Striking Distance (23 page)

“Yeah. Nah. I . . . I have no clue how to tie it.” He’d tried looking up directions on the Internet, but he’d run out of time.

“I’d tie it for you, but I don’t know how to do it either.”

“To hell with it.” He drew the tie off and tossed it onto the sofa. “Hungry?”

She smiled. “Starving!”

He drew out a chair for her, his gaze drawn to the gentle curve of her shoulder as she sat, the subtle musk of her perfume filling his nostrils.

He bent down and pressed a kiss to the side of her throat. “You smell incredible.”

Watch it,
pendejo
.

It was important that he let Laura set the pace, and that meant keeping his hands and his mouth off her until she asked him to touch her—not an easy job when she smelled this sweet, her creamy skin gleaming like satin, the swells of her breasts . . .

Oh, no, he was
not
going to spend the evening staring at them.

“I’ll get our food.” He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a hot pad, and took the serving dishes out of the oven where they’d been warming. “I hope you like it. I slaved in the kitchen all day.”

He set the two dishes down on the table, tossing the hot pad onto the counter, his gaze fixed on her face. With Megan’s help, he’d found a restaurant that served a meal that almost matched the last dinner they’d shared in Dubai—roast duck breast, wild rice with mushrooms, asparagus.

Laura’s eyes went wide. “Where did you get all of this?”

“That’s classified. Champagne?”

“I would love some.”

“This is . . .” He lifted the bottle out of the ice bucket, glanced at the label, and realized he couldn’t read a thing. “. . . French.”

He wished he knew something about wine, about cuisine, about the classy side of life, but his expertise was limited to firearms, explosives, covert ops.

She smiled up at him, a glint of humor in her eyes. “Perfect.”

He poured them each a glass, then sat across the table from her, the surge of emotion he felt when he looked into her eyes making it hard for him to speak. “To everything you want in life.”

She raised her glass and clinked it against his, a telltale sheen in her eyes.

With a Spanish guitar mix playing in the background, they started on their supper, the conversation awkward at first. Laura complimented the food, the wine, the music. And for a few minutes Javier was afraid he’d gone overboard and had only managed to leave her feeling overwhelmed.

Then she reached across the table and took his hand. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.”

He wanted to tell her he loved her but couldn’t. He didn’t want to add to her confusion or put her on the spot tonight. She had enough to work through without dealing with his emotions. So he kept his words simple. He kept them true.

“I would do anything for you,
bella
.”

CHAPTER

21

FEELING WARM AND
tipsy, Laura rested her head against Javier’s chest, her arms around his neck as they danced barefoot in slow circles. He sang along to the music in soft Spanish, one big hand at her waist, his other arm holding her close. He filled her senses, his body hard and strong against hers, his voice smooth and beautiful, his masculine scent as heady as the champagne.

Some part of her had melted hours ago under the force of this subtle but sensual seduction, her desire for him undeniable. Never had any man made her feel so cared for, so special. And still she hesitated, not wanting to start something she wouldn’t be able to finish. He’d said that whatever happened was up to her, but how would he feel if she got into bed with him only to shut down?

Don’t think about that. Just enjoy the moment.

She closed off her mind, determined to feel her way through this night, to let her heart and body guide her. She breathed him in, let her mind drift, savoring the experience of being in his arms, his heartbeat steady against her cheek, his embrace a refuge from the tumult of her life. Somehow her lips found their way to his Adam’s apple, his singing ending on a quick exhale as she kissed him there. That kiss led to another and another, her lips tracing a path up the side of his throat to the sensitive skin beneath his ear, his pulse quickening against her mouth.

But giving herself a taste of him only made her hungry for more. She turned his face toward her, drew his head down, and kissed him.

He gave a soft moan, his lips responding to hers, matching every nip, every caress, every flick of the tongue without taking control of the kiss from her, his restraint both arousing and sweet. She yielded, arching against him, parting her lips for him, welcoming the heat of his tongue. He slid a hand into her hair to cradle the back of her head as he angled his mouth over hers, taking the kiss deeper.

Lost in the moment, she slipped her hands inside his jacket, sliding her palms over the rough fabric of his vest to feel the hard muscle beneath. She had never touched Al-Nassar, never put her hands on him, the act of caressing Javier resurrecting only good memories. One by one she undid the buttons, sliding off his vest and his jacket with it, the white cloth of his shirt a stark contrast to his dark hair and brown skin.

“I want to undress you,” she whispered against his mouth. “I haven’t touched a man since . . .
since you
.”

“Come.” He took her hand and led her to her bedroom.

Her heart gave a nervous skip as she turned on her bedside lamp, being in the bedroom more intimidating than the living room. And for a moment she stood with her back to him, trepidation snaking its way up from her belly. She did
not
want to hurt him, didn’t want to disappoint him.

His hands came to rest on her shoulders, his mouth brushing butterfly kisses against the side of her neck, the sensation making her shiver. She dimmed the light and turned to face him.

He ran a thumb down her cheek, emotion burning in his eyes. “Do whatever you want with me.”

Under the heat of his gaze, she began to unbutton his shirt, the cloth giving off a pleasing starchy smell that mingled enticingly with the scent of his skin—salt and fresh linen. She pushed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, letting it fall to the floor, leaving his chest bare.

She stepped back, let her gaze feast on the sight of him, heat flaring to life in her belly. The play of light on his satiny brown skin. The twin bulges of his biceps. The sculpted curves of his shoulders. The slant of his collarbones. The smooth planes of his pecs. The red lines of his scars. The flat brown disks of his nipples. The deep groove that bisected his abdomen. The firm ridges of his six-pack. The angles of his obliques as they sloped toward his groin.

God, he was beautiful.

She reached out with both hands, letting them follow the same path her gaze had taken, indulging in the male feel of him, warm, smooth skin stretched over hard muscle. She heard his quick intake of breath as she ran her thumbs over his nipples, felt his abdomen tense as she grazed it with her fingertips, watched his hands slowly clench as she stroked the length of his obliques.

But she wasn’t finished.

She grasped the waistband of his trousers with trembling hands, struggling with the hidden button. His hands closed over hers and dealt with the button, leaving the zipper to her. She unzipped him, then pushed his trousers away from his narrow hips and down his thighs. He kicked the trousers aside, standing before her wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, the hard ridge of his erection outlined in sharp detail.

The breath left her lungs.

The closest she’d come to sex since her rescue was fantasizing about this body, about Javier, and now here he was, standing before her, ready to do whatever pleased her.

But what was that? She wasn’t sure.

If this had been that weekend in Dubai, he would have already picked her up and laid her down on the bed or pinned her against a wall, his sexual assertiveness like nothing she’d experienced before. But this time he was waiting for her.

Don’t think. Just feel.

Ignoring her fears, she turned her back to him and drew her hair aside. “Unzip me?”

She felt Javier tug at the zipper, felt her gown fall open in the back. He lifted the gown over her head, let it fall to the floor, a finger tracing down her spine, making her gasp and shiver. Wearing only her bra and panties, she turned in his arms, his gaze sliding over her like a caress, the heat that emanated from his body warming her.

She thought he was about to kiss her again. Instead, he slowly sank to his knees, grasped her waist, and pressed his lips to her belly.

Her stretch marks. He was kissing her stretch marks.

Tears stung her eyes, her throat tight, the sweetness of his gesture as overwhelming as it was unexpected, his complete acceptance of her body and what she’d been through feeling like redemption.

* * *

JAVIER WANTED TO
take it all away—the pain she’d suffered, the violence, the fear. But he couldn’t. Instead, he kissed the part of her that had been hurt.

He’d always been closer to the Puerto Rican side of the family than the Cherokee side, but his father had taught him when he was still a boy that men should always show respect for women because women carried inside them the place where life began. Laura had been violated, this sacred part of her abused and exploited, the baby she’d been forced to bring into this world stolen from her.

If only he could give back what had been taken and heal that pain . . .

Her fingers curled in his hair as he pressed his lips against the faint silver lines on her skin again and again, her breath catching on a little sob.

But he hadn’t meant to make her cry.

He slid his way up her body, wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, and kissed her slow and hard and deep. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissed him as if her life depended on it. And he remembered.

She had asked to touch
him
.

He stretched out lengthwise on the bed, watching as she crawled onto the bed beside him. She was like a vision from a sailor’s wet dream, her breasts swelling over the cups of her bra, the dark lace making her skin seem impossibly pale. He ached to touch her, to kiss her, but she hadn’t asked him to do either—yet.

He’d rather eat his own balls than ruin this for her.

She knelt beside him and slid her hand slowly over his chest, a look of sensual tension on her face, her hair spilling over one shoulder. “You are so beautiful.”

He was already so turned on that he had no idea how he was going to get through the night without humiliating himself, and her touch only made it harder, need for her drumming in his chest like a heartbeat. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and caught the weight of her hair in one hand. “I’m glad you like what you see.”

But
she
was the beautiful one.

Holding her hair aside, he watched as she bent over him and began to scatter kisses across his chest, her lips scorching a trail on his skin, the sight every bit as arousing as the sensation. Her hot tongue flicked one of his nipples and then the other, making his breath catch, the lace of her bra abrading his skin where she brushed against him. And the ache in his groin grew sharp.

Staying passive like this was new for him—and it wasn’t easy. Whether it was the old
Boricua
machismo or the drive that had pushed him up to the top of the enlisted ranks, it was in his nature to take control, to lead. Instinct told him to get her out of her bra and panties, draw her beneath him, and taste every inch of her until she forgot to be afraid. But he willed himself to remain still, yielding control to her. And yet as difficult as it was to surrender, there was something erotic about it, too.

Frustratingly, aggravatingly, maddeningly erotic.

¡Puñeta!

Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

She nipped the ridge of one of his obliques, making him jerk, her lashes fluttering as she looked up at him, her mouth curving in a teasing smile.

So she
did
know—and it was clear she was aroused, too, her pupils dilated, her breathing fast, her nipples puckered beneath black lace.

Somehow that made it harder to endure, her kisses more sensual now, her warm tongue sliding over his skin, her teeth nipping him as she kissed her way with unbearable slowness across his belly. He’d been hot for her before she’d kissed him, days and nights of holding her and sleeping beside her fueling his desire. Now his skin was so sensitive that the slightest brush of her fingers made his muscles jerk, his cock straining against his boxer briefs and hard enough to split wood.

She traced the line of body hair that ran southward from his navel, her fingertips teasing the skin at the edge of his boxer briefs. Slowly she drew them down, his cock springing free. “I want to taste you.”

Did she expect him to object?

“Are you sure,
bella
?” He smoothed her hair back from her face, her lips wet and swollen from kissing him.

“Yeah.” She smiled, a sweet, sexy smile that made his heart skip.

She took him in hand and began to stroke him slowly from root to tip, a look of curious fascination on her face as if he were terrain she was exploring again after a long absence. Her motions were cautious at first, almost awkward. He would have reached down to guide her, but giving a hand job must have been a lot like riding a bike, because she got the hang of it quickly.

Hell, yeah, she did.

Javier found himself holding his breath, his hips rising to meet her strokes as she built up a rhythm, his body already perilously close to orgasm. Then she bent down and took him into the heat of her mouth, and he knew he was in trouble.

¡Diache!
Hell!

It felt so damned good, her tongue swirling around the aching head of his cock, her mouth and fist moving in tandem up and down the shaft. He caught her hair with his fists, held it back to give himself a view—and instantly regretted it, the sight of her devouring him bringing him to the brink. He fought to relax, to keep his hips from bucking against her, to enjoy the feel of it for as long as he could—or at least long enough not to embarrass himself.

You’re a SEAL, damn it, not a minuteman.

“You are
so
good,” he managed to say. “If you don’t stop now . . .”

Those were the last coherent words out of his mouth, his eyes drifting shut, his breathing ragged as she brought him to the brink, then finished him with her fist, pleasure scorching through him as he came, leaving him out of breath.

He felt the bed shift and opened his eyes to see Laura reaching for a tissue. She wiped off her hand, dropped the tissue in the trash, then reached for another. He took it from her, cleaned himself off, then drew her into his arms.

“If tonight was supposed to be about you, why am I the one who just came?”

* * *

LAURA NESTLED AGAINST
Javier’s chest, wanting him to understand but not sure she could explain. “If you think I didn’t enjoy that, you’re wrong. I haven’t been able to
give
anything to a man since we were together. It was all just . . . taken.”

Taken, stolen, beaten from her.

But tonight she’d been able to bring pleasure to a man she cared deeply about while staying in control. It had been intensely erotic to see his muscular body straining against her touch, to watch him come apart when he’d climaxed, his muscles tensing, his body arching off the bed, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Watching you, seeing the effect I had on you—I loved it.”

It had been more than a little arousing. The aching wetness between her thighs was proof of that. She hadn’t felt this sexually alive since . . .

Of course, it had been much easier to focus on him than to have his attention—and his hands—on her. This way, she hadn’t had to worry that she might freak out and make him feel rejected.

She could see on Javier’s face that he didn’t understand, but that was probably because she hadn’t explained it very well.

He stroked her hair. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to do to you what you just did to me?”

She felt a clench deep in her belly, her pulse spiking partly out of fear and partly out of raw sexual need. It had been so long since she’d viewed her body as a source of pleasure rather than a weapon to be used against her. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Would you let me try?”

Her pulse raced faster. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings or—”

He propped himself up on his elbow. “I would never do anything you didn’t want me to do, but it would help me if you told me what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m afraid of hurting your feelings, of damaging our friendship.”

“And I told you that is never going to happen.”

She might as well come out with it. “There are . . . some things you should know. You don’t have to worry about getting me pregnant because I had my tubes tied. I had never planned on having children anyway, and after what happened . . .”