Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors 7)

Steam filled the truck's cab. He shifted the truck into park. The packed parking lot of empty cars offered a pseudo sense of solitude in spite of the public locale, blue minivan on her left, an RV on the right, even a Humvee in front of them. Still, he didn't reach for her.

But his hands shook from the restraint.

Rena launched into his arms. Couldn't help herself. No surprise.

Did he meet her halfway? She didn't know, and with his lips and hands finally on her, she couldn't think or reason. Only feel. Savor. His touch licking fire through her veins.

He palmed her back, molded her against his solid body, soft br**sts yielding against hard chest.

And taste, oh, the taste of him as she explored the warmth of his mouth. Talk about cravings. One apparently he suffered from, as well, his tongue delving deeper, sweeping, heating. She could almost forget they were in a public lot.

Rena inched closer, her calf-length skirt tangling around her legs, scrunchy fabric rasping against skin suddenly over-sensitive to the least sensation. How incredible it would be to park somewhere private and toss away inhibitions, pretend they were both twenty-two years younger.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders. Eased her back, broke their kiss, but not the touching. His forehead rested on hers. "God, babe, I've missed you."

Her eyes stung and she knew full well it had nothing to do with pregnancy hormones. "I've missed you, too."

She started to slide her arms around him again. Surely they could hug without getting arrested for a public display. She reached, her bracelets jangling to her elbow. He pulled away.

What?

He opened the door. Where the hell was he going? For the first time in months there was a hint of real emotion and he decided they should head on into work.

She longed for one of his books to throw. Breathe. Think. Don't let the angry, passionate—pained—emotions clamoring through her reign.

Rena clamped a hand around his arm. "Hold on a minute. Jesus, J.T., you throw that land mine in my lap, clam up and then wonder why I explode."

Tension rippled under her fingers. "I'm not going to fight with you today."

"I don't want to fight." She really, really didn't want to fight at the moment. But a public parking lot wasn't the place for what her body demanded. "We were talking. That's good. Why do we have to stop?"

His smoky gray eyes brushed her lips as surely as his kiss, lingered, finally fell away. A long exhale cut the silence before he swung his feet back into the truck. "Okay, fine. We'll talk. We never did come up with anything concrete about Chris, anyway."

Her hands clenched. She didn't want to talk about their children. She wanted to hear more about how much he'd missed her. And why. Silly, frivolous words, considering her age and how long they'd been married.

All the more reason they were better off talking about their children. Safer for them. Safer for her heart.

J.T. slammed the truck door. "I'm not sure what's up with the boy anymore. I have tried to talk to him. Guys just approach things … differently."

"Guess that's why men have more heart attacks than women."

He draped his wrist over the steering wheel. "I'll try to talk to Chris. If you have any ideas for conversation starters, I'm not adverse to listening." His gray eyes lit. "Then I can translate them into manspeak."

"Manspeak?"

"Sure. You've seen those lists that float around on the Internet. Guy says 'uh-huh' and it means—"

"It means, 'I'll agree to anything if you'll quit blocking my view of the football game."'

"Busted." He grinned.

"So if I asked Chris if he's upset and does he need to share what's bothering, you would ask…?"

"Something pissing you off?"

"Or if he's suffering from any anxiety about his parents splitting?"

"You okay about everything?"