Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Only then did he allow himself the final thrust that would send him flying into the mist. Rena's husky voice and sighs, right there with him, steered him through the haze. Damn, but he loved listening to her.

Shuddering, he gathered her close, his face still in her hair. How long? Who the hell knew? Finally the world, concerns, their son, his work—the promise of Rena's talk—all started echoing through the fog to drag him back. And he would deal with all of it.

He knew his duty, never cut out on responsibilities, always kept his word. But for right now, the world could just shut the hell up, and Rena's talk would have to wait.

He reached for more of the total escape he could only find in his wife's body.

Sprawled on top of her husband on the floor, Rena tried to ignore the dark cloud edging into her brain. It had to be because of Chris's mess. Not because of anything to do with J.T. They'd made progress. They were both on the same page now about talking, working to improve things.

Then why was she afraid of tomorrow?

Their legs tangled, she listened to the percussion of his heartbeat in her ear. "The Astroturf must be giving you a serious case of carpet burns."

"Worth it."

"We could go upstairs," she felt obligated to offer even as she yearned to stay here, in the moment.

"In a minute," he growled, his eyes still closed, hands warm on the small of her back. "Don't want to think enough to walk yet. Not sure I could put my shorts on to head that way anyhow."

She swirled a finger through the hair sprinkling his chest, his skin slick with sweat. "It's cooler upstairs."

His eyelids snapped open. "Ah hell, I'm sorry." Bracing her waist, he sat up. "I didn't even think about how uncomfortable this must be for you. Let's go."

He stared back at her in his lap, his gray eyes intense, resigned and fortified for what would come next.

Déjà vu left her swaying, transporting her to nearly four months ago when he'd worn that exact same heartbreakingly intense expression. Just before their final argument that had sent him walking.

Her throat closed as if to hold back words and the possibility—probability—of a repeat showdown. Something she couldn't face yet with her emotions so bare. Vulnerable.

To hell with getting cerebral right now. Surely she could enjoy the physical nirvana of just lying with J.T. after bow many hours she'd dreamed about touching him, tasting him. "No, really. I'm okay. I wanted to make sure you're all right." She tickled his chin with a lock of her hair. "Let's stay here a while longer."

"How much longer?" He nipped the tip of her finger.

She wriggled until her knees landed on either side of his hips. "As long as you can last, flyboy."

"Now, what man could resist that challenge?" He cupped her br**sts while she rolled her h*ps until he throbbed hotter, harder against her. He lifted, shifted, guided her down.

So what if this was a reliable delay to their talk? It was an incredible way. And she would get around to doing the right thing soon enough.

Damn. She hadn't changed one bit in twenty-two years. She was still totally at the mercy of her body's craving for this man.

Right now she wanted to enjoy the shimmering sensations and connection and a blissful moment when she was absolutely certain they could work things out because they couldn't have something this perfect that wasn't meant to be. They couldn't deny this connection for the rest of their lonely lives.

Yes, she understood it was carnal and elemental, but this wasn't just sex. It was almost as if when reason, defenses, human foibles and stupid, stupid pride fell away, their souls recognized each other at the most simple level, so right. Mates. For life.

She wanted to believe they would make changes this time, but her wary heart couldn't escape a fearful sense brought on by years of experience with this man. That as soon as the sweat chilled on their sated bodies, they would hurt each other again.

Chapter 13

Morning sunlight streaked through the bedroom curtains, throwing lacy patterns on the walls. A familiar enough image for J.T., but one he hadn't experienced in nearly four months. Not in this room, with his wife curled against his side. Naked. Something he intended to enjoy for a few more minutes before life intruded.

J.T. stroked her arm, watching the digital clock blink away minutes. They'd never gotten around to a conversation the night before, and he couldn't say he regretted the delay.

He'd braced himself for the discussion, even to the point of planning where it should take place. At the kitchen table with a bowl of peach ice cream. He hoped the ice cream would remind her of happier times and soften her up before the tough talk.

Only, she'd faded into one of her pregnancy narcoleptic naps. He'd wrapped her in a quilt, scooped her up and carried her to bed. If he'd even considered sleeping elsewhere, she'd put an end to that with a groggy arm around his neck pulling him down to join her.

Fair enough. No need to ask him twice.