Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

A growl rumbled low in his chest, the instinctual sound of primal possession he couldn't have stopped if he wanted to—and he didn't want to stop anything.

Apparently, neither did his wife.

She melted against him, her arms slung over his shoulders, her bracelets cool against the overheated skin along his neck. Her body flowed over his while she kissed him with all the sweet passion she'd poured over him twenty-two years ago the first time he'd persuaded her to join him in the back seat of her BMW.

Heaven help him, he would have more restraint now than he'd shown then. Even if her soft hands were crawling into the neck of his flight suit with hungry persistence.

Still in control. He could take this a little further. No problem.

Slanting his mouth over one corner of her lips, then the other, he lowered her back onto the seat, careful to keep his weight off her, for the baby, for her fragile frame. Although her hands felt anything but fragile in their strong grip on his back, his wildcat wife's fingernails digging tiny moons into his shoulders.

He deepened their kiss, explored the warm moistness of her, wanted to explore more, now, sooner, but damned if he would screw up this chance by rushing. She wriggled closer, soft body and softer br**sts driving him freaking nuts. He had to touch her. More of her.

Any of her.

He stroked up her side along the loose blouse. No objections from his wife. He skimmed his hand forward and palmed her breast. A groan of contentment rolled though him in sync with the sigh escaping from her lips into him.

She arched to fill his hand, rolled her shoulders so his touch became a firmer caress. Pregnancy plumped her br**sts and damned if he hadn't forgotten how it also increased her sensitivity, something they'd enjoyed to the fullest in those early days of marriage.

What a waste not to make the most of it now, and he was anything but wasteful.

He worked his thumb back and forth over the peak straining through even a bra and thin cotton, tugged it gently between two fingers. She nearly came up off the bench seat. Rena's breathy, needy whimpers encouraged him to charge ahead. Her h*ps rocked up and against him. She wrapped a leg around his hips.

Still in control? Barely. And fast on his way to not at all. Hell, forty-two years old and he felt as horny as at twenty. So desperate to have this woman, so tempted to let the past replay.

But even then he'd known it was wrong. He was wrong for her. Still, he'd lost his hold on reason the first time Rena—totally hot and caught up in the moment—brushed a hesitant touch over the crotch of his flight suit.

Like now. Except not in the least hesitant this time, instead confident in exactly what turned him inside out with wanting her.

Stop. He had to stop if he ever wanted a chance at more. And he definitely wanted more.

He kissed once, again, drawing away in increments, a man addicted to the taste of her and unable to make a clean break. All the more reason to pace himself.

He lifted his head and found a new resting place against the velvet skin where her neck met her shoulder, a spot he happened to know turned her inside out.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, her touch anchoring him and making him fly all at once. She pressed her cheek against his head. "I'd forgotten what a great kisser you are until you reminded me this afternoon. And now."

"I'm not sure whether to be complimented or insulted, babe."

"Definitely complimented."

"If I was that great you wouldn't have forgotten."

"It's just been so long."

"Only three months." And he remembered everything about her from that time. The shape of her hip under his palm. The taste of her skin. The flowery scent of her shampoo that reminded him of all her flowers filling the dark, empty places in their lives.

"We stopped kissing a long time before that, J.T."

Hell. Turbulence ahead. And he didn't have a clue what to say next. He'd pretty much blown his wad on sensitivity with the comment just before she'd kissed him. "I kissed you, damn it."

Crap. Sergeant Sensitivity? Not.

She stiffened under him, shoved against his shoulders. "Obligatory pecks on the cheek on your way out the door don't count. And when we had sex, we pretty much went from smoldering looks to clothes off in under two seconds."

Time to shift tactics. Humor maybe. He angled up and off her. "Hey lady, are you accusing me of being a quick trigger?"

"You know better than that and don't try to change the subject." She smoothed her skirt back into place, running her thumb along the waistband. "I'm actually having a bit of an epiphany moment here and I would like to play it through if you don't mind. Besides, weren't you the one who said you wanted to talk today?"