Heavy Issues (8 page)

“As much as I hate you taking my bike, yes, you have a point,” Cole noted.

Max ignored him and zeroed in on Christy. “You must be Christy, the girl I heard my less than tactful brother dragged out of a bar yesterday, right?”

“I didn’t drag her,” Cole countered.

“Yes, you did,” several people said in unison.

Max offered her a radiant smile. “Drop him, sweetheart. He’s too rustic and I’m much more fun. I’ll show you.”

“If you want to keep your head attached to your body, you’ll stay away from her. Feel me?” Cole said almost in a snarl.

Max just grinned. Before he could say anything else, several girls came and hauled him off to dance. He went more than willingly.

“Calm down, girls. There’s enough for everyone,” Christy heard him say. He was a shameless flirt through and through. And he had the pinup-calendar looks to pull it off.

After a couple of hours a firework exploded, signaling the beginning of the show. “Come here, Christy.”

That deep stare and his low, raspy voice transformed his simple command into something wicked and sinful that had her nipples throbbing and heat pulling in between her legs.

“What?”

“Come here,” he repeated, not moving a muscle, that obey-or-else tone in his voice making her shiver.

She looked at him. Man, he was big. In another league completely from the unthreatening types she’d dated.

As if pulled by his force field, she leaned toward him, and he lifted her to sit between his legs. Before she had time to complain, he had her half lying on him.

“You’ll see the fireworks better from here.”

Oh God. He’d been watching her all through the picnic, touching her too, but just light brushes. This was now full contact, back to chest, while his hard, muscular thighs were around her.

He reached for her hand, and she jumped. “Easy, honey,” he whispered on her ear. Jesus, the guy smelled good. Like the outdoors and sun and man. Sexy man. Hard, arrogant, sexy man.

He turned her right hand palm up and caressed her inner wrist, grazing his thumb over her tattoo. She’d caught him several times looking at it, but he’d never asked about it, which suited her fine. She never discussed her tattoo.

“
Numquam Satis
,” he said, tracing the letters. “Never Enough.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You know Latin?”

He shrugged. “Not really, just the basics. It wasn’t a language the marines insisted upon much. Farsi and Afghani, yes; Latin, no.”

A jarhead, didn't it figure. “So, the marines.”

“Yep, three tours.”

Oh hell. “Three tours? That’s what, twenty years?”

“Twelve,” he said absentmindedly while caressing her inner wrist some more, then slowly moving up, pulling at her long sleeve. Before she could ask any more, he continued, “Are you into tattoos? Am I going to find more ink while undressing you?”

She was going to tell him that the chances of him getting to undress her were slimmer than slim, but she recognized it for the big fat lie it was. Besides, she was too out of breath for words. Instead she just shook her head. More tattoos? Was he joking? She’d been in enough excruciating pain getting those two words—she’d even considered calling it quits at
Numquam.

“Does your tattoo have a special meaning?” he asked.

Christy shrugged. “It’s a reminder.”

“A reminder?”

“So that I don’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That I need reminding.”

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “That’s circular thinking, babe.”

Sure it was. “What about you? Any tattoos? A Semper Fi on your ass, maybe?”

He snorted. “No, sorry to disappoint you. My brother James has already cornered the market on tattoos. Besides, I’d have better places to put the marines’ motto than on my ass. I’m old-fashioned: no tattoos, no piercings, no earrings. A man should look like a man, not a Christmas tree.”

Christy laughed softly. Yep, that sounded just like Cole. If Max was the pinup-calendar hottie with the Hollywood looks, and James was the tattooed, tough-assed bad boy, then Cole was the highly opinionated, no-nonsense soldier. Piercings? Tattoos? Studs? Ha! The man didn’t use any cologne, for crying out loud.

For a while they silently watched the fireworks. Christy was horribly aware of him behind her, of his muscular chest glued to her back, of his heat surrounding her, of a hard something pressing at her lower back. The force field around him was so intense she literally felt it in her bones.

As he nuzzled her ear, he traced his fingers over her thigh. “No skirt today. Afraid I’d take advantage of it?”

Damn right. She was wearing jeans and long sleeves and a jacket. She would have worn a chastity belt if she had one. It was inviting disaster to wear a skirt.

After a couple of seconds passed by, he whispered casually, “So tell me, baby, did you wax your pussy?”

Christy turned around so fast she almost got whiplash. “Oh. My. God. You didn’t say that to me.”

“What? Just making conversation,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and keeping his face blank. She saw a smile tugging at his lips though.

She poked him in his chest, trying her damnedest to keep her tone low. “And that’s something else I don’t take kindly to, mister. ‘Wax it, or I won’t fuck you,’” she said, imitating his baritone. “Jesus.”

“So I take it that’s a no?”

Her smile was all teeth. “What do you think?” God, the guy was infuriating. She poked him again and whispered irately, “And so that you know, I don’t have a jungle down there. My pubic hair is nicely trimmed.”

He grabbed her poking finger and, chuckling, brought her back to his chest, wrapping his arms around her to keep her in place. “I know, sweet thing. I had my hand up your skirt, remember? You’re perfect, but I want you bare. And you are gonna love it.”

She snorted. “I doubt it. Waxing hurts.”

“I’d kiss it better afterward, babe. I promise. I’ll rake my teeth over the smooth skin and lick every inch of your sweet pussy all night long until you’re dizzy from coming and beg me to stop. Your folds will be so sensitive the smallest friction will set you off.”

Sure, like she needed any help in that department with him around.

Shivering at the image his words were conjuring in her mind, she tried to wrestle back control of the conversation. “Whatever. Moot point now that my…ladyscaping isn’t to your liking. I reckon you won’t be fucking me tonight.”

She felt his smile against her skin. “Oh, honey, make no mistake. Hair, no hair, your pussy is mine tonight. You are mine tonight.” He nuzzled her throat. “Such a pity you’re wearing jeans. With a skirt I could slip my hand under it and make you come right here. I’d cover you with a blanket, and with your body bracketed by my legs, no one would notice. You could watch as the fireworks explode in the sky and inside you. Would you like that? I would, babe. It was so fucking hard to walk away from you yesterday. I can still feel your tiny pussy sucking my fingers in like a greedy mouth. I can’t wait to feel that around my cock. And my tongue.” His voice, low and raspy, was full of dark promise.

Oh God. This was getting out of hand. She must have been crazy to even think for a second that she could take him on. She couldn’t. He was taking them into a zone she didn’t even have a name for, although if the response of her body was anything to go by, then this was what other people called falling in
lust.

She was flushed to her very core, her heartbeat trip-hammering, her mind spinning out of control. Her folds felt swollen and dripping wet. Her nipples were so hard that contact with her bra was uncomfortable. And technically he hadn’t touched her yet. His words, his heavy presence around her were enough to send her careening into a sexual frenzy. She didn’t need any more foreplay. Two more seconds of that and she was going to come.

She nervously looked around. It was close to eleven p.m., but this was a bring-the-kiddos event, a family picnic for Christ’s sake. They couldn’t be having this conversation here. She’d spontaneously orgasm from his words alone and treat some poor innocent kid to her own version of an epileptic episode.

“We need to talk. You and me. Somewhere with less sound and more privacy,” she said, scrambling to her feet.

The guy was hell-bent on getting into her pants, and she had to get some things straight, because the sex he had to offer sure as hell wouldn’t be the well-mannered, prim, and proper kind she was accustomed to. Cole was hardly the under-the-blanket, lights-off kind of guy. He wouldn’t settle for halfway, and Christy needed to tell him what to expect. If that scared him off or repulsed him, good riddance then. At least she would avoid the embarrassment.

“My house?” he asked.

She snorted again, this time more nervously. “Yeah, right. Think again.”

She took him to a quieter corner. Well, the quietest she could find. At least it was far away from the tables. Everyone was watching the fireworks, and as far as she could see, no one was paying them any attention. She paced in front of him for a long while, worrying her lower lip.

“Christy…”

“I haven’t had sex for over a year,” she blurted.

He crossed his arms and looked at her, his expression giving nothing away. “You mean besides with your fiancé, right?”

She shook her head. “No. And I…ah, I…”

He kept quiet.

She opened her mouth and then closed it again, feeling ashamed. How could she tell him about…about it? The craziness, the insanity of it all? The inability to stop? The tons of food shoveled down her throat in an attempt to fill a hole that wasn’t even in her stomach?

He wasn’t going to understand. She had trouble understanding it. He would look at her with disgust, or worse, make fun of her. He’d ask questions, questions she wasn’t sure she had answers for. And this wasn’t the place to delve into those. There were too many people around. She paced some more.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he said.

Oh, come on, Christy, give it up already. Just tell the man and be done with it
. It wasn’t as if she’d been turning up tricks and smoking crack on Skid Row, LA. Although she’d rather admit to that than to the truth.

She stopped in front of him and took a deep breath.
Alea jacta est.

“I…I have a problem with food, Cole.”

He was quiet for several seconds.

“Do you mean a problem with food as in you eat and then throw up, or as in you starve yourself to death?”

How cute. Big, tough marine had been watching late-night shows and knew about bulimia and anorexia. Pity it wasn’t as clear-cut as that. “No, I mean a problem as in I can’t stop eating, and before I realize it, I’m five hundred pounds and in need of a crane to be airlifted to get out of home.”

Silence. Yep, overeating hadn’t made it onto his radar. No big surprise there. When it came to eating disorders, it was just the people starving themselves or hiding a week’s worth of vomit in their closet that had scared public opinion. It still baffled her, though, how most people didn’t see that a 500-pound person eating anything that didn’t move was trying to kill herself as surely as an anorexic.

She sighed heavily. “Early in life I discovered chocolate bars made things better. That habit of eating for comfort when I was feeling bad, which was pretty much all the time, turned into an obsession, and then an out-of-control compulsion that for many years made my life a living hell. Food was the only tool I had for managing my emotions.” Overeating, undereating, using diuretics, laxatives, diet pills, shots…she’d done it all. Except for throwing up. That she could never bring herself to do. Besides, what she was after was that blissful state of numbness that being stuffed with food brought her to.

“Although the bouts of bingeing were always followed by short periods of undereating, I was never too successful at restricting my food. Overeating is my thing.”

His gaze was boring a hole in her. His face was so impenetrable she had no clue what he was thinking.

She didn’t know how to explain to him about emotional hunger, about the inability to cope without using food to take the edge off. She couldn’t convey the hell her life had been while she was in the food, unable to stop overeating and unable to stop obsessing on how to lose the weight she was unable to stop gaining because she was unable to stop eating. Unable. Unable to control her life. Unable to control her mother. Unable to control her own body and mind. And so terribly ashamed.

“It brought me to two hundred pounds before I realized I was medicating my feelings with food and got some help. I was never five hundred pounds, that and the crane were just a poetic license on my part, but I don’t have the smallest doubt that, given time, I would have been that fat and more. When it came to food, to sugar specifically, there was never enough for me. I relate to it the same way an alcoholic does to alcohol. I’d binge on sugar all day long until I’d literally pass out in the night, then wake up the next day and start all over again. That was how I checked out of my life…it was my downer.”

“Okay,” he said without taking his eyes off her.

Okay? That was all he had to say?

She’d expected irony, incomprehension, repulsion, at best confusion. Instead he was accepting her explanation as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

She cleared her throat. “I’m telling you that because, well, me and my body…” God, she didn’t know how to say this. “Look, I’m better now, I maintain a weight loss of seventy pounds, and the food is in its place, but my body…well, my body…” God, she wasn’t making any sense. “I’m just…I don’t know, warning you? I’m not the most confident person when it comes to my physique.”

She waited for him to say something. Nada. His face was inscrutable.

“What I’m trying to say here is that sex implies a level of exposure that, for obvious reasons, I find difficult to deal with. The guys I had sex with didn’t blow my socks off, but it’s mainly my fault, not theirs. I’m kind of…handicapped.” Much as it pained her to admit it, there was a reason why she’d always ended up with mellower specimens with as much sex appeal as a trip to the dentist. If you wanted to win big, you had to risk big. She wasn’t able to do that.