21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (152 page)

He nodded once and when she made a move as though to stand, he rose and caught her chair for her, easing it out of the way.

“I think I’d like to go upstairs.” She didn’t quite look at him, but he felt the weight of her attention. Following her line of sight, he caught her staring at their reflection in the window. Side by side, he seemed a dour companion to her elegance.

He’d settled the bill before dinner had even been served. She collected her purse and they slipped out of the quiet alcove. The ride up to the room was short and quick, and the suite had been prepared in anticipation of their arrival, right down to a bottle of champagne on ice and a tray of chocolates. Most women seemed to like those types of things.

Sliding the keycard into his pocket, Tom followed Brenda inside. She kicked off her shoes and set her purse on a table and walked across the room to the French doors leading to a private balcony. A glance at his watch told him they still had a full minute to go.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.

He’d been ready for that response. “We don’t have to do anything.” Walking over to the sofa, he tugged a light decorative throw blanket off the back and laid it over her shoulders before pulling the doors open. Aware of her bare feet, he caught her before she stepped out onto the cold marble balcony. “We can watch from right here.”

A shudder passed over her and he wrapped his arms around her from behind, fisting the blanket closed in front to keep out the chill.

“You did not pay for all of this beauty to simply watch the fireworks with a neurotic woman.”

Giving her a gentle squeeze, he shook his head. “It’s a good thing I’m not. I rather like my company, stop insulting her.” Below them, a roar went up and the sound of music drifted on the cold breeze. Beyond the horizon, where the city lights glowed, fireworks began to explode in the air.

“Happy New Year,” he told her quietly. The silent shaking of her shoulders didn’t surprise him, and he cradled her closer—gratified when she leaned against his chest. Fixing his attention on the fireworks, he measured out the time as she cried. The pauses between the shakes grew longer and longer, until they seemed to cease with the last of dazzling, radiant conclusion of the celebratory show.

“Happy New Year,” she managed in a voice choked with tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to start crying….”

Shifting enough to reach a box of tissue, he held it out to her and smiled. “It’s quite all right. Honoring the man you loved, even with tears, is a thing to behold.”

When she moved away from him, he relaxed his grip on her and closed the doors to block out the chill.

“You’re being unbelievably nice about this.” She dabbed at her eyes, but the tissue wasn’t quite up to the task of fixing the black streaks the tears had made of her mascara.

He’d never been a man gifted with words, and he wanted to tell her the right thing. Uncertain of what that could be, he went with his gut. “I don’t know anyone who would cry even five minutes for me much less every year, for thirty years.” Considering what she’d told him earlier, he kept a watch on her respiration; she wasn’t panting or showing any shortness of breath.

“I’ve only known you a few hours and I’d cry for at least that long.” She managed a watery laugh and a hint of her earlier sparkle returned. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.” She saw the dark stains on the tissue and grimaced. “Oh, Lord, the makeup.”

“It’s really not that bad,” he lied, catching her before she could flee into the bathroom to see the damage for herself. “Here….” Taking a fresh tissue, he carefully dabbed at her face. No one who knew him would believe that he’d stand there trying to help a woman clean up the evidence of her tears, but something about this one provoked a deep and protective instinct in him.

No way could he let her suffer alone, and seeing the black streaks would only increase her level of embarrassment. “But you didn’t forget, you simply didn’t dwell on it.” He picked up the thread of her earlier statement.

She sighed. “No, I forgot. For a little while, I was only thinking about you.”

“And how are you feeling now?” Maybe his short visit to Luke’s little pet project had rubbed off. He wouldn’t look too closely at why he was asking her about her feelings.

Frowning, she seemed to consider the words. “Embarrassed? Sad and, maybe, a little worried.”

The first two he understood. “Why worried?”

“Usually when I start crying, I can’t stop myself and—” She winced.

“And you had an episode like when you passed out?” He didn’t smile at the mild shock on her face. Yes, he’d been paying attention when she told him that downstairs.

“Yes.” But though sadness lingered in her eyes, her tears had begun to dry. She pushed a hand through her hair and brushed it away from her face. “I—but I don’t understand.”

Uncertain if she meant why hadn’t she continued crying or how she’d forgotten, he pursued a third idea. “Have you ever been with someone on New Year’s?”

“Oh, God, no, I usually spend it alone with a bottle of wine, and a box of pictures, or maybe a movie. I figure if I’m going to be miserable, I should do it up right. And no one needs to see me fall apart.”

And therein lies the key
. “Tonight, you’re not alone. You’re starting this new year off a little differently.” He paused. “We both are.”

“Yeah?” She sniffed, but her lips tilted upward. “Where were you last New Year’s?”

“In Germany. I was posted there. Iraq for the four years before that.” He had to think about it. “Afghanistan on and off for six years. Though two of those were spent at Pendleton overseeing training exercises. Africa, Okinawa, the Atlantic Ocean, Japan—a detail in Belgium for a short time.”

“The Pacific Ocean?” She dabbed her nose, a puzzled frown drawing her brows together. “I don’t understand….”

“Aboard the USS Bataan.” Unlike some of his fellows, he’d enjoyed the hell out of that assignment—sailors notwithstanding. “I haven’t celebrated as a civilian in years, so as you can guess—you’re loads better than some of my previous companions.”

A soft laugh escaped. “You’re funny, but I think I like that about you more than anything else. You don’t make me feel stupid.”

“Good, you have nothing to feel stupid about.” If he’d had a girl like her waiting for him and he’d died—he’d want someone to look after her. That no one had all those years was a damn shame, but he planned to make some changes. She just didn’t know it yet.

“Actually, I do have a small favor to ask.”

He straightened. “Name it.”

“Could you set your watch back by….” She twisted briefly and glanced toward the clock on the wall. “Ten minutes?”

Glancing down at the timepiece, he nodded and did as she asked. “It’s one minute to midnight.”

“That’s right somewhere in the world, I’m sure.”

He didn’t agree with her, but it was hardly important enough to argue over. “Thirty seconds to midnight.”

Brenda closed the distance between them and murmured, “I’m sorry about the fireworks.”

“I’m not.” What did he care about a bunch of gunpowder-loaded explosions? He’d seen his share in and out of combat. “Twenty seconds.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, light and delicate. Grasping her hips, he matched her gentleness—though he wouldn’t mind in the slightest if she wanted to dig her nails into him. He kept a mental count, though the elusive hint of her perfume teased his concentration.

“Ten seconds.” He recognized what she was attempting to do and weighed whether he should discourage her against the desire to explore their connection further.

“Nine.” She pushed up on her painted toes—belatedly he realized they matched the dark glitter she’d decorated her fingernails with.

He could almost see the rapid beat of her pulse. “Eight.”

“Seven.” Her breath hitched.

“Six.” He canted his head down until their gazes locked.

“Five.” Flush with him now, she slid her hands up to lock behind his neck.

He forgot to inhale for a moment, captivated by the blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Three.” She tickled his nape.

Focused on the dilation of her eyes, he knew the moment the count hit one. He stroked his thumb to the pulse on her neck. It hammered like a baby bird’s, erratic and nervous. “Ten,” he whispered.

She blinked and drew away a fraction, stopping only because he held her still. “We were at one.”

“You weren’t ready yet. Eight.”

The line between her brows went tight. “I was ready.”

“No, you weren’t.” He smiled, continuing to stroke the skin over her frantic pulse. “Seven.”

“Six, and yes, I was.” The jackhammer rate slowed, and the color flushing her face deepened.

“Five.” He rubbed his palm along the curve of her lower back, and her heartbeat dipped to a more reasonable rate.

“Four.” She sounded positively grumpy about it.

“Three.” He took advantage of her distraction to brush his nose to hers.

Her breath hitched again and a note of strain turned her word taut. “Two.”

Not bothering with the last word, he angled his head and took possession of the sweet mouth he’d only brushed before. That first gentle kiss had ignited a slow-burning fire in his blood.

With the smallest of gasps, she opened to him and welcomed the sweep of his tongue—and detonated the tight rein he’d leashed on his passion all evening. The sharp sting of her nails digging into his neck had him lifting her. She was a gorgeous, curvy woman, but he was taller, and lifting her one-armed and keeping control of her head as she met his tongue stroke for stroke gave him a better angle.

Her groan meshed with his. Tom had meant only to indulge a taste for her, not gorge like a starving man set before a banquet. Brenda, however, came to life in his arms, and the air sizzled.

They needed to come up for air or he would be taking those last two steps to the bed, to hell with the consequences.

Her emotions seesawed between old, familiar grief and fresh interest. The ease with which he comforted her embarrassment over her breakdown and accepted her need to cry, kindled a heat so foreign it had actually taken her a moment to recognize the sensation as desire. Asking for a do-over had seemed a fair compensation for the dignity and respect he’d shown her. Anticipation rising, she’d nearly choked when he’d started the count over. The spike in her frustration had also amped up her determination. It had been difficult to start the count over again, but when he closed his mouth on hers—a wild burst of ecstasy swept washed her under and she forgot to think.

Short, jagged bursts of color dazzled her and she arched into the kiss, demanding more from the bold invasion of his tongue that came straight out of her wettest dreams, all masculine and hot. The steel band of his arm around her flexed and then she wasn’t on the ground anymore, but held to him and damn, what a man to be wrapped up with. Hot, and unapologetically male and her palms itched to find the skin beneath the crisp fabric of his jacket and shirt.

Breasts aching, she had to settle for caressing his nape and skating one hand up to stroke through the short, crisp hair on his head. If he let it grow out, it might thicken up. As it was, the softness teased her palms. She wanted to fist her fingers into it and feel his luscious mouth on her naked skin.

Raw, wanton need exploded through her veins and it had nothing to do with the holiday, a lifetime of loss, or anything more than she wanted to explore the passionate side of this man who’d been so focused on her all evening. He lifted his head and she He lifted his head, and she whimpered a sound—all low, needy. Panting hard, she opened her eyes to meet his gaze—
God, he’s acting as half-starved as I feel
….

A purely feminine shudder passed over her. Kissing her had put that look on his face and it was a wonder to her. “Happy New Year,” she managed to whisper, barely recognizing the husky note of her voice.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said, all sober control and steady focus. The hungry dilation of his pupils, however, betrayed the calmness of his voice. “Nothing has to happen.”

Who was he trying to convince? Swallowing, she fought to pull her fragmented thoughts back to the realm of reality. No, clearly nothing
had
to happen. The man’s restraint was a thing of beauty, but…. “I want something to happen.”

His nostrils flared and a hint of a smile touched his gorgeous mouth. “Brenda….”

“Shh.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, aware of how easily he continued to hold her, as though she were light as a feather. “You know, I thought Amelia was insane to push me to do this.” Actually she’d used far harsher words—interfering and pushy being only two. “But….” Her heart stuttered and her stomach clenched. “But I like you. I’ve been in a holding pattern for years, and you are way outside my comfort zone, and utterly not, all at the same time.”

Strange how saying it out loud increased her vulnerability. She didn’t want to feel so raw and exposed, but she didn’t want him to walk away either. He didn’t answer immediately, but a muscle worked in his jaw. “I’m not sure I won’t be rough….”

The concern underscoring that admission melted her. “I’m not going to break,” she promised. “I’m not that fragile.”

“No.” He stroked a thumb over her throat and everything in her went loose and hot at the low growl in his voice. “You’re perfect.”

“Then be as rough as you need to be.” She didn’t know where that encouragement came from, but she wanted to go with it. She wanted to be used until they were both wrung out from the pleasure. If words weren’t enough, she caught his face in her hands and pulled him into the kiss, pouring all of her longing into the contact. One moment she was in his arms and the next, she was on the bed, her dress landing somewhere on the floor.

Heat scorched her as he paused to look down at her. She fought the urge to cross her arms and hide herself from his view. Time had been kind to her, at least she’d always thought so—her too small breasts didn’t sag, and she didn’t tan regularly—so she was pale. Uncertainty wrestled with desire and she fisted her hands against the coverlet.