by Leanne Banks
She inhaled deeply and let it out in a jagged, uneven breath.
He stroked her hair the same way he would comfort a child, all the while aware—terribly aware—that she was a woman. “Does this mean we have to eat the animal crackers in his honor?”
She gave a weak chuckle and looked up at him. “No. He didn’t usually have animal crackers on his birthday. Just the regular birthday cake, yellow cake, white frosting, candles.” She rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. What do you want to do this evening?”
“I don’t know. Maybe look at some photographs. I’d toast him, but I don’t think I have any alcohol.”
“I can take care of that,” he offered.
She took a step back and shook her head. “Oh, no. You can’t stay. This is really going to be maudlin and I’ll just keep this to myself.”
He immediately felt the gap where she’d been. “Are you saying I’m not invited?”
She opened her mouth and worked it, but nothing came out. “Well, it’s not going to be a fun time.”
“I miss him, too,” he confessed.
She looked at him for a long moment. “Okay. You can come to my pity party if you really want to.”
“Let me go pick up something for toasting first,” he said, pointing at her. “I’ll be back in a flash. Don’t start without me.”
She shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
Twenty-two minutes later, he returned with tequila, salt, lime, a birthday cake and two shot glasses.
She raised her eyebrows at his purchase. “That looks like an interesting taste combination.”
“After you drink a couple shots, your taste buds will be numb and it won’t matter.”
She gave a weak laugh. “That’s good to know.”
Brock washed out the glasses and sliced the lime while she cut a couple pieces of cake. “Where’s the party?”
“The den,” she said, licking the frosting from one of her fingers.
“I’m ready when you are,” he said and followed her out of the kitchen.
Crossing her legs over each other, she set the pieces of cake aside and picked up a large photo album. “Let’s start with the first birthday. He was cute even when he was a baby.”
“He was,” Brock agreed, seeing the same sparkle in the baby’s eyes that he’d seen in Rob’s eyes.
“He walked early and loved anything on wheels,” she continued.
“Yep, he got a kick out of the vehicles the Marines used.”
“He drove a motorcycle before he was old enough to get his driver’s license, but he didn’t get caught.” She shook her head. “He never got caught.”
Except when he stepped on that mine. He got caught then. Brock’s chest contracted so sharply he couldn’t breathe. He shook some salt on his hand, licked it, poured a shot of tequila, downed it and sucked on a lime.
He felt Callie’s gaze on him. “That always looked like it required a lot of coordination to me.”
“You’ve never had tequila?”
“That would require me going to a bar, and the only times I went to bars I was with Rob. He always got me one of those drinks with the little umbrellas.”
“You want to try a shot?” he asked.
“Okay, but you’ll have to coach me,” she said.
Brock talked her through the salt and the shot and watched her face after she tossed back the tequila. “Ewww. That’s gross!” She coughed.
“Suck the lime,” he told her, lifting her hand.
She obeyed and her lips puckered and eyes watered. She coughed again. He gently thumped her on her back.
“That’s disgusting. Why would anyone drink more than one of those?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
After viewing several more pages of photographs of Rob, however, she took another shot when Brock did. She shared memory after memory with Brock. Some were funny, some were bittersweet, but they all made him ache because she obviously missed him so much. It hit him again that Callie hadn’t just lost a lover or husband—she’d lost her life partner. And nothing, and no one, would ever be able to totally replace everything Rob had been to her.
The knowledge tore at him and he felt his own eyes burn when she turned the page to show Rob in his uniform, fresh out of boot camp.
Callie scrubbed at her eyes with the backs of her hands and took another shot. “I think I’m starting to feel the effect of the tequila now. I should probably eat something,” she said. “Cake. I’ll eat the cake.”
“I’m not sure that’s really gonna help,” he said, amused, despite the fact that she’d been weeping like a child just moments before.
“Better than nothing,” she said and took a couple of bites.
He watched her and got distracted by the little bit of frosting on her cheek. He rubbed it off with his finger then licked it.
Her gaze locked with his in fascination. “After this cake, I bet that tequila will taste more bitter than ever.”
“You bet right,” he said with a grin.
She sighed and took another bite of cake. “Well, I can say that I did something adventurous on Rob’s birthday by trying tequila.”
“Hear, hear,” he said, pouring himself another shot. “And you can feel good that you didn’t do anything too bad, like body slammers.”
She swallowed over her bite of cake. “What’s a body slammer?”
“Nothing you want to do,” he told her. A dozen forbidden images flew through his mind of places on her body he would like to taste.
She leaned toward him with her hand on his thigh. She probably didn’t even realize she was touching him, he thought. “Tell me what a body slammer is,” she demanded.
Her eyes were sexy, smoky and her voice had a husky tinge that rattled his nerve endings. “It’s when you put salt on another person’s body, lick it off, drink the shot of tequila and follow it up with the lime.” His brain ran down the road to temptation again.
She blinked. “Now let me get this straight. You pour salt on someone else’s body and lick it off. Doesn’t it just fall off?”
“You have to do it fast.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “I can honestly say I’ve never had a body slammer.”
Brock felt a punch of arousal along with an uh-oh sensation. She had that same look on her face she’d worn when he’d danced with her. That one little dance had nearly killed him. He would swallow his tongue before he offered her a body slammer.
She bit her lip and eyed the tequila then her gaze slid over him again. She’d had enough alcohol to lower her inhibitions, which could be a damn dangerous state for him. Her expectancy was so palpable, it twisted between them like a coiled wire. “I really don’t know when I’m going to have this opportunity again,” she said and licked her lips. “And I can trust you. If I don’t choose anything obscene, would you let me body slam you?”
Six
Marine Lingo Translation
Devil Dog: a name for Marines that signifies
the dogged determination of Marines.
And I can trust you…would you let me body slam you?
Brock swallowed every swear word he’d ever heard along with a few he made up. She could trust him? She damn well shouldn’t trust him. He felt like the biggest, baddest wolf on the planet and he wanted this Little Red Riding Hood for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Squeezing in a breath, he willed his lips to form the word no, all the while looking into her sexy eyes. He glanced at her mouth and felt his libido roar like an overbuilt engine.
“Go ahead,” he said, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. “Body slam me.”
Her face lit up and she smiled. “Okay, I’ll try it on your hand.” She poured her shot then grabbed the salt shaker and sprinkled some on the back of his hand. Leaning forward, she lowered her mouth and stuck out her tongue. She started to laugh and backed away. “Sorry,” she said. “This is just one of the most bizarre things I’ve done in a long time.”
> Her laughter was as seductive as everything else about her. Brock was amused and aroused. Unbear ably so.
She pressed two fingers over her mouth as if to force herself to stop giggling. “I can do this. I want to be able to say I’ve body slammed.”
Lowering her head again, she leaned forward and slid her tongue over his skin. The sight and sensation of her pink tongue on his flesh tightened every cell inside him. She rubbed her tongue from side to side and he felt his temperature rise with every stroke.
Damn, she was just licking his hand. What if she’d been licking his…
She pulled back and a groan escaped his throat. She tossed back the tequila with a grimace and quickly followed by sucking on another slice of lime. “Well, that was interesting,” she said with a smile.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he said, tossing back one more shot himself.
“Maybe,” she said. “How many have I—”
“One clue that you’ve had enough is when you can’t remember how many you drank.”
She moved her head in a circle. “Are you gonna body slam me?”
She had no idea how much he wanted to body slam her—and his idea of body slamming had nothing to do with tequila.
“Fair’s fair,” she said, lifting her hand.
Unable to resist, he poured another shot and got his lime ready then sprinkled salt on her and lowered his head.
She started to giggle and the salt fell off. “It tickled.”
Caught somewhere between agonizing arousal and amusement, he laughed. “Give me your hand,” he said and turned her wrist over. Holding it steady, he sprinkled salt on the inside of her wrist and lowered his mouth to her skin.
Her soft intake of breath was like an intimate touch. He slid his tongue over the inside of her wrist, savoring the flavor and texture of her skin mixed with the salt. He licked the tiny blue vein beneath her fair skin.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
Reluctantly pulling back, he tossed back the shot and sucked the lime. She looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and sensual wariness, as if he were some wild animal she should avoid but found fascinating, all the same.
“That’s some drink. A body slammer. I think I better get a drink of water.” She stood and lifted her hand to her head. “Whew! I feel wobbly.”
Brock caught her hand and tugged her back onto the couch. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”
“You had more tequila than I did. How come you aren’t woozy like me?”
He stood. “Men metabolize alcohol faster than women do.”
“But you didn’t even eat any cake,” she protested.
He went into the kitchen and filled two glasses with ice water, then returned. Still standing, he drank his water, hoping it would bring him a little sanity. He was tempted to pour the stuff over his head to cool himself down.
He felt Callie’s gaze on him as she sipped her water. She patted the cushion beside her. “Would you stay a little longer? I don’t want to be alone yet.”
He sank down onto the sofa and felt the silence between them.
“Could I ask a favor of you?”
“Sure,” he said, knowing there wasn’t much she could ask that he wouldn’t do.
“Would you hold me for a little while?”
His heart turned over at the vulnerability in her sweet features. “Sure,” he said and pulled her into his arms. Her body was soft and pliable. She relaxed against him as if she had no idea how much he wanted to undress her and make love to her. She stuck her face against his throat and inhaled deeply then lifted her hands to his shoulders. Her hair felt like silk beneath his chin. His heart hammered in his chest while her breaths evened out and she drifted off to sleep.
Hours later, the low sound of a motor awakened him. Brock opened his eyes, immediately aware that Callie was spread over him like a blanket. Something gray moved beside him and he turned his head to see the cat. The cat, whose whiskers were covered in white frosting, stared at him unblinkingly and purred.
Brock shifted slightly, but Callie continued to sleep. He shifted again and, when she didn’t move, he thought about putting a mirror under her nose to make sure she was breathing. The tequila must have delivered a knockout punch.
His body groaned in protest at the crumpled position he’d been in for the last several hours. He had an ugly suspicion his body was going to exact a heavy punishment. Grimacing, he carefully slid Callie off of him and onto another cushion on the couch. She stirred, but continued to sleep.
Rising from the couch, he stretched and felt pain shoot through his back and leg. His head throbbed. Yep, he probably shouldn’t have downed that last shot of tequila. He took the remainder of the cake sitting on the table and tossed it in the trash in the kitchen. Returning to the den, he looked at Callie and felt his chest tighten. Her hair spilled over the dark upholstery, looking like wildfire. Her rosebud lips were slightly parted.
Lord, how he wanted her.
But he couldn’t have her.
Heaving a sigh, he went to the sofa and carefully picked her up and carried her toward the back of the house, where he suspected her bedroom was.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he stepped through the doorway.
“Putting you to bed.”
“What time is it?”
“Very late or very early, depending on your perspective,” he said.
“My head feels like the hunchback of Notre Dame is ringing cathedral bells inside it.”
“Yeah, I feel like crap, too.”
“I feel dizzy when I open my eyes.”
“Then keep them closed,” he told her, and lowered her onto her bed. “I’m going to bring a glass of water and some aspirin and put it on your bedside table.”
“Why?”
“If I don’t, you may kill me in the morning,” he muttered, and collected the items. He returned to the bedroom to find her under the sheet and tossing articles of her clothing on the floor. Her shirt flew through the air, followed by her bra and shorts.
His temperature climbed several degrees as his mind stripped down the covers to her bed and he found her naked, warm and waiting. Inviting.
“You can sleep on the sofa if you think you shouldn’t be driving,” she said.
Not exactly the invitation his libido had been wishing for. “That’s okay. I’m gonna walk home.”
Her eyes still closed, she frowned. “It’s too late for that.”
“Nah, the fresh air will do me good.” Hopefully it would get his brain out of his shorts.
She sighed.
“Sit up just a little,” he coaxed.
“I don’t want to take anything. I’m too sleepy.”
“You don’t even have to open your eyes,” he told her and she lifted her head slightly.
He touched her bottom lip and when she opened her mouth, he placed the aspirin on her tongue. He held the glass of water to her lips and she swallowed. After repeating the process, he lowered her head to the pillow. “Thanks, Brock. Did you know you taste a lot better than tequila?” she asked, tossing her panties over the edge of the bed and rolling onto her side.
Brock rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. …you taste a lot better than tequila. In any other situation, he would be in that bed and on her in three seconds flat. But not in this situation, he told himself. Not with this woman.
“I’m never drinking tequila again,” Callie said as she opened her door to him the next morning. With her hair sticking out in no less than ten directions, she put her hands on either side of her face and shook her head. She wore a little robe and Brock suspected she was naked beneath it. The knowledge cranked up his body temperature.
“You didn’t warn me that I would feel like my body had been slammed the next morning.”
“I encouraged you to stop, but you wanted to continue,” he pointed out, following her inside. “Are you ready for your run?”
She looked at him in disbelief. “What are you? The Terminator or some
thing? Are you sure you aren’t hiding steel underneath that skin?” Callie asked, poking at one of Brock’s biceps.
He caught her finger and shook his head. “No steel. Just the regular combination of blood and guts.”
“No way,” she said. “You’re not regular anything.”
Her compliment felt like a soft stroke on his skin. He cracked a smile. “It’s my Marine training. C’mon. Let’s go. The fresh air will make you feel better.”
Callie made a face. “A twelve-hour nap would make me feel better.”
“Go get dressed,” he told her.
“We’re not really going to run, are we?”
“We’ll take it easy,” he promised.
She made another face. “Your version of easy and my version of easy are very, very different,” she grumbled, but headed toward her bedroom. “Did you know Oscar got into the cake last night?” she yelled from the bedroom.
“Yeah, his purring was what woke me up.”
“Who would have thought a cat would like birthday cake?”
He heard her walk from her bedroom to the bathroom, followed by the sounds of water and a little shriek. “Oh, my hair! I look like something out of a horror movie.”
Chuckling at her dismay, he strolled closer to the hallway. “It wasn’t that bad. You just looked like a wannabe rock star.”
“Cute, very cute,” she retorted and opened the door, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and a scowl on her face. “This is really all your fault. Tequila.”
He lifted his hands. “I encouraged you to stop.”
“Hmmph. Okay, Dr. Torture, let’s go.”
They took a short jog on the beach and slowed to a walk after a short time. Callie wandered closer to the edge of the tide and looked out on the ocean. “I’ll say one thing for how I feel today. I feel so cruddy physically that I can’t focus on whining about Rob.”
“You don’t whine,” Brock said as he joined her. “At least, not about Rob.”
Her lips twitched. “You’re so kind.”
He shrugged. “Your grief is valid.”
“Yeah, but I’ve made a full-time job of it. He wouldn’t want it that way. Plus, it’s exhausting and unproductive.”