He stared outside at the red brick building for so long, she thought he wouldn't answer her. No surprise. However, she was mega-surprised by how much she wanted that answer.
Finally, he turned, resigned, like a man heading to the gallows, scouring guilt over her for having sent him there. "You want more words, Rena? Here they are. In this case, the snapping then and now means a guy is horny as hell since he hasn't been with a woman except for one weekend in six months. It means he misses coming home from work to his wife, being able to slip up behind her, wrap his arms around her, fill his hands with her breasts. Fill her body with his."
The steam came straight off her overheated flesh this time. He missed her, missed what they had together. And even as she knew they needed so much more to hold it together, it felt so good to know he'd found some comfort, happiness, something in their life together.
He cupped her chin, his touch not quite gentle, but then the emotions stinging through her were anything but gentle. "It means he's damn tired of life being so complicated. But it is. And he's got to deal with it the best way he knows how, which means keeping things uncomplicated."
His fingers threaded up into her hair. "And we both know, babe, sex between the two of us is never uncomplicated." He drew his hand back, gentle, insistent, tugging against tangling curls, long, slow. "Sex for us is intense and messy and mind-blowing."
Her breaths came in heavy bursts of need, nerves along her scalp tingling with awareness. If he leaned forward, she would kiss him again. Let him kiss her, maybe more, because his words touched her as firmly as his hands.
But he didn't kiss her. "And we both need a clear mind now more than ever."
He pulled away. Left her again. A few months ago she would have cried. Or raged. A part of her wanted to now.
Except as she watched him retrieve her crutches from the back of the truck, she couldn't help but wonder what two-thirds he'd left unsaid. And was she really ready to hear what else she might learn from deciphering his "manspeak" when they climbed back into the truck again?
Chapter 7
Who would have thought he'd prefer a chemical-warfare class to making out with his wife in a parking lot?
Saluting a passing officer, J.T. strode up the walkway toward the brick and brown building, late-afternoon sun beating down on his shoulders. Damn it, but Rena had wriggled under his skin and made him say more than he wanted. His trump card in their relationship had always been keeping his cool. Weathering the storm.
Somehow he'd managed to walk away a few minutes ago without giving in to the predictable urge to distract her with sex. Even with that out-of-control kiss of hers, he knew she would do a ninety-degree about-face once they took the edge off their frustrations.
She would start asking more of those chick questions. If he stayed quiet, he pissed her off. If he answered, somehow he came up short of what she wanted.
So he would go slow, soften her up since, no doubt, his prideful wife wouldn't easily get over his leaving. And with a cargo hold full of luck, they wouldn't die from hormonal overload.
He pushed through the glass door into the building, the full blast of air-conditioning catching him in the face. The soft echo of his boots on the industrial carpet echoed along with the low-pitched rumble of voices, ringing telephones, computer chimes.
From one of the rooms stepped Spike, his spiked hair longer than his previous buzz now that he wasn't undercover. In keeping with his regular OSI position, he'd exchanged the flight suit for khakis, a sports coat, and a palm tree-patterned tie that never stayed tight enough. Not exactly the normal look for an OSI agent, but Max "Spike" Keagan got the job done. His way. "Hey, dude. Are you on the schedule for chem-warfare update?"
"Heading that way now."
"Me, too. Thought I'd listen in." Spike slipped into pace alongside him. An easy man to hang with, the guy was as comfortable with silence as J.T.
They'd worked well together during the weeks training the OSI agent to pose as a loadmaster for the infiltration into the American base in Rubistan. Regs kept Spike from holding the crew position solo, but he knew enough to look credible when flying along with another loadmaster. No doubt Spike had picked up some additional tips from his pilot fiancée.
J.T. cleared the door into the room packed with aviators, tables in front of them littered with gas masks. Two more tables lined the front of the room with stacks of training carbon filters, a couple of training chemical suits. A mannequin stood propped in the corner, outfitted in the full gear.
C-17 squadrons didn't fly with set crews except during wartime or special operations, but allegiances gelled all the same, as could be seen by the seating choices. J.T. found his boots carrying him back to the corner with Scorch, Bronco, Crusty, Joker, Cobra…
And, God help him, motormouth Gabby, a six-foot-two-inch wiry guy in constant motion like a kid on sugar overload. Apparently Gabby had raided a Pixie Stix factory today.
"Hey there, sir, glad you could make it. How's your wife? Her foot doing any better? Sorry to hear about your totaled car, but good thing nobody was hurt bad, sir."
Swinging his gas mask up onto the table, J.T. averted his gaze from Scorch—smothering a laugh with his hand over his mustache. For some reason Gabby insisted on calling him sir no matter how many times he reminded the kid he wasn't an officer. Sarge would be fine. Or his call sign, Tag. Call signs were a universal leveler in the air to build a more cohesive team while flying. "My wife's doing better, thanks. She had to pull some office time, so I figured I'd work in the class, after all. Saves me having to make it up later."
Scorch leaned back in his chair, the Ivy League creases in his appearance and flight suit not the least diminished by his casual sprawl. "So she's getting around okay?"
"On crutches, yes sir."
"Glad you've been able to stay on the schedule with night flights." Scorch nodded. "We need you around here."
"I can pitch in extra," Gabby interrupted, "anytime you need time off or whatever. I'm always looking to log more flight time."
"Thanks." J.T. didn't bother arguing because it was a non-issue since the kid didn't have anywhere close to the security clearance needed to fly these missions.