Mary Had a Little Problem (5 page)

“Let yourself go, Mary,” Brock whispered, sipping at her earlobe. “Let yourself feel.”

“I can’t,” she choked out, a cry for more rather than less, a practical fact she couldn’t deny. Her body longed for this, perhaps even a deeper connection, a more satisfying moment. And while she said she couldn’t, denied that she might, her lower half bumped against him.

“Shh…” he crooned, working her body from side to side, his hands caressing her back.

Brock most definitely planned to take what he wanted. He was that kind of man. He had nerves of iron, each of them strewn tightly together with intense arrogance, compliments of the military and the men who proudly represented the red, white, and blue. Special ops were a different breed indeed. Women who loved them often considered them men with special needs. They were often gone for months at a time, and when they came home, they tried to make up for lost time.

These men probably never processed a potential “no” because they never faced an opposition too great to overcome. Fellows like Brock saw rejection as an invitation to pursue, so they planned their attacks prior to an approach, certain they’d never be turned away.

A low moan slipped from his lips. “You like being close to me, don’t you, Mary?” Again, he moved with her, dragging her body as he swayed, letting her feel his strength, the rigid length pulsing against her.

Her sex was hot, pure fire. Her clit was swollen, throbbing.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, daring her.

Mary’s heartbeat quickened. She didn’t want him to stop. She didn’t necessarily want to take the next step, but she damn sure didn’t want this to end yet. “I can’t.”

“You can’t because you don’t want me to,” he said, nipping at her bottom lip.

“No, I mean I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. You
are
doing this,” he reminded her, running his fingers over an extended nipple protruding through the thin clothing.

She gasped as the sensations he stirred made her aware of her sex, of the desires she’d pushed aside for far too long.

“You could come,” he promised, whispering across her lips. “Just like this, Mary. Ride me, sugar.” And with that, he grabbed her hips, hoisted her into his arms and secured her legs around his waist, pressing her back to the wall at the same time. Then, he bumped against her, ground his lower half against her mound, and worked for the release he assured her she could take.

“That’s what you need, baby,” he said softly, gripping her bottom with both hands. “It’s only foreplay, Mary. I’m not inside you. I’m not where you need me to be…yet. There’s no harm in getting turned on, excited. Use me, honey. Let me please you.”

Mary twisted in his arms. She wanted this. Then, she didn’t. She needed him, but she shouldn’t. She was in love with her husband. She didn’t know this man. She owned no rights to him, no certain claims, nor did she want them.

But that didn’t stop her. She squeezed her legs against his and arched her neck, accepting the kisses he spread over her chin and jaw before he moved lower. She jerked as his tongue dipped under the low-cut material.

“I can’t,” she rasped again, shaking her head, knowing she could, understanding then that with a little persuasion, she would.

“You will. I’m right here, Mary,” he assured her. The oral pampering halted long enough for him to search her eyes. “I’m here now. I’m exactly what you need. Grab hold and hang on tight to what you’ve got right this minute.”

He kissed her, his tongue settling between her lips. The smooth way he used his tongue sent her spinning, and the raging need continued to build. She longed to defy her body, but realized then with the lust building, pushing him away was next to impossible. They’d gone too far. He’d gotten her too hot, too bothered. Oh God! She was coming apart.

“Brock!” she cried out his name as his body secured hers. He grabbed both her hands, thrusting them high above her head while pressing forward, rocking to and fro as he dry humped her against the wall. She panted and whimpered. She thrashed around as he moved her closer and closer to orgasm.

The curtains were open. Anyone could see them. What the hell was she doing?

She writhed under the weight of his body, her head moving from side to side as he took a deeper, more fulfilling kiss. And that’s when she lost all control.

Chapter Four

Brock’s lips were like fire and ice. They brought pain and pleasure. He licked at the texture, taking his own sweet time kissing her, and maybe that’s what she needed. Perhaps he was giving her time to push him away, and this was some sort of test. He dragged his mouth against hers, placing feather-light kisses across her cheek until he reached her ear.

“This is probably your last chance to say no,” he said, pulling one arm down and leaving her hand at his belt.

His rapid pursuit then came to a sudden halt. They were locked in a telling moment. They’d reached a crossroads, and Mary wasn’t certain which way she wanted to go. Her body said one thing. Her heart whispered another. Her head didn’t even have a ball in this game, which made decision making difficult.

“I’ll never hurt you,” he promised. “You have no reason to believe that, but trust me—I’ll never bring you pain.”

“Why would you say that?” Mary asked, gathering her senses.

Brock eased away from her. His wild eyes softened as he placed a palm to her cheek. “I know what I’m feeling, and I’ve never felt anything like this before.” Prior to that moment, Mary would’ve guessed that Brock was the kind of man who took what he wanted then made a woman grovel for the rest of her natural life. Only now, she wasn’t so sure. He acted as if he were sincere, as if he really wanted to get to know her.

Well, too damn bad. She wasn’t going to be a soldier’s woman again. She couldn’t allow herself. She’d built a life on false promises, on dreams she couldn’t pursue alone. Besides, Mary still loved her husband.

“Is there something wrong?” Brock asked.

Yeah, there was something the matter. She was looking at him with wide wonder, asking herself what she’d missed, and knowing the answer to the multi-faceted question all along.

“This is against my better judgment.”

“I don’t bite, Mary.”

“That’s what they all say,” she retorted bitterly, slamming the door she should’ve closed earlier. Out of impulse, she locked and latched the deadbolts. Immediately, she regretted what the gesture represented when she saw how Brock’s hooded eyes followed her hand.

“Are you afraid here?”

“Habit,” she explained, heading for the kitchen. “Can I fix you something to drink?”

“Sure, I’ll take a beer if you’ve got one,” he replied, shoving stiff fingers through his short hair.

She opened the fridge, pulled out the bottom drawer, and handed Brock a bottle. “You got something on your mind, soldier? I mean outside of groping another man’s wife, is there a reason you came here?”

“You’re another man’s widow, Mary. You aren’t obligated by vows anymore.”

Mary flinched. “What do you know about marriage vows?”

Brock’s upper cheek twitched. “Not much. Not yet.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’re allowing me the opportunity of your company. If you don’t want me here, ask me to leave.”

“I want you to go,” she said weakly.

He stalked her. “Not good enough. Say it like you mean it.”

Mary cleared her throat. “I don’t want you here.”

Brock looked around the small kitchen. His gaze darted between the kitchen table, the pantry, and the double ovens. “I’m not going anywhere until you convince me you want to be alone.”

Silence overtook them. The soft hum of the window air conditioning unit was the only sound in the room. Finally, Mary said, “No one wants to be alone.”

“You don’t have to be by yourself, Mary.”

She laughed at that. “What? You think you can save me?”

“You don’t need saving. You may need some loving, but saving? No, you’re strong enough to pull yourself together. You just haven’t made up your mind to do that yet.”

“You act like you know me. You know nothing about me.”

Brock took a deep breath. “Maybe not, but there’s something I need to tell you. Maybe after I say what’s on my mind, you’ll feel a little differently about me.”

Was this the point of no return? Should she have found the courage to ask him to leave and watched him go? Why was he looking at her as if he were ready to confess his sins? Who was this man, and why did she find herself inexplicably drawn to him?

“I knew your husband,” he blurted out, walking toward her and allowing the beer bottle to swing at his side. “I knew Luke. We were both on a special assignment in Afghanistan.”

“Which tour?” she asked, her heart threatening to break. Was this the reason Anna had introduced them? Had her sister known Brock was the answer to Mary’s prayers? Did he know what had happened to Luke in the final hours of his life? And if so, why hadn’t he just said so? Why had he come into her home and seduced her, and what kind of woman in love allowed herself to be swept away by another man in the first place?

Brock bowed his head.

Mary swallowed hard. Her eyes were burning. Her mouth was dry. Her pulse flew at an uneven rate. “Which tour, damn you!”

Was this a cruel joke?

Brock narrowed his gaze on her chest. Couldn’t the damn pervert respect the man beside whom he’d fought? He was standing in a dead man’s home, talking to a widow of someone he most likely once considered a friend, and he couldn’t keep his lust-filled eyes from taking a fieldtrip?

He took a step forward, then another one. She backed up two paces then sat down at the kitchen table. She pointed at the chair across from her own, but she couldn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say.

“I was with Luke three days before he died,” Brock informed her, taking the seat next to her rather than the chair that she’d indicated. “Luke was my friend, Mary. We were like brothers from the moment we first met. No one in the field was as trained as we were, and we each had our strengths, enough to carry our teams, if that was what we needed to do. We had a mutual respect for one another but we didn’t take ourselves or each other too seriously so we were buddies, best friends.”

Mary could see where that was possible. She noted the strong similarities.

Brock’s eyes held hers.

“So you knew him well, and that’s what you came here to tell me?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap while thinking she’d been played from the very beginning.

“This last tour was classified and—”

“I really don’t care about the government’s special missions. Were you with my husband when he died?”

“No,” he deadpanned, his gaze burning through her until she became quite uncomfortable.

Gaining the strength she needed, she leaned forward and asked, “Why did you come here? Did Anna ask you to do this?”

“No, Anna doesn’t have any idea what I need to say to you.”

“Which is?”

“I feel like I know you.”

“You don’t,” she assured him, standing.

He took a drag from his beer. “Yes, I do, Mary. Luke was always talking about you. I know how and where the two of you met, what your favorite pastime was—outside of morning sex, which he told me day after day was most definitely worth rising early for—and I know about his dreams for the life he wanted to spend loving you.”

Mary cried out. Cupping her hand over her mouth, she turned away from Brock. Was this guy some kind of weird stalker? Did he pursue the widows of men he’d known in combat? Did he feel like it was his duty to be there for the women of fallen soldiers? If so, then by God, with a body like that, she imagined a lot of gals would appreciate the personal sacrifices he made for his country.

“Luke was my friend. If he’d survived this tour, I have no doubts that you and I would’ve met, and we would’ve become good friends, too.”

Mary left the table and nervously fumbled through the cabinets for the final letter she’d received from Afghanistan. When she couldn’t find the one she wanted, she faced Brock again. “You were in the last photograph, weren’t you?”

“The tall goofy guy in the back row, wearing a wig with dreads? Yep, that would be me.”

She returned to her search, opening cabinets and drawers, scouring for what she was sure would put some of her questions to rest—a letter, note, picture, or something. “Was it a costume party?”

“A bet.” A second later, he added, “I lost.”

“No, you didn’t. You were the only survivor. All those men in that picture—all of them except you—they’re all dead now. Did you know that?” A sob escaped her lips, and she turned away, trying her best to gain some composure. “So I guess you weren’t the biggest loser, were you?”

Brock stood.

Mary’s body went stiff as he approached her. “Luke, he was uh, he was always sending me these ridiculous snapshots. He wasn’t much for writing letters, but he’d send a photograph with an inscription on the back.” She shuffled through mounds of mail once again. “I have it here somewhere.”