by Angel Payne
Jen saved him from the ugly track of that thought by suddenly rising from her chair, bringing the entire length of her body just an inch away from his.
And already, he began the battle to get to her blinders.
One simple tug and he obliterated the inch between them, fitting all of her softness against him and keeping her locked there. And by every saint he could remember, she felt good. At once, his cock swelled even more. His blood roared even louder. His arms ached to wrap all the way around her, until they were filled with what they wanted. With his fingers aligned along her spine and his face dipped to meet the upturned expectancy stamped on hers, he gave in to a new desire: his slow, cocky smile couldn’t be controlled any more than the seas her eyes evoked and the wind her hair smelled like.
“Hmmm,” he rumbled, pausing just long enough to enjoy the cute little hitch of her breath. “A first time for everything, you say?” Then jutted his chin, just far enough for stressing his point. “Like…reconsidering certain ‘personal protocols’ when a lonely pilot from across the pond simply wants the chance to know you better?”
Truthfully, he was as perplexed as Jenny looked. He’d met her lacy bits before even shakin’ her hand, and their raw sexual pull had been turning the air into a fireworks show for seven days straight. So why his sudden game with the Victorian-style wooing? A lonely pilot from across the pond? The chance to know her better? He wanted her. She wanted him. It should be that simple. It had to be that simple. He couldn’t do complicated or courtly. Before this week, he didn’t know he even had the capacity for sheer lust anymore. While this was familiar territory, it was still terrifyingly new. A stretch of life he never thought he’d have to deal with again.
Clearly, his cock had other plans.
And every drop of his bloodstream. And every neuron in his mind. And every speck of fascination in his imagination.
“You mean like…becoming friends?”
“Well…sure.” And what the fuck was that all about? No, not like “friends.” Not unless the Yanks had redefined that as two people getting naked, sweaty, and screaming together. If so, then aye, he was pure dead brilliant for the proposition. But one lengthy look at her, with such fresh hope across her face and keen interest in her eyes, and he beheld the truth of it. Her truth. This idea was the loophole around her “protocol.” A way to spend time with him but not give in to what she really wanted to do with him.
What she was just as terrified of too.
And just like that, he could’ve swan-dived off the cliffs at St. Kilda and been less stunned by the impact.
This really wasn’t just protocol for her.
This attraction had her just as malkied as him. But why? She wasn’t afraid of him, per se; that much was clear in how easily she enjoyed their banter and even counterin’ his arrogance with her adorable sass. But this, right now? The way he held her perfect little form flush to his body? It had nothing to do with the possibility of being discovered and everything to do with the intimacy itself.
Which was why he reluctantly released her. Why he followed that up with a move as awkward as it felt, halfway between a nod and a bow. Why he added an equally ridiculous smile, though he completely forgot his embarrassment as soon as she grinned in return, the edges of her lips kicked up into the blush returning to her high cheeks.
By God, she was gorgeous.
And so different from any other woman he’d ever met.
Which was why he kept up the stupid smile, even after all the huddy bowin’. Why he approached her again, scoopin’ up only her hand this time and liftin’ her soft, small fingers into the press of his lips—his soul rejoicin’ like church bells on Easter from the second she spurted out her answerin’ laughter. Which sounded even better than those damn bells…
Aye. So different.
So sweet.
So worth having to do things in different ways for her. To win her.
“If ‘friends’ is what you’re easy with, lass, then ‘friends’ it is.”
She released a long breath, though it carried the hints of a sigh—and just those traces, which he easily imagined leading to her cries of arousal, had bells pealin’ through his system all over again. This time, they as hell weren’t church bells. “Yeah. I am easy with that,” she murmured. “Thank you, Captain.” She punctuated that with a crunched forehead, instantly respondin’ to the similar look from him. “What?”
“Friends don’t call each other ‘Captain.’”
Her furrows deepened as she drew up with a look remindin’ him of fussy Mrs. Stewart from the Aldeburgh fish counter. “Well, at work on a US air base they do.”
“Then maybe we should skedaddle this show to somewhere more tidy.”
“Huh?”
He chuckled. At least her confusion turned her scowl into history—and it came with the accessory of a half smile, indicating his Scottish-isms actually fascinated her. Which of course opened his mind to all the other slang he could teach her. The secret, nasty, only-for-whispering things…
“Friends do things like have lunch together, aye?” he explained by way of furthering his quest. “So what’re you going to do about that wee beastie in your stomach, woman?”
Silently, he thanked the growl in her belly for complying with its second loud snarl within the last couple of minutes. It was goin’ on well after one o’clock, and there was no way she could deny her belly’s very vocal reminder of the fact.
After her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink, she recovered enough to jerk a distinct brow at him. Fuck him, even those auburn arches had personality all their own. Would there be an end to the nuances he discovered about her with every passing moment? He suspected the answer was no—a possibility that hardened him for her all over again.
“What the hell, Mackenna?” She added a saucy toss of her short but thick auburn waves. “You angling for ‘friends with benefits’ already?”
He closed the space between them again. How could he resist, with her lookin’ so bonnie and beguiling and confident and resplendent? “Hmmm.” With a dip of his head, he honed every speck of his attention on her. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Is it workin’?” He hoped to fuck she said yes. If so, even if half the base intruded on them right now, he wouldn’t be able to resist conquering her mouth with his. Boldly. Brutally.
“Well.” Perhaps more than brutally—if she kept up with threading her responses with that arousing spritz of a sigh. “You’re certainly making sure I keep paying attention.”
“I’m not one for favorin’ the trite, my friend.”
“Clearly,” she laughed out. “My friend.”
He dared to slip out one hand, forming it to the side of her waist. She wasn’t a skinny thing, but nor was she filled with a thousand curves to negotiate. In short, she was the perfect medium, filled with planes and lines he couldn’t wait to explore better. Borrowing from that theme, he stated, “So why don’t we meet in the middle on this?”
“The middle?” Her laugh faded, but her smile didn’t. “Dare I even ask what that is?”
Sam glided his hold around to her back. “Why don’t we just call this…friends with possibilities?” As her mouth popped open, all but broadcastin’ her perplexity about how to answer that, he went for it and plunged on. “Possibilities we can explore over lunch.”
She slammed her mouth shut, which only seemed to serve as the cue for her stomach again. Still, even as the growl sent tangible vibrations into the air between them, she settled into a resigned stance. “That sounds like…a super intriguing proposition, Captain…”
“But?” Sam went ahead and filled in the obvious.
“But I already have a lunch date today.”
Only after she gave him the declaration, addin’ one of the most delectable bottom lip bites he’d ever witnessed, did he realize just how much of his other secret sides she’d made it okay for him to let out. Not all the way, of course, but enough that he now recognized ’em
for what they were—as well as how long he’d missed having ’em out for a nice stretch. How much he now wished it wasn’t just a “stretch.” How he wished it were going to be a full, fun play date, filled with plenty of this woman’s moans and screams and acquiescences—because of what he did to her with his hands and fingers…and then his crop and flogger…maybe even his ropes and cuffs…
“A lunch date with whom?”
But first things first. Lettin’ her have the brunt of his possessive snarl, along with the glower he wasn’t about to apologize for. Whatever pissant wanker she had plans with, it was clear the “friend” wasn’t meetin’ a skoosh of her most important needs—not just the ones between her thighs, either. She was hungry for fulfillment between her ears too. Her fantasies weren’t gettin’ heeded. Her desires weren’t gettin’ sated. If they were, her gaze wouldn’t still be lookin’ like a pair of fairy bathin’ pools right now. All those eager sparkles had never come from any well-satisfied woman he knew.
“It’s…complicated.”
Strangely, her mincing answer made it easier for him to push back by a step. To lock his purpose on her with a posture consisting of his spread stance, folded arms, and narrowed stare. “I’m a big boy, mouse. I can handle complicated.” Armed with the information he was already damned certain of—that “Complicated,” whoever the fuck he was, wasn’t close to meetin’ her needs as a lover—he was as certain of those words as his own dick. Aye, the one that throbbed yet now, needing the feel of her. The one that would likely be lurchin’ like a stud stallion all day long because of her—and now, because of “Complicated.”
“You really think so?”
He tightened his glare as her features grew more animated. She was enjoyin’ the hell out of this, wasn’t she? Watchin’ him squirm just from her playful dance around the subject of “Complicated”? What the hell was she about, anyway? And just how gleeful would she be if he went ahead and trumped her fun game with his own? Wasn’t the keenest of moves, since he figured “Complicated” had been in her life a lot longer than a week, but if the guy was set on nobody trompin’ all over their lunch dates, he should’ve been meetin’ the woman’s needs a hell of a lot better than this.
Leading to the exact reason why Sam rocked back on a heel, assessin’ the woman with a hooded gaze before leveling, “If you don’t believe me, invite me along.”
He prepped his victorious smirk for the moment her jaw dropped to the floor.
And never got the chance to use it.
The only thing the woman dropped was an invisible mic, returning his lording arrogance with a stunning dose of brazen glory, imitating his pose while spreading a bigger grin across her lush lips. “I’d really love it if you came along. I think they will too.”
They?
So the victorious smirk got dingied as well.
Unless one counted the look on her face, eruptin’ into a bright and brilliant laugh, as he stood there like she’d just told him to drop trou and go full bangers on her. So the thought did have its merits, though right now only served to remind him that he still stood here in the clothes he’d been in since dawn today. “Well, all right, cannie pants,” he quipped. “Just give me ten to change, then, and—”
“Negative.”
He stopped halfway to the door. “Excuse me?”
“I said negative.” She glanced at the clock. “We’re already almost late, thanks to your own case of—how was that?—bein’ a cannie pants?” As he bore a glower-grin at her, she finished gathering up the personnel files from the table. “So I can give you five while I lock these away. Give yourself some slides of the stink-good stick and meet me out in the parking lot.”
“Hmmm.” He waggled his brows. “The parking lot.”
That earned him a giggle, along with a motion down at her tailored navy slacks and crisp cream blouse, complete with a silky bow at the apex of the V-neck that lent her a secretary-ready-to-be-unraveled vibe. “Sorry, buddy. Don’t think I can make your day in this.”
He was ready with a brazen grin. And, from the looks of the sensual smoke that appeared in her gaze, had outdone himself with the glance before even letting his cocky comeback fly.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that at all, little mouse.”
Chapter Three
She’d teased him about not making his day—but the truth was, he’d just made the hell out of hers.
Times twenty-four.
The two dozen faces in front of her now, ranging in age from seven to nine and encompassing every color from Anna’s pale freckles to Paki’s rich mahogany, were still locked on Sam in wide-eyed wonder. Their faces hadn’t been that way when she’d first entered with Sam, about twenty minutes ago. Plenty of the guys from the base had already come with her to Vegas Valley Elementary’s afternoon story hour, where she volunteered once a week—and sometimes more than that, if the teachers and staff were having a not-enough-hours-in-the-day thing going on. Which meant she was usually here more than once a week and that the kids had definitely gotten their fill of details about the intricacies of a fighter pilot’s life.
So the fact that Sam made his living at Mach speed was as worthy as last year’s memes to these kids.
The fact that he usually did it in the skies over Scotland, however?
Now they were speeding with some new gas.
And by this point were giving Sam a thorough bath of the stuff. Then tossing matches at him too.
So far, the man was handling the blaze like an epic pro. And maybe, crazily, seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. Jen knew she was smiling in wonderment and didn’t bother hiding an inch of the expression as she looked to where the man now sat—sort of—in a yellow plastic chair, his long legs hitched so high, he looked sort of like a praying mantis perched on a small rock. But his grin was still all lion, and thoroughly entrancing, as he pointed to Lindy and the arm she patiently pointed in the air.
“If you’re really from Scotland, why aren’t you wearing a dress?” she blurted.
At once, Oliver spun toward her with rolling eyes. “Duh. It’s not a dress. It’s called a kilt, and boys in Scotland only wear them on special days now.”
Martha, practically seated in Lindy’s lap because best friends had to be that close, bared her teeth at the sneering boy. “How do you know, Ollie? You’re French and Spanish, not Scottish.”
Oliver was already prepped, narrowing his gaze and jutting his chin. The boy was strikingly handsome and already knew how to use those looks well. “My mom told me. She likes reading those same books as Miss Jen. My dad says it’s because there’s lots of kissing in ’em, and plus, the boys don’t put on underwear under their kilts.”
Lindy and Martha shrieked. “Ewwww!”
At the back of the big carpet mat, Shawn popped to his feet, rascal’s smirk already in place. “Do you put on underwear with your kilt, Captain Mackenna?”
“All right, all right.” While Jen’s shout was underlined by a new outburst from Lindy and Martha, she secretly thanked them for the extra pause to suppress her laugh. Sam was no help, openly giving in to his. “That’s enough of that subject. Shawn, have a seat, please. If nobody else has any questions for Captain Mackenna, perhaps he can continue reading for you…”
But as she spoke, at least six hands popped up across the room. Jen sighed in frustration, looking to Sam for some support of her initiative, but he was prepared with a devastating—and smoldering—glance of his own, assuring her he really was having the time of his life.
He kept things diplomatic, calling on a boy for the next official question. Taio was already a little bruiser and had a fondness for the Green Bay Packers as well as any animal bigger than a breadbox. His question came as no surprise and even earned him a bigger smile from Sam.
“Can you throw a tree?” the boy asked. “One day, when there was no football on TV, my dad was watching a show where guys in kilts were throwing trees.”
“Well, we call ’em cabers,” Sam explained. “And the
y are indeed made out of trees, with all the green stuff cut off. Each caber weighs close to eighty kilograms. That’s nearly two hundred pounds.”
Well, that had every head in the room snapping back around.
“Holy guacamole,” Martha finally blurted, her big brown eyes wide. “That’s heavy!”
“So are you any good?” Taio raised his chin, clearly enjoying the grown-up bro vibe he could get in. Jen’s chest swelled with emotion when Sam honored the boy by emulating the motion. Taio was being raised by a single mother, and camaraderie with a role model like Sam had probably made the boy’s week.
“I have no clue,” Sam admitted after that, spreading his hands. “Takes a mate with special talent and years of trainin’ to toss a caber with true aim. I’ve been flyin’ jets steadily for nearly ten years now, meanin’ there hasn’t been a lot of spare time for heftin’ cabers.”
The next one to be called on was Xylie, who contradicted her exotic name simply with her long blond ringlets and large green eyes. “What’s the name of the castle you live in?”
Jen bit back a chuckle—and noticed Sam having to rein back the intensity of his. “Unbelievably, lass, not everyone in my land lives in castles.”
“Well, of course not everyone,” Xylie returned. “But you do, right?”
“Pssshhh.” Martha waved a dismissive hand toward her princess-perfect classmate. “’Course he does. You ever seen Miss Jen look like that unless she’s swooning over some guy from a castle?”
Jen had made the mistake of turning to open the snack-sized bags of chocolate-chip cookies for snack time. Thanks to Martha, the bag upon which she was tugging got a Herculean effort, and the cookies turned into exploding meteors, flying out to all corners of VVE’s little library. At once, the kids burst up as well. Two dozen cries of “I’ll get them!” collided atop each other, overridden only when Jen threw some lung power into her corresponding bellow.