”
“That’s a cop-out.” Mac’s tone is firm. “You know that, deep down. You need to let go of what happened out there in that fucking desert. It’s past time to move on, Fos.”
I let out a mirthless laugh at his words. “I want to let it go, man.” Turning to face him, my eyes meet his. “It’s the shit that won’t let go of me.”
“Maybe you need to … talk to someone?” His tone is tentative, and I know why. Even though he’s one of my closest friends, not to mention someone who understands what I’ve been through, I hate the idea of talking to a psychiatrist—hate the idea of someone poking and prodding into my mind.
But maybe it’s time I come to the realization that I need something to help me finally leave the past behind.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Noelle
It sounds crazy, but I swear I sense the moment Foster arrives, know the moment he stepped out onto the deck.
Okay, so it may have helped to have his sister hiss, singsong style, in my ear, “My brother’s heeeeerrrrreee. And he’s eye fucking the hell out of you.”
Dear God. I don’t even want to know what must go on in her and Zach’s bedroom because this woman is the biggest horndog this side of the Mason-Dixon line.
“Laney,” Raine scolds with a short laugh. “Good grief. Leave her alone.”
My eyes drift over to where he’s standing talking with Mac, and I wonder what they’re discussing, what topic of conversation has them looking so serious.
“I know that look.” Laney’s eyeing me with a knowing expression. “You did the deed with him.”
My eyes widen. I thought we’d been pretty good at flying under the radar. Wrinkling my nose, I attempt a quick, covert glance to assure Foster is still across the deck with Mac before answering slowly, “Noooo.”
“Which means yes.” Laney pumps her fist in the air. “I knew it.”
Raine gives her a look before turning back to me. “What happens now?”
“She becomes my sister-in-law is what happens next.”
I gawk at Laney. “Seriously, Laney. You need to chill. I don’t see that happening. Like, at all.”
“Why not?” Raine’s green eyes peer at me curiously.
My lips part, then shut because I’m unsure of how to answer. Finally, I let out a long sigh, my voice subdued. “I know how it is with him. He’s not interested in anything permanent. We all know that.”
My eyes flicker over each woman’s expression, coming to rest on Raine. She gives me pause because she’s always one to give the more thoughtful responses whenever one of us brings up a serious topic.
“Just remember,” she says softly, her long, dark hair falling over her shoulder as her head tips to the side, “you only lose by holding back. Not by loving.”
We all fall silent for a beat before Laney pipes up. “Or you can just sex him up so good he doesn’t think of anything but putting that P on lockdown.”
Slapping my hands over my face, I groan. “Laney.”
“And this next song goes out to a special someone.” Kane
’s voice booms from the center of the deck where he and a few of the other men are seated with their guitars. “A little birdie told me it’s a certain someone’s favorite song. But we’re going to need Noelle’s help over here.”
I give Kane my best squinty-eyed look, warning him about screwing with me. Which does nothing, of course. As I move to take the chair they’ve pulled up beside them, it’s all I can do not to pull a Momma K. move and hit Kane upside the head. Because the song they start strumming is one I recognize. An eighties song by Atlantic Starr.
“Secret Lovers.”
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love this song. Kane’s shit-eating grin subsides as he joins me in singing the chorus and I lose myself in the song. Watching as the other couples start slow dancing, I try to avoid catching Foster’s gaze.
And fail miserably.
The moment our eyes meet, it’s like I’m burning on the inside from the intensity of his gaze. When the corners of his lips tip up, I can’t resist returning the tiny smile. And when the song ends, the guys thank me before starting to play another slow one. Before I can return to where I was seated, Foster’s hand stops me, his fingers lightly grasping my wrist.
My eyes raise to his in question and he tips his head in the direction of where the others are swaying.
“Dance with me?” I swear his words have what sounds like a tinge of uncertainty to them.
Nodding, I offer a quick, “Sure,” and allow him to lead me onto the designated dance floor. With the faint ocean breeze washing over us, the soothing sound of the acoustic guitars, as well as Miller and Kane’s voices, I allow myself to relax in Foster’s embrace as we sway to the music.
“Your voice is beautiful. As always.” His voice is low, husky, his lips close to my ear, his breath making me shiver.
“Are you cold?”
“No. Just a chill.”
One of his hands glides over my back, and I find myself focusing on the thumb swiping back and forth in achingly slow strokes over my spine. Find myself wishing there wasn’t fabric separating him from my skin.