Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (27 page)

And a toned stomach she vowed she would explore soon.

Some vaguely rational part of her brain also realized he was using this time to give her a chance to adjust to the newness of this moment. To the newness of a naked man's body in front of her.

His boots settled beside the chair next, followed by his pants until he stood only in his military-brown boxers.

Impatience jabbed like hundreds of tiny needles against her skin. No more of his slow adjustment time. She wanted to see all of him. Now.

His thumbs hooked in the waistband. "Last chance to walk away, Yasmine."

Instead she walked toward him, clasped her hands over his to urge his shorts down and off. Then she really looked, followed the broad bare chest down to where his skin lightened with a tan line. Lower.

Her breath hitched in her chest. Nerves increased the pin-prickly sensation. Okay, apparently there would be some serious adjusting going on for her soon.

He flung his shorts and uniform pants over a chair. A flash of color snagged her eye. She used the distraction to steal a moment to steady herself.

Rose silk? She reached past him, hooked her finger on the hint of pink fabric peeking from his pocket and trailed it free, inch-by-inch, like the magic show on the cruise she'd taken with her parents...

Her scarf.

Her mind raced back to the last time she'd worn it, how she'd linked their hands while they'd kissed. He'd kept it.

A heady rush pulsed through her, something alien, exciting. Powerful. Her insecurities vanished. "You kept my scarf?"

"I guess it's a good thing this attraction is two-sided." He echoed an altered version of her words from before.

"That it is, Colonel." She draped the length around his neck, tugged his head down to hers. "That it most definitely is."

He did not speak, but the presence of her scarf secreted away in his pocket was reassurance enough.

Interesting how being desired heightened her own desire all the more.

Drew stared down at the unmistakable passion smudging Yasmine's near-opaque eyes and knew he was being a selfish bastard to allow her to give up her first time in the crap confines of cramped military quarters with a guy old enough to be— Hell, he didn't want to think about that.

And damned if he could walk away from her now.

All the rage and loss from a hellish day demanded release. Hard. Fast. In a warrior's roaring need to conquer. Win.

He might be selfish, but he wasn't an animal. He could, would, rein himself in enough to make sure she received the gentle treatment she deserved. He might be taking, but he would damn well make sure he gave her something in return.

Backing her toward the cot without breaking the warm drugging draw of sweeping her mouth with his tongue, he reached behind her to snag the pillow, fling it to the floor on top of the discarded sleeping bag.

He cradled her to him, lowered her, dropping to one knee, his hand extended past to slow their fall until he guided her to rest in the fabric folds.

Never had an Army-issue bedroll looked so damned good. As a backdrop for Yasmine's dusky-naked beauty it was goddamned masterful.

Control inched further away with a painful throb.

She stared back up at him with trusting eyes, her fingers twisted tight in the splash of pink from her scarf.

Her hair pooled around her, glossy dark on the white pillow.

Kneeling over her, he worked the silken length free from her grasp. He might not be much with pretty words, but he sure as shit understood a thing or two about the subtle nuances of pleasure he would like to teach this woman.

He hooked her scarf on one finger, the two tails trailing. Slowly he grazed the edges over her shoulder, along her collarbone in a gentle never-ending swipe that raised goose bumps on her skin while she watched him. No objection came from her mouth, just the soft rush of a contented sigh that rippled silk.

His path continued, lower to skim the tip of one hardened nipple the exact same deep rose color of the fabric between his fingers. He repeated the scarf's trail further, over her belly, down one leg and up the inside again until he stroked to the vee of her legs. Even as the all-over blush spread across her, she didn't tell him to stop.

Then he retraced his course with the scarf, followed by the caresses of his free hand. And once more. This time with his mouth skimming, nipping just after the gentle swish of silk against silkier skin until he found his way back up to her lips again.

One elegant arm stretched up around his neck, languid, her fingers gliding along his shoulder, tracing every muscle, following down his arm...

To steal the scarf from him.

Her Eve-smile gave him all of three second's warning before she stroked down his chest, her hand covered in the scarf. Down. Down. Until...oh, yeah... damned if she didn't drape the scarf over his erection, deliberately, wrapping the silky length around and around.

She folded her fingers over it, encircling him, stroked. "Am I doing this right?"

His head fell to rest on her shoulder, his breath ragged. "Yeah, I think you've got the right... Yeah."

A woman with intuition and imagination like this could rob a man of his will to breathe. The combination of her hands on him and the smoky, exotic scent all around him stirred him too much, too fast, for a man his age, damn it.

Scooping the scarf from her along with control, he rolled onto his back and positioned Yasmine over him.

Hints of maidenly embarrassment, a sense of awkwardness flickered across her face. "Uh, Drew, isn't that uncomfortable for you—"

"After twenty years in the Army, I've grown accustomed to hard ground." He made fast work of tearing open the condom and sheathing himself. "Hell, the sleeping bag makes this downright cushy compared to some gigs."

"But I'll squish you." She fidgeted against him until he gritted his teeth to combat the sensation.

"Lady, I've jumped out of planes carrying gear heavier than you."

He stroked from her breasts to clasp her waist. Her muscles tensed beneath his hands into a sheet of nerves in contradiction to her encouraging smile.

"Trust me." He massaged gentle persuasion along the slight flare of her hips until she relaxed under his hands.

His hold firm, he guided her down. Stopping. The first touch of her moist heat against him battered his better intentions. Her impatient wiggle threatened to send him deeper, faster, when he knew well they needed to take this initial entry slow, careful. Excruciating.

His muscles trembled more from the effort of holding back than from holding her until finally he breached the thin barrier. Her wince, followed by instinctive tensing of internal muscles had him tensing in return, clenching back the surge of pleasure from her vise grip around him.

Again he forced himself to wait until she relaxed under his caresses before moving, thrusting, all the while watching her watching him and finding in her eyes an echo of what he felt certain scrolled across his own.

Heat. Need. Pleasure.

He moved with her as she discovered her natural rhythm and grace here, as well. Then they found the pace and style unique to the two of them together. Moving with and against each other in the darkened room until perspiration sheened her smooth skin, sweat beaded along his brow. And he knew that soon, damned soon, he wouldn't be able to hold back any longer. But he wasn't going solo.

Reaching between them, he stroked her where their bodies joined. Her head lolled forward, her hair sliding past her shoulders in a black curtain.

He increased the pressure, allowed himself to thrust harder, quicker, until the increasing rise and fall of her rose tipped breasts reassured him she was seconds away from finding her...

Release.

A moan built, swelled up from her mouth in a torrent of foreign words as a fresh wash of goose bumps swept her flushed skin. She trembled beneath his hands, and again until slowly her lashes slid open and she peered at him through her curtain of hair with astonishment.

He stared up at her staring back down at him. What did she see in his eyes now? Her hand glided from his chest to cradle his face. She smiled and she moved, some sort of instinctive womanly roll of her hips against his.
Hell.

His restraints tore, sent him plummeting hard and fast like tripping out of an airplane into the wide-open sky, all the more surprising since he damned well should have more control at his age. But who the hell was he to argue? Instead he let the all-out force whip over him like the wind against his body in a free fall that just kept pulsing over him because of this woman.

Yasmine.

His hand still between them, he stroked high against her slick folds again, intense, deliberate until she joined him this time. Her spine bowed, her head falling back until the tips of her hair swished along his other hand bracing her waist, sending another jolt of pleasure shuddering through both of them.

Finally she crumpled onto his chest with a purr, as well as an exhausted sigh that stirred masculine satisfaction. Along with a hefty dose of confusion over how one woman could shift everything so quickly.

He'd set his course long ago when Glenna walked out on him, dragging their daughter and any sense of family along with her. Sometimes when a man heard a calling as strong as his, he had to choose. And he'd opted for the Army and nights camped out on nothing more than packed earth rather than the comfort of a wife's bed.

With the hard ground under him and soft Yasmine over him, he wondered if maybe a man could have the best of both worlds after all.

Monica rested her head against the shower wall and watched the blood-tinged water swirl down the drain.

Any residual hold over her shredded emotions spiraled away, as well.

She'd lost patients before. Not many. But it happened and it was never easy. Yet this one tore a new hole in her heart.

Rocked her confidence.

Her grasp on the threads holding her world together was slipping away faster than the water down the drain when she prided herself on controlling her destiny. Her science, scalpel, boots, it was all about being in control of her world on every front.

What a joke. She controlled nothing. She couldn't save Santuci. She and Jack were still a mess. She might be here for Sydney, but she sure as hell wasn't saving her. Jack was taking care of that. She hadn't ever felt this out of control, except when Sydney was captured.

Or had she?

Water chilled on her body. She'd felt exactly like this the day her mother left. The day Cheryl Lynn Hyatt clicked off Saturday morning cartoons to explain to her girls why she couldn't be their full-time mama anymore.

Anger steamed through Monica hotter than the water scouring her skin. Strange, but she hadn't felt even a fraction of this much rage when Hunter had issued his final ultimatum after her job wrecked their wedding plans for the fifth time.

Was she truly unable to commit as Hunter had accused her of? Had she led Hunter around by the nose for four years as Jack said?

She shut off the water, sagged back against the wall and tried to scavenge the energy to step out.

The shower door popped open instead. Jack filled the void, wearing a flight suit and a face full of worry.

How had she missed him entering her room? Some warrior she made today.

A big towel in hand, he waited, not a normally expected wisecrack in sight. She was too soul weary for modesty. A ridiculous notion around him, anyway.

He backed to give her room to follow, then wrapped the towel around her, pulled her against him while the fluffy cotton soaked up the water on her skin.

Her cheek rested against the steady percussion of his heart. "Jack, I can't have sex with you. Not tonight."

Not now when she was so out of control.

Oh, hell. Had even sex with Jack been about control for her? She'd controlled the relationship in the early days since he was chasing her. And heaven knew Mistress Monica had been in control in the chair.

Still, she couldn't think about sex with Santuci's blood, his death, still all over her. "I wish I could, Jack. God knows I'm wound tight and could probably use the release. But I just...I can't."

"I know." He walked backward, leading her into the room. Holding her firm with one arm, he reached with the other to pull a sleep shirt out of her suitcase. He tugged the jersey over her head, tugged one hand through, and then the other. "Sleep."

Her eyes strayed to the floor where they'd slept tangled in each other's arms before and wasn't sure she could even open herself that much without revealing too many wounds right now. "Is this really such a good idea—"

Jack scooped her up, strode to her cot and set her down. He lifted her feet and slid in under them to sit before dropping her legs into his lap.

Not sleeping against each other. He'd offered her an out, a way she could keep her distance so she didn't fall apart, while still being there for her.

She sagged back into her pillow. "Thank you."

For being here. For understanding she was so damned messed up she couldn't even accept the comfort of sleeping in his arms.

He started a firm massage along the arch of her foot. "There's nothing more you could have done."

"I know. He bled out. That simple."

His strong grip worked her ankle in a slow rotation, and damned if he wasn't peeling back layers of protective covering until her eyes prickled.

She flung her arm over her face as a barrier against tears. Instead her blank eyelids provided an empty canvas for memories of picking up the patient's field medical card to check his prior treatment. Seeing the name. Recognizing it. Looking up to the blood-covered face she'd been unable to identify before, and back at the card again.

"Oh, God, Jack, his name was Pete. Day by day, he was Private First Class Santuci. But right now, all I can remember is that his mama named him Pete."

"Doctor or soldier, we both work in jobs that take too many lives too young. Hearing their names is what keeps us human."

And also tore her apart.

Jack kept rubbing, and while her ache didn't ease, at least it was back under control. Thanks to Jack. He wasn't an easy man to be with, but she couldn't deny there was so much wonderful about him. If only she could open herself up enough to accept it.