Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

"Guess you have a point there, babe." His chin fell to rest on the top of her head. "But bottom line, he's old enough to know better. He understands right from wrong, and whatever is going on with Miranda Casale is very likely wrong."

"He was worried about us. He was trying to protect us. That's not how it's supposed to be. We're supposed to protect him."

"And we are. He did come to us—even a little late—but he came clean on his own. He could have kept trying to bluff. I don't know about you, but I'm proud of him for standing up. He had to be scared as hell."

She turned her head to the side, resting her cheek on his chest. "God, you must think I'm a total mess. I'm okay now though. I only needed a second to find my footing again. Thank you."

He didn't let go.

And she didn't argue.

His hands kept their steady pace along her springy curls and against her back, slowing, shifting from soothing to sensual.

Still she didn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything but stand, gripped by his arms and the fire swelling through her as surely as the proof of J.T.'s arousal. "What are we doing here?"

"Nothing yet, babe."

The promise in his deep voice strummed through her. She buried her face deeper into his chest, scent, heat. "But we're going to?"

"I sure as hell hope so." He tipped her chin until she looked up at him. "But not if it means you're going to send me packing tomorrow."

She couldn't stop herself from asking, "You would hold out to stay because of the kids?"

He cupped her face, in both hands. "I would hold out so I could stay and have more time to fix this mess we've made of our lives."

Could they be "fixed," like the house or the car? She couldn't sort through it all now with her mind awash with worries for her son, her body craving the reliable comfort only J.T. could provide. And even though he'd avoided answering her question about staying for the kids, the fact that he wanted to try sent hope– and fear—lancing right through her.

Her fingers splayed across the ridged bands of muscles along his chest. "How about we cut a deal?"

"A deal?"

She smiled up at him playfully, even while the magnitude of her risk threatened to buckle her already wobbly knees. "I won't pitch your weights out on the lawn tomorrow, if you'll promise to talk to me. Really talk to me—after."

It wasn't a promise of forever. And the problems would still be there—everything from the lengthy separations brought on by his job, her temper, his hang-ups about her paycheck. But this compromise would pacify her irritatingly insistent logic enough for her to jump this man before she combusted with lust.

"If that's what you want."

She blinked, stunned by his easy acceptance. "You agree?"

His intense gaze shifted to a sensual smile to match hers. "But then I'm a guy. I'd promise to dance down the flight line in a tutu right now."

Much-needed laughter bubbled, a welcome reminder of one of the things that drew her to this man—the surprise humor he saved for just the right moments.

Even as his blessed sense of timing had attracted her, so did his innate honor. This man would never lie to her. The promise of that talk offered her pride and common sense enough hope to let her body do exactly what she so desperately wanted.

Her forty-year-old pregnant body.

A moment of insecurity flickered. Then his eyelids went to half mast, silvery gray eyes gliding over her with an icy tickle that heated, excited. She knew. He definitely wanted her body, no matter what the age or pregnancy state.

Relief sweeping over her to bury any doubts deep, she brushed her lips across his collarbone. "Do you still like it when I do this?"

J.T. clenched his fingers in his wife's wild curls, the weight bench pressing against the back of his legs a welcome brace at the moment. A jolt of white-hot lust bolted from that patch of skin on his collarbone straight to his groin.

Hell yeah, he still liked it when she did that. His body shouted a resounding Go for it, while his brain insisted, Don't forget how often sex screwed things up.

And not the good kind of screwing.

He should take his time, do some more of that talking now to be sure she really wanted—