Major Attraction (16 page)

“That's okay. You needed some downtime.” Was that voice with the husky crackle in it really hers? He was standing right behind her, with more imagination than air separating them. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed a hungry thought about him moving even closer, trapping her against the counter, pressing that marvelous manhood of his against her rump.

“What else can I do to help?” he asked, his voice at a potent pitch beside her ear.

J.C.'s eyes popped open. What was wrong with her? She should be thinking comfort and compassion. Patience. Not sex. Not now. She gripped the rim of the sink and held on, keeping herself from leaning back into his groin and chest.

“How about opening another couple of beers?” she
suggested. Yes. Icy cold from the fridge. Cold would be nice.

She expelled a pent-up sigh when he moved away from her, and turned her thoughts to the mundane task of rinsing the pot and setting it on the drying tray. Then she unplugged the stopper and drained the sink.

“Here you go.” Ethan twisted the top off one of the beers and held it out to her. “I know for a lot of people, German beer is an acquired taste. I'm glad you like it.”

“I don't know if I could ever get into drinking it warm the way you said they did over there.” J.C. shook the excess water from her hands, then blotted them on her jeans. She turned to take the bottle. “But I do like the taste. Thanks.”

Her damp fingers closed around the slick bottle. Traction just wasn't going to happen. The base of the bottle slipped through her grip. She snatched at the neck with the other hand, but couldn't connect. But Ethan's quick reflexes saved the day. His hand darted out to catch the bottom of the bottle, averting the certain disaster of glass hitting ceramic tile.

But gravity and reflexes and the laws of physics had a funny way of combining to change a mood from polite and somber to shamelessly sexy.

The beer splashed up out of the bottle and soaked the left half of J.C.'s T-shirt.

“Yeesh!” She gasped, jumping back from the frigid slosh of dark gold liquid. But it was too late. The soft pink cotton was plastered to her skin, outlining each floret of lace on the cup of her bra, and the puckered aureole and straining tip beneath.

“Oh, man, another smooth move. I'm sorry.” He set both beers on the counter and grabbed the dish towel. The hops-rich scent of fine German beer radiated off her skin
and filled the tiny kitchen. She reached to take the towel from his hand, but he'd stopped halfway. The towel dangled from his fist. J.C. tried to pry it open, but it wouldn't budge. Her verbal appeal died in the heat of his transfixed stare. “No, I'm not.”

Something hot and urgent rippled through J.C., as if he'd touched her with his hand. She wanted to step back, turn away, find her own towel to cover herself. But that wet breast stood up like a prideful thing, basking in the admiration of his hungry gaze.

“Ethan.” It was a token protest. It was a plea for the inevitable.

“I love that beer.” Her blood thickened like a warm, rich brew in her veins at the seductive pitch of his voice. “I hate to waste it.”

She watched him watch the rise and fall that breast as she gulped in deep, steadying breaths. He watched long enough for her to feel nearly every cell clenching against the cold compress of cloth. Nerves sparked, muscles constricted, things beaded and thrust out beneath the erotic contrast of icy liquid and raw, fiery desire.

“Thirteen more nights of mind-blowing sex, right?” he asked, rethinking her offer from last night out loud.

He seemed tortured. Tempted. Wanting one thing, but struggling to do another.

“I don't know, Ethan. Maybe we shouldn't.” She gripped the counter behind her and fought through her own wanton desires to remember the counselor in her. “You were upset. My questions didn't help. You need comforting. I should be giving you a hug or recommending a colleague you could…talk to.”

Those gray eyes shifted up to hers and J.C. knew she
was lost. “There's more than one way a man finds comfort.”

He picked up his beer and poured it over the other breast.

 

“E
THAN
!”

Hearing his name on those lips in that breathless, about-to-lose-control voice had to be one of the greatest turn-on's of his life.

Ethan skipped the towel and bent his head to lick the liquid caught between her straining breasts. When she instinctively pulled away from the shocking contact, he grabbed her hips and pulled her into his rising heat. Her fists thudded against his shoulders, the last vestige of common sense before the passion consumed them both.

“Oh, Ethan, yes…” He felt her lips in his hair. She clutched up handfuls of his shirt and dug her fingers into the skin and muscle underneath. “…I want this, too.”

Reeling with guilt-ridden memories and painful regrets, filled with the need to connect with J.C.'s bold heart and caring soul and thus reclaim a little of his own, Ethan forged ahead, taking what he wanted, asking for what he needed—receiving so much more.

“Oh, Jo.” He nuzzled the swell of one breast. “You're so beautiful.” He sucked beer from the drenched cotton. “So damn beautiful.” He shoved his thigh between her legs, backing her into the sink. The momentum arched her neck back. Her breasts tilted up and Ethan took advantage of the opportunity. “I want everything you can give me.”

He closed his mouth over one straining nipple, and J.C. cried out. It was music to his ears. Her hips twisted against his swollen dick and he groaned at the raw pleasure of it.

He slipped his hands beneath the back of her shirt and palmed smooth, feverish skin. It wasn't enough. He swept her shirt off over her head and returned his attentions to
the bra-covered breast. He slipped his tongue inside the lacy cup and laved the pebbled tip, relishing her squirming response against his groin. The cloth was cold, but the woman inside was hot to the touch. He found a puddle of beer at the round, heavy base and lapped it up, but the flavor of the dark, rich liquid paled beneath the taste of J.C.'s skin.

He knew a moment of panic, of paradise lost, when she slipped her thumbs in between his lips and urged him away from her breast. “Ethan.” Her ragged breath tangled with his own. “Wait.”

“Honey…” he begged, lifting his head to tease her lips. She pushed against his chest and stretched her arm out behind her. Pulling away?

He was tightening his hold, pulling her back. “No. Don't. J.C., please.”

The tension of her body relaxed an instant before a cascade of bracing, pungent liquid doused his shoulders and back. “What? Damn.”

The cold shock jerked him to attention, and the mood was lost in a moment of confusion.

But J.C.'s wicked laughter brought him back to the time and place and woman in his arms. Those gorgeous lips smiled and he knew it was all right.

“I believe in fair play, mister.” She softened the teasing with a sweep of her hands across his jaw and a lush, quick kiss against his mouth. Then he raised his arms and helped her peel off his soaking shirt. “Oh, yeah. Much better.”

Then she was back in his arms. Skin to skin. Chest to chest. He raked his fingers into her hair angled her mouth beneath his. He kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed.

She explored his body with eager hands, flicking a nipple between her fingers, squeezing a pec, planing her
palms along his spine. Each touch was a sweet torture that drew him beyond the limits of his control.

She dipped her fingers into the rigid circle of scar tissue at his shoulder and whimpered. “Ethan,” she whispered on a husky breath, tearing her mouth from his to inspect the damage done by a rebel bullet during that hellish battle down in Central America. She kissed the spot, then hugged him tight. She found the schrapnel scars on the back of his hip from the car bomb. “Ethan?”

“I'm okay.” With his thumb, he brushed away the mist of tears that clung to her lashes. “Anytime you make it home in one piece, it's okay.” Then he kissed her closed lids. Kissed each cheek. Kissed her lips to stop their trembling. She might be realizing for the first time the extent of what he'd done for his country. He didn't just sit behind a desk or train Marines. He could be hurt. He
had
been hurt.

But she caressed each mark and breathed his name and stoked his passion. Her acceptance of his pain eased the pain of his memories.

“Jo…honey.” He was as hard as a rock and she was so damn hot. He unhooked the snap of his jeans, fumbled with the snap on hers. He'd never needed Bethany with the same intensity that he needed J.C. Maybe even before that night in Cairo when he'd shut down his heart and put his life on hold, he'd sensed he needed to hold something back, that Bethany would take advantage of any weakness—emotional or libidinous or otherwise—he exposed.

But J.C. was like a breath of fresh air to an oxygen-deprived body. “I want to lose myself inside you. I need to…let go.” Of hurts and humiliation. Of guilt and thwarted desires. He brushed his forehead against hers. A powerful backlog of emotional baggage kept in check for
far too long surfaced in a soul-baring request. “I need you.”

“It's about time you admitted that.” She wound her arms around his neck and lifted her hips, wrapping her legs around his waist and aligning herself against his aching shaft. “Quick, Ethan,” she breathed against his mouth. “I need you quick.”

She didn't know the half of it.

Ethan cupped his hands beneath her butt, his fingers meeting at the seam of her jeans. The denim was wet and warm and in the way. His whole body clenched with the knowledge of how ready she was for him. “J.C…. Jo.” He was already rocking against her.

He wanted to carry her to the bedroom, but he knew he couldn't last. So he set her on the nearest flat surface he could find—the butcher block table. He inhaled an uneven breath, trying to pace himself. But the scents of malt-drenched skin, of eager sex, of J.C. herself, made it impossible to slow down.

“Jo…” With rough, needy hands, he unzipped her. He shoved his hand inside her jeans and panties and lifted her out of them, tossing aside the clothes and lowering her to the crotch-high table.

“Ethan…” At the same time, she pushed his jeans down past his hips and let them fall to his knees.

“Honey…”

“Major…”

Together, they stripped his briefs down to his thighs, and in one fluid movement of strength and desire, he pulled her right to the edge of the table and plunged into her. She locked her heels behind his hips, spreading herself wider, taking him deeper.

“I need you,” he growled from deep in his throat, leaning her back and driving down into her sweet, hot channel.

“Yes.” She arched her back and moaned her delight.

“I need you.” It was barely a whisper as he pulled her back up and crushed her to his chest.

“Yes.”

“I need…”

They held each other tight as he poured himself into her—pouring out every last shred of guilt and what-if's, ridding himself of burdens and pain, finding hope and emotional courage in the pulsating ribbons of her warm, moist heat that held him, sustained him, set him free.

 

J.C.
WAS EMOTIONALLY
drained and physically exhausted.

And ready to do it again.

She smiled against Ethan's warm skin, tempted to lick the tangy flavor of aged hops and honest sweat right off him.

Several minutes had passed since that explosive climax, and J.C. was still wrapped up against the molded strength and abundant heat of Ethan's chest. Good thing, too, she reasoned, feeling the chill of the nighttime air seeping into her quiet apartment and raising goose bumps across her skin.

Across a lot of skin. She was still perched on the edge of the butcher block table, wearing nothing but her bra and a contented smile. Ethan had receded and fallen out of her by now, but he hadn't retreated a step from the vee of her legs. He held her with one gentle hand massaging her nape, the other cupping the flare of her hip.

“It's never been like this for me with anyone else, Jo.” He crooned that shortened name against her temple, and she felt humbled, cherished by the admission. “I can't seem to help myself.”

“I know.” She absently stroked her fingertips up and down his spine. Crisp, golden hair curled against her
cheek. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. There was so much strength to cling to in this man, so much character to admire. “It's the same for me, too.”

She wasn't sure exactly when she'd lost control, when two weeks of fun and games in the sack had become something very real, very frightening, very close to things she didn't want to feel.

Maybe it was when he'd poured the beer across her breast and she realized Ethan knew how to have fun, after all. Maybe it was when she'd discovered his scars and nearly wept, thinking back to the story General Craddock had told about Ethan and his men getting ambushed at the embassy in Central America. Maybe it was when he'd uttered those savage words against her throat.

I need you.

Ethan McCormick needed J. C. Gardner.

Not a counselor. Not a fake fiancée. Her.

With a winsome sigh, she snuggled her head beneath his chin and tightened her grip around his shoulders. For a few minutes out of time, she'd felt part of something greater than herself. She hadn't been quite so alone. The wounds inflicted by her father and neglect hadn't pierced quite so sharply.

J. C. Gardner needed Ethan McCormick.

Very frightening, indeed.

“I'm, um, sorry I wasted your last beer.”

He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and stepped back to pull up his pants and fasten his jeans. “Not wasted. I don't think a moment I've spent with you has been wasted.”

“You said you wanted comfort.” She crossed her legs at the ankles and hugged her naked torso, feeling suddenly very exposed. But it was self-doubt, not modesty talking. “Did this…? Did
I
help?”