Falling for the Marine (McCade Brothers 2)

Her fingers brushed his palm as she took the pills, and he flashed back to that afternoon, at the clinic, feeling those fingers of hers running all over his shoulders and back. An instant twitch in his shorts told him there was nothing impaired about his reflexes.

“Step two—wash them down with the magic green juice.” He handed her the sports drink he’d placed on the counter.

“Uh-uh,” she groaned. “One sip of that stuff and I’ll hurl for sure.”

“Nah. I’ve put the magic green juice to the test more times than I care to count, and it never lets me down. Plus, it’s loaded with electrolytes. You need them.”

She looked at him as if he was asking her to swallow live cockroaches with bilge water, but tossed the pills in her mouth, chased them with a swig of the Gatorade, and made a face. “God, that’s nasty.”

He fought a smile and lost. On top of margaritas and stomach acid, it probably fell short of the refreshing lemon-lime citrus splash the bottle promised. Feeling for her, he reached out and brushed her hair off her forehead. “Drink half and I’ll backfill the bottle with water.”

She took another big gulp and swallowed before answering, “What’s step three?”

“Step three is the most magical step of all.” He dug into the drawer below the sink, withdrew his hand with a flourish, and handed her a new toothbrush, still in the box. “Toothpaste is on the counter.”

Those beautiful, pink lips curved into a grateful smile as she accepted the toothbrush. “I love you.”

The words came out soft and heartfelt, which he knew was part of the joke. But in his imagination, he heard her saying the phrase again, in a breathless, husky voice as he emptied himself inside her.

Disconcerted by the detour his brain took, he forced a laugh. “Yeah, I know all about your kind of love.” But now he had the image of them stuck in his head—her writhing under him, panting his name—and a completely out-of-line hard-on that wouldn’t back down. Time for a little more distance than his bathroom afforded. He stood, held out a hand, and pulled her to her feet. The forward momentum caused her to bump into him, and the slight impact of her breasts against his chest sent his dick surging. Still playing with fire, McCade.

One glance at her face settled him a little, because she was clearly fighting just to keep her eyes open. While he watched she yawned and rubbed the heel of her hand over her forehead.

“Brush up, drink some more of that,” he pointed to the Gatorade, “and make yourself at home. I’ll get your purse. Be right back.”

Her “Thank you,” followed him out of the bathroom.

It only took a few minutes to retrieve her bag, but total silence greeted him when he entered the apartment.

“Chloe?”

She didn’t reply. He dropped her purse on the counter and absently rolled his shoulder as he stepped past the kitchen and dining area, and into the hall. A few steps later, he saw her—sacked out on his bed. Good girl, he thought when he spotted the empty bottle of Gatorade sitting on his nightstand.

He pushed the door all the way open and walked in. She laid on her side, facing the door, her amber-honey curls curtaining her face. She’d folded her right arm across her chest, pushing her breasts together so they swelled above the neckline of her top. Her long, white skirt twisted around her, exposing smooth, tanned legs. If he’d been a painter, he would have pulled out his easel and brushes, captured her in oils, and called it, “Venus Sleeping Off a Rough Night.”

Instead he touched her shoulder. “Chloe.”

Her only answer was a light snore. Well, shit. Talk about playing with fire. Still, he’d been trained to answer when duty called, no matter how steep the personal sacrifice. He slipped her shoes off and resisted the temptation to run his hands along her arches, up her calves, and…focus on the mission, marine.

Right. Her clothes were a little worse for wear, but he could probably let her sleep in her skirt and sweater. Even as the thought went through his head, she flopped onto her back. The long, flowy skirt tangled around her, and, with a frustrated sound, she kicked in an effort to free her legs. Okay, fine. He’d help her out of her skirt, go take a cold shower, and bed down in the second bedroom he used as an office.

Luckily, the skirt had a stretchy waist so he didn’t have to turn her every which way trying to find clasps and zippers and whatnot. He simply curled his fingers under the waistband and pulled it down and off. She woke up enough to help him by raising her hips and then settled back against the bed, with one arm flung over her head and the other across her stomach, wearing just her formfitting top, and the pink thong forever etched in his memory from their afternoon encounter at the massage clinic. She made another aggrieved sound, and, before he could figure out what was disturbing her, she wrestled her sweater and bra over her head. He caught the flash and sway of her perfect breasts, and then she turned onto her stomach, drew one leg up, and snugged into the bed. The sweater and bra tangled around her arm like a bulky bracelet, but he barely noticed because he couldn’t seem to tear his attention away from the hummingbird.

The longest, coldest shower in the world wouldn’t fix this. New plan. He tugged the sweater and bra off her arm, carried her clothes to the laundry closet in his hall, and dumped them in the washer. After adding some detergent, he set the thing to go and walked back to his bedroom. The tattoo greeted him like a colorful sentinel, taunting him with everything he couldn’t see, and definitely couldn’t touch.

A quick dig through his dresser drawer produced a clean T-shirt. She was a head shorter than him and half his weight. The damn thing would cover her like a tent.

He sat on the bed beside her. “Chloe, wake up a sec. I have a nightshirt for you.”

“Wha?” She rolled onto her back, giving him a bird’s eye view of her breasts. The skin there was shades lighter than rest of her, soft and strangely vulnerable. Her nipples tightened against the cool air of his bedroom and saliva pooled in his mouth, as he remembered the sweet taste of those hard, incredibly responsive peaks. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth together. When he thought he could risk it, he opened his eyes and looked down at her, surprised to find foggy, heavy-lidded eyes staring back at him.

“I’m going to help you sit up and put this T-shirt on. Is that all right?”

She nodded.

He eased an arm around her waist, careful not to touch anywhere that would torture him more than he already was, and lifted her into a sitting position. Immediately she closed her eyes and turned into his chest. “Oh, that’s bad.”

“What’s bad?” He pulled the shirt over her head.