Falling for the Marine (McCade Brothers 2)

“Wanna tell me how this”—he gestured to her—“happened?”

One light eyebrow arched and her mouth twitched. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Humor me,” he said, though it was clear from the twinkling eyes that she already was.

“The guest of honor canceled this evening’s celebration at the last minute, due to extreme, Tijuana-induced drunkenness. Then the key”—she jangled her wrist in the cuff—“fell down there, into the vent.” She stretched toward the edge of the mattress and pointed between the bed and the nightstand.

The pillow she’d tucked against her rolled off and, though he willed his attention to the floor vent, his eyes said fuck that and took a snap inspection of her slim, nearly naked body.

“My tool kit is in the hall closet,” she went on, absently retucking the pillow. “I’m thinking you can unscrew the vent cover, get the key out, and unlock me.”

Those gray eyes clicked to his again. She didn’t sound particularly bent about being stood up at the last minute…but that was none of his business. The way the lace bra plumped her breasts into a ridiculously opulent distraction above the edge of the pillow? Also none of his business, but much harder to dismiss. The way the matching panties cupped her like a lover? Impossible to ignore.

Everything about her appealed to him. If he’d ordered his own personal playmate, he couldn’t have come up with a better design than what nature had so helpfully packaged int

o one Chloe Kincaid. He cleared his throat and mentally stepped into a cold shower. Life had already thrown him all the complications he could handle at the moment. Even if he had been in the market for a playmate—which he wasn’t—his back pretty much benched him from play.

“Mind if I move this?” he pointed to the nightstand.

“Sure. Do whatever you need to do.” She cuddled the pillow tighter, crossed her right leg over her bent left leg, and rested her left hand on her knee. The position gave her an uncomfortable I’m-holding-myself-together look totally at odds with her casual words.

He moved the champagne flutes from the nightstand to the dresser, finding a spot for them among a terrifying arsenal of girl-stuff: cosmetics, a flea market’s worth of costume jewelry, a rainbow of scarfs, and a few things women always seemed to have but he couldn’t readily identify. No doubt about it, this woman liked colorful things—and plenty of ’em.

The nightstand was heavy enough to remind him he had pain pills for a reason. Despite the warnings from his lower back, he pulled the piece out about a foot. Far enough for him to kneel between the bed and the nightstand and get a good look at the vent. Four screws secured the vent cover over a whole lotta darkness.

He liked his chances of jimmying the handcuffs open with a hairpin or a paper clip better than his odds of retrieving the key from the bottomless vent duct.

He also liked the way she smelled. With his head level to the bed, her scent surrounded and distracted him. Sweet and edible, like cinnamon and honey. He looked over at her—a mistake because, although she hugged the pillow to the front of her body, he now had an eye-level view of the side of her lace-covered breast. Out of self-defense he turned his attention to the foot of the bed and his gaze landed on her toes. A braided silver ring encircled her middle toe. Sparkly, gunmetal polish turned her toenails into little Tahitian pearls. He imagined licking his way up her body, starting with those toes and ending at her soft, pink lips, with lots of stops along the way. His stomach rumbled. Due south, another organ he’d been slightly worried about since the chopper accident sat up and took notice, and damn, it felt good. Hoping to hide both reactions, he coughed, dragged his eyes back to the vent, and shifted until his right knee rested on the floor. Keep your shit together, McCade.

“Can you get it up?” she asked.

He blinked, swiveled his head her way and collided with guileless gray eyes. She meant the key. “Affirmative,” he deadpanned, unable to resist. She rewarded him with a laugh and an eye roll.

“I was talking about the vent cover.”

“So was I, Gutter-mind. But going that route might take a while.”

“Oh.” She recrossed her legs the other way—left over right—and gave him an anxious look. “Time is kind of…of the essence.” He forced his attention away from her crossed knees, and followed her stare to the two empty champagne flutes on the dresser. Ah. The compulsive leg-crossing made sense. She had to pee.

Before he realized his own intent, he reached out and fingered one tumbling, reddish-blonde curl. “Do you have a hairpin?”

Her wide eyes and quick inhale made him worry he’d scared her by giving in to his urge to touch, but then her lips curved. “Who are you? MacGyver?”

His smile broadened, and, dang it, that felt good, too. “I’m reasonably resourceful.”

“There should be one in the bathroom drawer.” Those pretty winter-ocean eyes gleamed and she added, “I owe you a beer if you spring this cuff in the next three minutes.”

“What if I do it in two minutes?”

“Um…I’ll kiss you full on the mouth?”

A laugh rumbled up from his chest and surprised him. “Chloe, you could teach the Corps a thing or two about motivation.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

Her one-bedroom unit had the same basic layout as his two-bedroom, so finding the hall bath took no time at all. The small sink with cabinet resembled the one in his apartment, too, except hers looked like a makeup counter had exploded on it. Could one woman really use all this…stuff? Apparently yes, and then some, because when he pulled open the top drawer of the cabinet, more junk spilled out. He dug deep and, jackpot, found a hairpin wedged into the bottom corner.

All the spit dried out of his mouth the minute he returned to the bedroom. Chloe lay on her side, facing the handcuff. She was trying to wriggle her wrist free, and, in the process, presenting him with an absolutely stunning view of her long, graceful back, her tiny thong, and the most mouthwatering ass he’d ever pondered sinking his teeth into. A small, colorful tattoo rode the upper curve of her left butt cheek. The low lights and flickering candles made discerning the tattoo a challenge at ten paces, but by the time he reached the bedside the lines and flourishes had arranged themselves into a small bird—a hummingbird in flight.

She was a full-fledged feast for the senses…her tantalizing scent, all the colors and textures of her, from the wild cascade of tawny curls to the sexy little tattoo. His mind ran wild for a second. He envisioned climbing onto the bed, ensuring she had a good grip on the headrails, and then covering that bird with his mouth and devouring it while she bucked and squirmed and begged for more. He’d give it to her, until she screamed his name and came against his tongue so epically the only thing he’d taste for the foreseeable future would be pure, unadulterated Chloe.