Against the Ropes (16 page)

“And hardly that,” Brad added, dryly. “He doesn't have base access most of the time. And he barely seemed interested at all in us until those paint balloons hit. That's when he saw gold.”

“He's an asshole,” was all Greg felt confident in adding to the mix. He was too close to the situation—okay, too close to Reagan—to be unbiased. He couldn't care less what people wrote about him, about the Marine Corps, about the team. But he knew it hit her so much harder than it hit any of them, and he hated that for her. “But I doubt it's him.”

“So maybe it's someone who got cut.” Graham stretched. “They'd have motive. That whole ‘bitter ex' complex.”

“But not opportunity.” Brad folded the paper neatly, offered it to Greg. He shook his head, so Brad handed it back to Graham. “They all had to report back to their own commands after getting cut. It's not like they have the chance to run around here without getting noticed. We'd have heard if one of our guys went AWOL.”

“Auxiliary staff,” Greg said, stating his own opinion. “Someone who works in maintenance, or maybe one of Marianne's interns.”

Brad mulled over that a moment. “Opportunity,” he admitted, “but no motive.”

“Motive is as simple or as complicated as someone wants it to be,” Graham stated, sounding every inch the lawyer he normally was. “He cut me off in traffic, she stepped on my foot as she walked by and never said sorry.” He shrugged. “It's not always a mortal wound that scars, boys.”

“Point taken,” Brad said, crossing his arms. “It's pissing me off, whatever it is.”

“I have a feeling it's costing Reagan,” Greg added. When both men looked interested and leaned forward, he added, “I think she's struggling with it. She's got to handle the fallout when something negative happens, and her superiors keep harping on her to make it stop.”

“As if she has that power,” Graham muttered. “How do you know all this?”

“We talk,” Greg said defensively. “We talked last night.”

“Just talked?” Brad asked with a teasing kick.

“You know as well as I do I was in my room last night. Alone,” Greg emphasized. “Reagan had an early start so she wasn't going to hang out last night. She's freaking out about making sure everything lands in place and nothing is disturbed for this trip. So if you see something suspicious, stop that shit in its tracks before it gets to her. She might lose her mind otherwise.”

“Yeah, of course.” Brad sat up straighter.

“Whatever you need, man.” Graham clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We want this team to be successful, and we don't want her to get fired. She's nice to look at.”

Greg growled, and Graham chuckled and settled back in his own seat.

Brad leaned in closer. “You having any problems with the whole dating-someone-close-to-the-team thing?”

“No,” Greg said with a laugh. “That was your problem, not mine. We're adults. She's already given it the okay, and we're good. But thanks anyway.”

Brad scowled. When he and Marianne, the team's athletic trainer, had first started seeing each other, they'd hidden their romance, concerned it wouldn't look good to others. Instead, the romance itself hadn't been the problem, but the secrecy. “Yeah, well, shut up. Not all of us are perfect, Higgs.”

“I know. Not everyone can be as lucky as me.” He
grinned as Brad threw him a glaring look. “Get over it, Marine. You got the girl, so move on.”

“I did, and I am. Just wanted to make sure you weren't walking into the same trap I was.” His roommate shrugged. “But since you seem to have it all under control, mazel tov.” Brad slipped earbuds in his ears and closed his eyes.

Brad thought he had it all together? Ha. Not even close. He was a ball of nerves around Reagan, not that he'd let her know that. She had enough on her plate without worrying about a nervous Marine. She'd make that her problem, too. No, he was nervous not because of the team, or boxing, but because of her.

He'd never held off this long from sex when he'd really liked a woman. Not that he'd been a man whore either, but when they'd both felt the urge, they'd taken the plunge.

He felt the urge with Reagan, in a big way. But it was what that urge combined with more than lust that had him holding back. He wasn't prepared to make a mistake with her. Normally, he was of the “live and learn” philosophy when it came to mistakes in life. But with Reagan, there was an extra layer of caution in their dealings. As if both were afraid that a single mistake, no matter how small, might shatter the tentative bond they'd been building.

The only bright spot was that she seemed as aware of it as he was. And was just as reluctant to make a misstep as he was.

That did not, however, solve the problem of when they would actually take the next step in their relationship. Would she be ready soon? Or not until after their season was over?

Please, God, not that.

He could be a patient man, but even his patience had limits.

He watched as Reagan stood to reach over the next seat and ask Marianne a question. Her laugh caught the ear of several Marines, and they all turned to watch her speak.

Yeah, look all you want. But she's mine at the end of the day, boys.

He'd just have to walk them past the point of fear and into certainty to make it happen.

16

R
eagan knocked on the final door, closing her eyes for a moment and praying the inhabitant answered while wearing pants.

The door cracked, and a young Marine poked his head out. “Hey, Ms. Robilard.”

“Hi, Jonathan.” She smiled. “Everything okay? You have everything you need for tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He grinned, but didn't open the door wider. For that, she was grateful. “You doing bed checks? Coach Ace was already by like half an hour ago.”

She held up the clipboard. “Just part of the service here with the Marine Corps boxing team. I'm in 112 if you need anything.”

He nodded, then closed the door quietly. She made a check mark next to his name, then started walking back down the hallway. Counting with her pen, moving down her list, she did her best to estimate how long it would take to do a wakeup visit to everyone in the morning. If they had to be up by six thirty, then she'd need to start at—

She didn't have time to shriek as an arm whipped out from seemingly nowhere and yanked her into a room before shutting the door. She gathered enough oxygen to gasp, but not shout. A hand covered her mouth and she started to bite down . . . until she recognized the scent. Then her eyes adjusted to the dark room, and she identified the outline of the man pressed against her.

“Meph?” she managed to get out.

The dark figure chuckled. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn't want you to sound the alarm before you realized it was me.” His hand dropped away, smoothed over her frazzled hair and down to cover her still-frantic heartbeat. “Easy now.”

She took a deep breath in and out, then repeated the gesture until she felt confident she wouldn't vomit or pass out. When her arms felt strong enough, she punched Greg's biceps as hard as she could with her left hand.

Given how he laughed, it felt more like swatting at a fly to him. Damn the man.

“You suck so bad,” she bit out, then tried to bend down to grab the clipboard she'd dropped. But he wouldn't let her budge. “Greg, stop. I have to get back to my room.”

“You will . . . eventually.”

“Greg,” she protested, but stopped trying to fight when he kissed her. She couldn't think when he did things like that to her mouth. He played with her tongue, traced the edge of her teeth, swallowed her little moans and gasps of pleasure as his hands cruised up and down her body.

“Greg,” she finally managed to gasp as his lips worked their way from her mouth to just below her earlobe. “Greg, we can't. We're here for work.”

“I'm not working right now. Are you?”

She kicked at her clipboard, barely nudging it an inch. “I should be.”

“You know what I love about you and your obsession with heels?” he asked, completely ignoring her protests. “They put you right at the best possible height to kiss.”

“Which was my intention, of course,” she said dryly, biting back a moan while he sucked on her earlobe. “Gre . . . oh God. Okay, you have to stop that.”

“No,” he said, then gripped her butt and pulled her to him. On instinct, she wrapped her legs around his hips and clung.

“Oh my God. Greg, you can't carry me like this. I'm too heavy!”

“Bullshit.”

“Put me down,” she hissed, then gasped when he dropped her. She bounced on the bed once and then was covered by his hard weight, pressing into her. She cradled him, her hips opening in welcome before she even realized what she was doing. “We can't.”

“We can.” He kissed her, while using his fingers to undo her suit jacket buttons.

“We shouldn't,” she tried again.

“We should.” He pushed the jacket off her shoulders, rotating her until he could peel it off and toss it aside.

“We could get fired,” she whispered as he traced the lace of her camisole tank. Its neckline was high enough to be business appropriate, but when he dipped his finger down under the lace, it felt far less than decent. It felt decadent.

“We won't.” He pressed a kiss in the center of her breast bone, moving the tank down with him. “Are you going to do a bedroom check on yourself?”

She thought about that for a second. Was it worth the risk that someone might need her? Was this man worth it?

Before she even knew she was doing it, she knocked on the nightstand twice. “Reagan? Are you in there? Yes, I'm here.” She grinned. “All set.”

“God, woman.” He kissed her hard, ending with a playful smack. “You kill me.”

*   *   *

GREG
had realized, as he'd sat in his small private room that night waiting for Reagan to finish bed checks, that the
problem had been him all along. He'd been pushing back the inevitable for so long, it built up to a bigger deal in his mind than it needed to be.

So the solution? Get back to the basics. Take back what they needed to begin with. What they needed . . . was each other. And they needed each other tonight.

He pushed her tank up to rest just above her breasts, then leaned over and kissed the spot between each rib. She squirmed, but he didn't relent until he'd driven her crazy.

“Greg,” she whined. “Greg, don't tease. Please.”

She ripped off her camisole and tossed it in a corner. He nearly chuckled at her impatience. But the sight of her gorgeous bra stopped him from laughing. As serious as the woman was with her shoes, she put equal dedication into her underwear choices.

The bra was like a cupcake, with how gorgeous and pretty it sat there. Black, like her suit, but with threads of silver highlighting a flowery pattern throughout the cups that molded over her generous breasts. And each side topped not with a cherry, but a sweet pink bow.

“Tell me,” he said, pausing to swallow. “Tell me you are the kind of woman who matches her underwear sets.”

Catching the hitch in his voice, she smiled like a woman who knows she has a man caught in her traps. “A woman like me, going out without matching underwear? Unheard of.”

“Amen,” he said, and reached under to unsnap her bra. The cups relaxed enough for him to remove the bra entirely, and he rubbed a thumb over each pink line over her creamy flesh. “Why do you wear it so tight it presses in on you? Seems like it hurts.”

“Curse of the curvy girl.” As he passed a thumb over one nipple, her eyes closed in bliss. “Gotta keep it tight enough so the girls don't escape.”

“That's not very nice.” He pressed his lips to one particularly dark pink line in apology. “Sorry, girls. I'd let you free way more often than she does.”

“Are you talking to my boobs?” She laughed and swatted at his shoulders. “Weirdo.”

“But you like it.” He took one tip in his mouth, ran his tongue over it, and felt her sigh of agreement. Moving on to the second breast, he did the same, and placed the palm of one hand over her racing heart.

Her hips thrust up, grinding against his stomach with every suck, every tug of his mouth. He knew what she wanted, but she'd have to wait. He did, however, reach down and pull on the zipper to her skirt, giving her the chance to wriggle out of it. Her bottoms did, in fact, match the bra. Another confection waiting to be delved into.

She moaned, then lifted her legs to kick her heels off. He wanted to ask her to keep them on, but too late now. But when he leaned back to take in the entire picture she made in nothing but her panties, he realized he didn't miss the heels as much as he thought.

Quickly, before she lost that look in her eyes, he undressed and grabbed a condom from his bag. When he turned back around, he found she'd stripped her own panties off and had tossed them aside. Sheathing himself, he slid back on the bed and nudged his way between her thighs.

“We waited way too long for this,” she breathed as he nudged the head of his penis against her opening.

“My bad.” He pressed in, and she moaned. “Yeah, definitely my bad.”

When he was fully inside her, he forced himself to stay very, very still. Absorb as much of the sensation of her surrounding him as he could. As she writhed beneath him, trying to get him to move, he watched. Her skin glowed in the weak light. It was pearly, the purest sort of alabaster that sun had barely touched. Marred only by the lines from her bra—
poor boobs, trapped in your prison day after day
—he couldn't absorb enough of her.

Then she rolled her hips, squeezed him deep inside, and he was screwed for waiting. He moved, and she found his
rhythm perfectly, wrapping her legs around him, pressing her heels into the backs of his thighs as he pushed and pulled.

He nuzzled against her neck, inhaling her scent. Imprinting the moment when she smelled like jasmine, looked like heaven and felt like sin. Her hair, loose from its normal twist, tickled his nose and made him want to laugh.

Why? Why had he been denying them both this moment?

Because you wanted to make sure there were more to follow.

He ground into her, pressed hard enough that his pelvic bone rubbed against her in a way that had her jolting, like she was coming out of a dream. “That, oh God, more of that.”

“The lady asks, and I deliver.” He did it again, and barely managed to bite back the smug grin when she moaned and her eyes rolled back with pleasure. That, right there, was the biggest compliment a man could receive. And getting it from the woman he wanted to impress more than anyone else? Priceless.

“Yes, please . . .” She gasped, and he kissed her, absorbing as much of her sexy sounds as he could. No telling how thin the walls were, and though he wouldn't give two hot damns who knew, he wouldn't have her embarrassed.

Before long, he knew he was a goner. The pulsing of her walls around him told him she was just as close. Balancing on one elbow, he maneuvered around enough to reach down one hand and caress her clit.

That touch was the catalyst she needed to explode. Head thrown back in exultation, she bared her throat to him. He kissed against the rapid pulse point, fighting to finish with her. Just as she tilted her head back down to capture his lips, he followed her into his own climax, muffling their groans together as they kissed and their bodies erupted.

*   *   *

GREG
rolled so Reagan was splayed over the top of him. She was no lightweight thanks to her height, but her weight
felt good pressed against him. He liked the reminder that she was with him, and not going to just fade away, as if their lovemaking were only a dream instead of a real event.

“I've got to be crushing you,” she moaned, but didn't move. “I couldn't care less, though.”

“Shut up,” he said mildly, and kissed the top of her head.

“I suppose,” Reagan said, tracing a hand over his shoulder, “I have to disclose our relationship now to my supervisor.”

She said it with all the excitement of a woman walking in front of a firing squad. “You could skip that, but it wasn't the best idea when Marianne and Brad tried that.”

“I know.” She sighed again. “It's just my supervisor isn't really my biggest fan right now.”

“Speaking of your biggest fan, that'd probably be me. How could I not be your fan after you did that thing with your hips where you—” He muffled a laugh as she kissed him to keep him quiet. “Sorry. Slipped out.”

“Uh-huh.” She glared at him, then snuggled into the crook of his neck. “I could just stay here for a day or two.”

“Fine by me.” His fingertips walked a path up and down her spine, starting at her neck and ending right above her butt. Each time he circled that little dimple of skin, she shivered. “So the real question is . . . are you going back to your room now, or in the morning?”

“Now.” She started to push off his chest, but he held her flat against him. “Greg, I have to. I don't have clothes here.”

“Sure you do. I'm positive I took some clothing off you at some point this evening.”

“Any
fresh
clothes,” she corrected, looking exasperated. “Men. Only they would think you could wear the exact same outfit two days in a row and nobody would notice.”

“We do it every day,” he pointed out. “Nobody says, ‘But Greg, you wore those cammies
yesterday!
'”

“I'm going to ignore that.” She sat up and ran fingers through her hair. She looked up, disgruntled, when they snagged in a snarl of hair. “I also don't have a brush, or anything else I need
to get ready in the morning. And I refuse to do the walk of shame ten minutes before I'm doing wakeup rounds.”

“Task master.” He sat up himself and kissed her shoulder before hopping over to grab his boxers. “Fine. Get dressed and I'll walk you down to your room.”

“You will not.” Looking about as offended as possible while still buck-ass naked, she rose up on her knees and let her jaw unhinge itself. “You're not walking me back. I'm five rooms down. I can manage myself, and it's much less suspicious if I do it alone.”

“But we're not hiding the fact that we're dating,” he said reasonably. That, he knew, was his first mistake. Being reasonable with a naked female.

She glared, then started gathering up her clothes. She'd gotten as much as she could when she walked into the adjoining bathroom and closed the door sharply.

“Okay, then.” He picked up his jeans, then changed his mind and turned the air up in his room. It had been comfortable . . . but that was before he'd gotten sweaty in the sheets. When the door opened a few seconds later, he turned and found a wet dream standing in the opening.

She wore her skirt, her bra, an unbuttoned suit jacket, and bedroom hair. Her feet were bare and she was scowling at him.

“Hold on. Don't move.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I need to commit this to memory, so when I'm ninety-two and I can't remember my birthday or my middle name, I can still remember what you looked like just after sex.”