She quit resisting his grip. "Of course. You're right." Monica turned to the makeshift disc jockey stage on the luggage return belt where Private Santuci prepared to fire up his next tune. "Thanks for a great party, Private. It was good to have a piece of home here."
"Yes, ma'am." He spun a CD on a finger, concert T-shirt with BDU pants declaring his heavy-metal preference. "We're on the road so much these days, why put life on hold? Gotta be 'me' and live my life even in a crisis or I'd never get to be 'me.' Know what I mean?"
Monica stilled under Jack's hand. "Yes, Private. I've been thinking the same sort of thing myself lately. Thanks for the affirmation." She turned to Jack. "All right, Cobra, let's blow this pop stand."
Whoa. That sounded a little like the old Monica who didn't shut him down with defensiveness. She stared back at him, frenetic need scrolled across her green eyes with streaks of hot amber. Just like during sex.
With his defenses already blasted to hell, memories ambushed him—of those eyes flashing while she was under him. Beside him. Less soft and more demanding over him.
He wanted more from her. But at the moment he couldn't remember why he wasn't willing to settle for sex while he waited. "Okay, then. We're outta here."
Jack made tracks for the hall. She started up the stairs ahead of him, controlled military steps with her hint of a sway that always sucker punched his libido.
He followed. Caught up. Beside her. Silently as they passed a security cop patrolling the halls. Colonel Cullen hauled ass past them on his way back to the Ranger party to check on his men, so intent on his destination he barely nodded.
Around the corner, closer to her room, Jack kept pace, prayed like mad his conscience would quit yapping at him until he could bury himself in Monica and find the reliable release they both wanted and, hell yes, needed tonight.
She unlocked her door, stepped inside and turned to wait. Invitation obvious.
Conscience nipped again. "Monica, if I step into your room, we won't be talking. I want you to be absolutely sure—"
Monica jerked him into her quarters and slammed the door. "Quit talking and start acting."
"Yes, ma'am." He flattened her to the flimsy metal panel, squashing his conscience in the process.
Then he couldn't think at all, just feel Monica's mouth open, hot and hungry under his. Her hands clamped him closer, harder against her as if trying to crawl into him when he knew damned well she'd gotten under his skin long ago.
It had always been this way with them, intense. Immediate. Explosive sex with guaranteed blow-your-mind satisfaction beat the hell out of the tougher prospect of talking.
She yanked his zipper down, farther along the full length of his torso until she could unfurl the length of her hand to his throbbing erection. Throbbing? Hell, what an ineffective word to describe his pounding need to have her.
If there just weren't so many clothes between them.
The flight suit offered easy access for her to get to him, but damn it, the uniform impeded him from getting to her. Into her. Where he needed to be now, because he was seconds away from screwing her where they stood.
He might be far gone—hell, he was far gone— but he wanted her still speaking to him afterward. Unlike the last time she'd been this upset.
Jack inched back, sucked in air. "If you don't want to finish right here against the door, say something fast. I've got about one minute's worth of restraint left in me to throw your sleeping bag on the floor for us."
"Here suits me just fine." She slid her hands from him, clasped them over her head in a sensual arch that notched his blood pressure. "Take off my clothes. I want to feel your hands against my skin when the clothes are falling away. I want to be able to watch you as you see me."
No mistaking that. "I like it when you get bossy."
One hand slid from above her head to scratch down the open vee of his flight suit, deeper, a hint too hard. "I am not bossy. Just assertive and damned determined to be in control of my destiny." Her finger trailed lower until she snapped the waistband of his boxers.
He knew there was a reason he should stop to analyze what she'd just said, but she grabbed his wrist and molded his palm to her breast. Her fullness filled his hand, dragging his other hand up for more.
Air thickened in the room. Breathing became optional. Touching, however, became essential.
Her hand roved lower. Her fingers tucked inside his boxers, found, cradled the weight of him in her hand, stroking again and again, her thumb gliding over the head with a familiarity of just what brought him to the edge until he almost came in her hand.
Jack clamped her wrist. Her other hand slipped past and he stopped it, too. Pinned both to her sides against the door.
"Not yet." His mouth found the crook of her neck where it met her shoulder. "You're always in such a rush and I'm not ready to finish yet."
"Then we'll start again."
Start again. With Monica. His mind pushed thoughts through the red haze of lust almost blinding him. Almost.