Take Me All the Way

by Toni Blake

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He just shook his head. It was nice of her, but she shouldn’t be sorry for him. “Thing is, Chuck had four little kids. The oldest is only ten now. And I knew even with death benefits, it just wouldn’t be enough. And Chuck had big dreams for them. He wanted them to have opportunities, wanted them to go to college—the two oldest ones are bright as hell. So . . . not long after I got home, I drove from Ohio to Texas and wrote his wife a check.”

  “For all of it?” She looked a little amazed.

  “Yep,” he said. Then he let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Now thing is, when I did that, I thought I was in better shape. I thought I’d get a good job and be the hero everybody in my hometown thought I was. Only . . . it didn’t work out that way. And hell . . .” He laughed again. “If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have kept a little of that money to help me get by. But guess I didn’t think through that grand plan quite well enough, huh?”

  “What happened, Jeremy?” she asked gently. “Why didn’t you get that job? Why weren’t you the hero your friends and family . . . thought?” She’d paused toward the end, her voice gone softer. And he heard it, that second when she realized what he’d said—the war hero they thought I was. And she knew now that there was something people didn’t know.

  Jeremy parked his chin in his palm, his elbow on the table. His fingers, curled into a loose fist, pressed against his mouth as he let his gaze drop to the open pizza box between them. And it struck him then—the military shrink had pointed out this gesture to him. “You do that when there’s something you want to hide, something you don’t want to say—you cover your mouth, cover part of your face.” Even so, in the end, Jeremy had convinced him he was okay.

  Tamra tuned in to his unease. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. And the fact that you gave your income to that family—Jeremy, that’s tremendously selfless. You should be proud of that.”

  Still letting his fist cover his mouth, he raised his eyes to her. “Proud? No,” he said. “It’s not a pride thing. It was just . . . the thing I had to do. The only decent thing.” He stopped, drew in a breath. “If anything about any of it could be called decent,” he heard himself mutter.

  Across the table, she bit her lower lip, and he could see her trying to read what was going on behind his eyes, wanting to know more. Shit, how had things gotten so freaking serious here? This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d suggested this.

  And . . . hell, she was so pretty. He’d always thought that, but he could swear that just since the party she’d somehow gotten even more so. It was as if her skin was softer, glowing, her eyes a deeper shade of green with a brighter sparkle. Her hair now fell about her face in a way that softened everything in her demeanor. Or . . . maybe he’d done that. In the hammock with her.

  “Would you mind,” he asked, “if we didn’t talk anymore?”

  Full darkness framed her face now, her eyes as illuminated as the tiny bulbs strung in the trees. “Sure,” she said. Though she looked as if she felt bad now, and he didn’t want that.

  “I came here,” he told her, “because you make me feel . . . better. Better than I do most of the time. And I think I make you feel good, too. And I’m looking at your beautiful face and thinking: Why the hell am I telling her all this heavy shit when all I really want to do is have my way with her?”

  Across from him she sat up a little straighter in her chair, tensing slightly. Her lips pressed into a thin, straight line. And he thought maybe he’d said the wrong thing—until she replied, “Then I think you should have your way with me.”

  “The magic in this garden has made me stand up and know I am going to live . . .”

  Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

  Chapter 19

  HE SAT up straighter, too. He hadn’t seen that coming. But damn, he liked it.

  And after that, things went fast. He stood up, reached down for her hand, pulled her to her feet as well. He drew her to him by planting both his splayed hands on her ass, his fingers curving tight into her flesh. And despite how somber things had gotten there for a few minutes, almost as soon as his pelvis connected with hers, he went hard as granite.

  She sucked in her breath, and he locked his gaze on hers. “See what you do to me, Mary?”

  “I’m not feeling very contrary right now, just so you know. I’m feeling downright agreeable, in fact. To about anything you want.”

  A low groan left Jeremy’s throat. He gazed down on her darkly. “Who knew you’d become my dream woman?”

  She bit her lip, looked sweet and sexy as hell at the same time. “Didn’t exactly think you’d become my dream guy, either—but here we are.”

  He kissed her, hard. Because yeah, being anyone’s dream of anything had seemed pretty damn far out of reach even a couple of weeks ago. So her words were like a gift to him, and he wanted to give her something back, even as he took from her.

  He stopped the kisses long enough to look down, take in all that she was. She wore a long, pretty skirt like he’d seen her in before, but her top was more delicate, feminine, and low cut, a swath of lace making a “U” across her breasts. He let his hands glide upward over her curves and onto that lace. Like the last time he’d touched her there, his thumbs instantly found nipples hard enough to jut through her bra and top.

  “My one regret last time was not getting to see these, kiss these,” he told her.

  A soft whimper left her. A perfect invitation.

  And so he reached for the hem of the fitted lacy tank and said, “Lift your arms, honey.”

  She obeyed—and he took the top off over her head.

  Her bra was cotton candy pink and couldn’t have hugged her bountiful curves more beautifully. And the color of the bra—it felt the way discovering this garden had, like one more soft piece of her most people didn’t get to see, one more soft piece of her he’d sensed all along and was happy to uncover.

  He didn’t want to leave it on, though—so he reached for the straps on her shoulders and drew them gently down. She gasped slightly and he grew even harder behind his zipper. “I want to see you,” he rasped.

  And in response, she reached up behind her back and smoothly unhooked the bra. A second later, it fell between their feet. And Jeremy wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a prettier sight than Tamra standing topless in her garden, seeming all the more pure and natural for it.

  He followed the urge to take her lovely breasts back into his hands, to mold and knead, to bend and take one taut pink peak into his mouth. The whimpery moans that followed fueled him; her fingers threaded through his hair. And part of him wanted to kiss and lick and suck her breasts forever—but that quickly he needed more, needed to kiss her someplace else entirely.

  Rising up, returning his kisses to her lush lips, he reached down to begin gathering her skirt into his fists. And then he eased her back, back, off the stone path and up against the thick trunk of a palm tree.

  When she spoke, it came out broken, thready, breathless. “Should—should we go somewhere? Else?”

  He was already dropping to his knees before her in soft grass, the light fabric of her skirt still between his fingers and pushed to her hips. “No,” he said firmly. “Here.” Then he lowered the pink-flowered panties he discovered underneath. She gasped. And he liked exciting her.

  “Hold up your skirt.” He spoke more softly now, pleased when she did as he asked, using both her hands to raise it to her waist. Taking in every feminine curve and plane of her body, he pushed her panties the rest of the way down until they dropped to her ankles—and then she lifted her sandaled feet one at a time to shed them completely.

  After which he used both hands to part her thighs.

  Above him, her quick intake of breath drew his gaze to her face. He found her head tipped back, eyes shut. Her easy surrender to a pleasure he hadn’t even yet delivered tightened his chest—and his cock. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain he became
aware of Hoobastank singing “Disappear,” and realized he felt like that, about her, right now. She made the whole world disappear when he was with her.

  When Jeremy’s tongue pressed into her most intimate flesh, Tamra whimpered—then curled her fingers more snugly into her skirt as the sensations flowed through her as thick as hot lava, as fast as lightning. Part of her couldn’t believe this was really happening, and yet in another way, it felt entirely natural, like exactly how things were supposed to go. For the woman inside her who’d run from men and sex for so long, it felt foreign, daring, and yet for the part of her that had burned with desire lately, it only felt . . . perfect.

  She bit her lip as jagged pleasure zigzagged through her body—each movement of his tongue, mouth, rocketing her higher and higher. Orgasm didn’t take long arriving, and as it rushed through Tamra with the power of a mighty storm, she’d never felt freer. She didn’t try to squelch her cries of bliss, she didn’t resist the need to drive the crux of her thighs against his mouth—she drained every last drop of pleasure from it before she went quiet and still.

  She opened her eyes long enough to lock gazes with the man on his knees before her, but then her own knees gave out and she let her eyes drop shut again as she began to slide down the palm tree, needing to recover.

  Only Jeremy bolted to his feet just then—and caught her in his arms, and after a quick kiss to one of her breasts, he rasped near her ear, “Turn around, honey.”

  “Huh?” she murmured, tired.

  But he was already shifting her to face away from him, toward the tree. After which he took her hands in his from behind and pressed them to the palm’s wide, smooth trunk, covering them with his own. Her skirt had fallen back into place, but that didn’t stop her from feeling his sturdy erection against the center of her ass. “Oh . . .” she moaned. For a few seconds she’d thought she needed that recovery period pretty badly. But maybe not.

  His palms slid up her arms, over her shoulders, down her back, onto her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her bottom. Instinctively, she arched for him, thrusting her rear against that perfect hardness between his legs.

  And then he was wadding her skirt back in his fists, using one hand to free himself from his blue jeans, and then—oh God, he was pushing his way into her waiting body. She bit her lip, shut her eyes, drank in the evening air cooling around them, and arched a little further.

  “Mmm, yes,” she whispered as he sank deeper, filling her to the brim.

  As he began to plunge into her, again, again, each stroke vibrated outward, all the way to her fingers and toes, until she went light-headed with the resounding pleasure. It was like the hard beat of a drum that sounded over and over and over, each beat taking her farther into a heady oblivion she’d never experienced.

  When she’d been young, her sex had been focused around climaxing—that had been the one and only part she enjoyed. But this, now, was more. Maybe it came with maturity. Or maybe her body and needs had changed. Or maybe Jeremy was just a magnificent lover. But the pleasure that pummeled her over the next few minutes had nothing to do with orgasm and everything to do with having her body rocked and filled and consumed with near-blinding sensation.

  She cried out—again, again. And at one point, it occurred to her that the neighbors might hear—but then she let go of the thought. Which was careless for her—but it was also carefree, and that seemed like a quality worth embracing.

  “Aw, aw God, baby,” he murmured behind her, his voice thick and deep with passion. “God, I’m gonna come now—hard.”

  And he did. So hard that Tamra had to clench her teeth, her high-pitched cries fighting their way through as he pounded into her in four last mighty plunges. It nearly brought tears to her eyes. But when he went still, when it was over, she realized they were tears of pure, undiluted joy.

  HALF an hour later, she sat curled up in Jeremy’s lap in one of the Adirondack chairs next to the fire he’d built. They were wrapped in a blanket, drinking wine from the bottle she’d opened earlier. She’d turned the music off—the only music now was the crashing waves in the distance.

  Beneath that palm tree with him, she had experienced a passion so profound she’d not have believed she could share it with someone she’d known such a short time. But then, she supposed it had come with being so open.

  The truth was, there were moments when she felt hints of awkwardness—when she was still learning how to touch him, still learning what it was like to be touched. But she supposed awkwardness was only truly awkward when you let it be. When you were with someone who made you comfortable, it wasn’t really awkwardness at all—it was just . . . trial and error, learning how to connect together. It was . . . a form of trust. Wasn’t all sex a form of trust in a way? Trust the other person to like what you do, to make you feel good about it as you let them see those private, personal parts of you that come out only at the most intimate moments in life.

  The thoughts brought to mind something Jeremy had said to her the first night they were together, back before she had achieved that trust. “Were you right—is it my best? When we’re having sex?”

  Tipping the bottle to his mouth, he appeared to be thinking it over. “I’m not sure it’s the best,” he said a moment later, “because there’s a lot to you, and a lot of best in you. But either way, it’s a damn good part of you, I promise. And I love getting to see it.”

  Her heart warmed. And given her past, the sweet talkers of her youth, it would be easy to doubt, grow wary—but she’d didn’t. Because she could feel his honesty—always had. Whether he was threatening to drop a bush on her feet or telling her she was beautiful, there was no pretense inside him.

  “It’s nice to be able to . . . be open. It’s not my usual way.”

  He shifted his gaze in her direction, gave her one of his sexy winks. “I gathered that, Mary.”

  It eased a smile from her. “Thank you. For helping me . . . be that way. Giving me someone I can be that way with.”

  “Just so you know, you kinda do that for me, too.” He took another drink, then passed her the bottle.

  “You don’t seem like you could be any other way,” she told him. “You’re always just so . . . you.”

  And he gave his head a speculative tilt in reply. “That’s . . . good, I guess,” he said. “Truth is that I used to be pretty good at . . . hiding my feelings. Being who people wanted me to be. A couple years of being antisocial took that outta me, I guess. And I didn’t think it was a good thing. But maybe it’s okay.”

  She wanted to reassure him. “With you, I always know I get the real thing, the real you. And mostly, that is a good thing. Except for maybe when you’re shoving people out of your way with large pieces of landscaping.”

  He let out a laugh and she noticed how his shortly trimmed beard allowed her to see dimples she hadn’t before. “I’ve told you a thousand times, it was heavy!”

  She laughed, too. Took a drink of wine. But then got a little more serious. “About before . . . I’m sorry if I pried.” It was the only time in their acquaintance that he’d refused to tell her something, the only time he’d held back.

  But Jeremy shook his head. “No—I’m glad I got to explain. I don’t like you thinking I’m really some homeless-type dude. Thing is, I’d accidentally sponged off my sister and her husband too long before coming here. And that’s why I didn’t tell John and Nancy Romo I was in town—I didn’t want to end up taking advantage of their kindness, too. They’re good people and would have insisted on helping me out, but I needed to make my own way—even if it came with a rough start.”

  “If you . . . wanted to tell me about what you didn’t before, about your friend, you could. You don’t have to, but you could.”

  Jeremy took back the bottle Tamra offered, thinking about what else she’d just offered, as well. He swallowed another drink, feeling the wine—they’d nearly killed the bottle and it had seemed like unusually potent stuff.

  He knew he should
just shut up and kiss her.

  And yet instead . . . he heard himself beginning to tell her. Just a little. “I was a squadron leader. Helmand Province. That’s where a lot of action took place.”

  He wouldn’t tell her everything. But just a little would be okay.

  “It was cold in winter, just like it is here, up north. A lot of people think it’s always hot over there, but they have winter just like us.”

  Because it touched him that she wanted to know, and that she cared.

  “We’d been stationed near Kandahar a couple months.”

  “When Chuck died, you mean?”

  He nodded. For him, everything about Kandahar revolved around when Chuck had died. “The weather had just turned, the temps dropping quick at night to below freezing.” He took the last drink, draining the bottle, then gently lowered it beside them onto the stone pavement beneath the chair. “We were all surprised how cold it was—even with our gear on.” He glanced over at her. “We were out on a night raid in a nearby village. Mostly deserted except for Taliban.”

  “Were you there when it happened?” she asked softly. “Did you . . . see it?”

  When Chuck died. That’s what she meant. He didn’t have to ask. “Yeah,” he said, staring into the fire—but seeing other things.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  It made Jeremy give his head a brisk, short shake to correct her. “Like I said before, don’t feel bad for me. I don’t deserve any sympathy. It was my fucking fault.”

  Shit, he’d really just said that.

  The air around them felt thicker than it had a moment before, seeming to stand still. No breeze, no palm fronds swaying overhead, no nothing.

  His heart suddenly beat too hard, and his stomach sank like a stone.

  And a veil of silence dropped over the garden—until she said ever-so-gently, “How? How could it have been your fault?”

  When he didn’t answer, his throat threatening to close up, she said, “I’m sure that’s survivor’s guilt speaking, Jeremy.”