21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (15 page)

“Oh?” She pushed the word out on little huffs of breath. He slid his index finger along her slit. The simplest of touches and her body writhed for him again.

“It’s been a long time for me.”

“Me, too.” She arched her hips, but he ignored the demand, settling on her nipple with a swirl of his tongue. Her hips bounced against the bed, one leg rubbing against his arm. He could drown happily in her lush curves, satin softness and silken scent with nothing jagged or hard about her.

“Hmmm,” he vibrated his tongue on the nipple, slipping one finger against the slick edge of her entrance. “I think you’re teasing me again.”

“If I am…” she groaned, “You’re paying me back in kind.”

He brushed the light stubble of his cheeks against the sensitize tip. Her fingers dug into hair, half pushing, half pulling at him. “I can stop.”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He knew an order when he heard it and captured her lips in a deep, kiss, swallowing any other conversation. He spread the lips of her soaked sex apart with two fingers and fumbled for the condoms he’d dropped on the nightstand. Hardly his smoothest move, but she was so damn responsive, he didn’t care.

He swore when he ripped the first one with the foil. Laughing and groaning, she grabbed a second and shuddered around his probing finger slipping in her entrance as she opened it. With control he could only admire, her warm fingers rolled the sheath over his eagerly jerking dick. He met her shy smile with a wider one.

He wanted more time to spread her legs, to dip his head between them, to drive her to orgasm. He wanted to taste her cream and to listen to her cries for release. He wanted to roll her on her belly and take her or lift her into his lap and watch her ride him, but the desire setting fire to his blood ignored all of those wants.

Later
. He promised himself.

Reclining against the pillows, she urged him down and then he drove inside her slick entrance and his mind blanked. She was all hot, squeezing tightness and his balls swelled. He fought the rushing orgasm, teasing her clit to bring her with him. He wanted slow and leisurely, but passion pushed at him. They had one night, not enough time to fulfill every wish and desire. He had to try and take it slow, make it as memorable as possible.

He pulled her up and thrust deeper. Her body clamped down on him, her mouth pressed in a silent O against his shoulder. She moaned. The whispery sound allayed any fear that he might have hurt her. He tried to hold himself in check, but his body rebelled against his mind.

His much-lauded control shredded with every glide of her skin against his. Her nails raking down his back drove him harder and it didn’t take him long. She came apart around him, her legs locked around his hips and her low cries gaining volume. He lost it, thrusting deep against the greedy muscles clamping down on his cock and came.

Shaking, he sagged against her, fighting to brace his weight with one arm. Her fingers teased a path up his spine and he grunted, turning his head to look into her drowsy, grinning expression.

“You look stunned.” Damn, was there a more beautiful woman in the world?

“I thought I would last a hell of a lot longer.” His voice roughened with the confession. He expected to feel embarrassment or shame, but neither emotion sucked him under. Not when he held this woman in his arms.

“I think I would have died of frustration if you’d taken any longer.”

“Yeah?” He adjusted his weight for fear of crushing her, but couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away.

“Oh, yeah.” Her sex clenched as though to emphasize the statement and his body jerked. At thirty-five, he didn’t expect to feel his cock stiffening to life so soon, but it did. “I hope you have more condoms….”

“…a whole damn box full, ma’am.”

Two hours later, they reclined in the bed and he enjoyed the way her warm skin looked next to his darker, near nut-brown tan from long hours in the sun and too many games of hoops.

“What are you thinking about?” He curled a strand of blonde around his finger.

“That you need more room or a bigger place.” She bit down lightly on his shoulder and he arched an eyebrow.

“What for?”

“Honey, we couldn’t even fit my shoes in this bedroom….”

He laughed and dragged her beneath him, pausing long enough to roll on a condom before thrusting home in one slow roll of his hips. “You don’t need to wear shoes here…or anything else for that matter….”

It was nearly lunchtime when he spotted her sneaking out of the bedroom, dressed only in his shirt, her long bare legs teasing him. They couldn’t have slept for more than hour. He stretched, his body stirring at the sight of her bottom peeking behind the tail of his shirt. They’d retreated to the kitchen for coffee and found a way to christen his kitchen counter, the tiny round table he used for work, and his sofa, before making it back to the bedroom.

He wanted to dine on her sweet little sex, again. And again. Maybe he’d offer to cook her eggs and bacon in trade. Her conversation drifted from the front room, derailing the lascivious train of thought.

“Yes, go ahead and work out the details, but tell them I want them to increase the offer by twenty percent, and I want to donate forty percent of the total to Mike’s Place in Allen, Texas.”

He blinked.

“Yes, I said forty percent. No, I’d like to film all my parts in one week. I have five scenes, surely they can manage that.”

His heart sank. One night was not enough. Nowhere near enough. He hoped she’d stick around a little longer.

“Well, it will have to be a week. I’m not going to hang out on set for a month just to film a scene every four or five days. So if they want to film it that way, make sure you include travel expenses. I’m going to be based out of Dallas for the foreseeable future, so it’s only a two-hour flight…”

And just like that he blew out a long breath.

“…you know what, Marnie? There’s a hell of a lot more to life than just making movies. I’m all about taking chances and seeing where that can go. My career. My life. My choice.”

Foreseeable future
.

Hell yeah, he could work with that. He levered off the bed, stalked toward the living room and the luscious goddess he planned to lay out on the table.

Time for breakfast
.

Always a Marine - Book 4

A 1Night Stand Story

By

Heather Long

~
DEDICATION
~

For everyone who believes in feeding the soul
.

“Needs a cup of Bailey’s and a dash of cayenne, John-John.” Damon Sinclair handed the large wooden ladle back to an assistant and moved on to check the cornbread coming out of the triple ovens in the back of the bustling kitchen. Opening night hummed in the kitchens with every swing of the doors as waiters and waitresses rushed in, dropped off orders then picked up piping hot food to rush it back out.

Wiping his hands on a towel, he approved all but the last cornbread. “Break that one up and soak it in the red beans.” The woman nodded, whirling away with the trays for cutting and adding to the meals, while the last one was passed down to the station chef handling the big pot simmering on one of a dozen stovetops that made up the entire right wall of his kitchens.

Lagniappe’s
served only the best; if the food wasn’t crying to get to the table, it didn’t leave his kitchen. He stopped a waitress carrying a large tray, plucked the garnish from a crawfish platter and waved it at John-John. “No weeds with the seafood.”

“Aye, Mr. Sinclair.” The cook didn’t need to call him Mr.
anything
. The aging Marine served the best gumbo in the Quarter. He enjoyed the chaos, and handled it with a firm hand that reminded everyone of the drill sergeant he’d once been.

Damon lured him to
Lagniappe’s
with the promise of having his own kitchen to run. John-John deferred to him as owner, even if Damon was thirty years his junior. Amused, the chef upended the entire parsley garnish onto his cutting board and diced it at high speed before dumping the lot into the Jambalaya. With no garnish to add to the plates, the steward wouldn’t make the mistake again.

“Captain Dexter’s here.” Ginny Mayer sailed in with an empty tray held aloft, neatly dodging Jackson Cooper’s heavier load as he carried out a serving tray steaming with cornbread,
étouffée
and gumbo.

“Excellent. I reserved the six-top for them.” Damon paused at the dessert counter, studying the beignets with a critical eye. “These are almost too large, you want smaller portions. Remember…each one’s a kiss of the south, think brush of the lips, not tongue-thrusting wet.”

Demi, the pastry chef, gave him an arch look and worked her mouth into a pout, but the playful gleam in her eyes betrayed her.

“Save the look for the Gunny, Demi. He’ll be happy to give you all the tongue thrusting you could want. Give my customers an angel kiss.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Her laughter followed him through the kitchen to the doors where he leaned out to look. Immense satisfaction wound through him. It was seven on opening night and every table was populated save for two, one of which he’d reserved for his private guest.
My date who is now
, he glanced at his watch,
thirty minutes late
.

He’d really hoped his hook up from Madame Eve would make it before the rush, but the line out the door coupled with the chatter and laughter making the rounds of the tables filled his soul.

Luke Dexter held a chair out for Rebecca, his fiancée, the stunning chestnut-haired beauty he’d left behind when he enlisted, then won back nearly a decade later. Damon gave the Captain a quiet salute, a gesture the man returned easily. A gasp and sudden rise in volume rolled up the line waiting at the door. James Westwood guided his date, movie star Lauren Kincaid, through the throng of well-wishers. A couple of flashes went off, and Damon slanted a look at Javier the maître d’ and nodded his head.

The man diverted from his post to corral the amateur photographers back to their tables with a calm word and a stern expression.
Lagniappe’s
wasn’t the place for the wannabe paparazzi. James shot him a grateful look, but was quickly distracted when his blonde bombshell pounced on Lauren. The women hugged with a giggling fierceness reminiscent of high school.

They must speak the silent code of the popular
.

“You gonna change, boss?” Jones, a waiter, paused at his side, an empty tray dangling from one hand. All of his employees were inactive Marines or related to a Marine. Jones fell in the latter category.

“Soon. Any word?”

“Nope. Javier’s checking the line periodically, making sure she doesn’t get hung up waiting. But nothing.”

Her tardiness annoyed the Marine in him. The schedule called for her to arrive at six-thirty. He took pride in promptness. “Well, I’ll change when she gets here. Table seven needs coffee, grab some of the beignets for table fourteen, and bring out two bottles of white for the Captain’s table.”

“On it.” Jones vanished into the kitchens. A wave of oohs and aahs rose from the bar. Matt demonstrated flair with a pair of bottles dancing up in the air. The press of feminine bodies coupled with laughter and applause amused Damon. McCall had come a long way since trashing his car six weeks before. He’d even made plans to spend Thanksgiving with his family.

A big step.

Damon had offered to travel with him, but the man declined. He still received counseling from James regularly, and between the psychologist’s support and the rest of the unit, Matt was getting it together.

“Yo, boss….” The call tugged his attention back toward the kitchen, but a tingle on the back of his neck warned him to wait. Threading through the line at the door was a long-legged brunette, her short dark hair angling around the smooth, alabaster skin of her face. A modicum of makeup—he supposed it was makeup—highlighted fine cheekbones, delicate eyes and a direct, no-nonsense stare that shot a sizzling jolt to his cock.

Oh, please let that be Helena Blake
….

Willowy didn’t begin to describe the slender woman. A white scarf hung around her neck and dangled between her small, pert breasts. The gray sleeveless top and smart black skirt seemed too sedate for the sensuality in her plump lips and dark eyes. His gaze roamed down her body, pausing only when the crowd surged between them then parted again. The press of people annoyed him, he wanted more than peek-a-boo glimpses.

He watched Javier guide her past the velvet ropes to the private dining area set up just off the main room. Close enough to be public, but private enough to indulge in good conversation.

Hell. Yeah
.

Whirling from the door, he darted past the servers to check the white chili with fresh chicken and shrimp bubbling in a separate pot. “Whatcha need John-John….”