Grace Under Fire (Buchanan-Renard 14)

She traced his lower lip with the tip of her tongue and whispered, “Now?” a second before his mouth covered hers. By the time he ended the kiss she was begging him not to stop.

“You’re going to love this,” he promised.

The man was nothing if not truthful. She could barely keep her arms around his waist when he finally gave in to his own need and thrust inside her. Though it didn’t seem possible she climaxed again when he did.

Could making love kill her? With Michael it just might, she thought.

He turned her and pulled her close, her head on his chest as he gently stroked her back. Even though there weren’t any sweet loving words, his caresses were enough. Isabel considered herself a realist. She knew that down the road, if she ended up with a broken heart, it wouldn’t be anyone’s fault but her own. She didn’t want to think about the future now. She wanted to savor every minute of the night with Michael.

She tried to get out of bed to get something to drink, but Michael wouldn’t let her move. He got both of them bottles of Coke. He even poured hers into a glass with ice. Like a man who had just taken a brisk walk through the desert, he guzzled his drink, and when it was empty, he drank most of hers.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she said. There was less than a sip left in the glass.

His response was to laugh. He got her another Coke, then sat back against the headboard, looking perfectly content to be stark naked. He was such a distraction she couldn’t concentrate on what he was telling her, so she pulled the sheet up.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” She scooted up and sat next to him, leaning into his side.

“I said your cell phone is charging,” he repeated.

“Thank you.”

“That son of a bitch called you three times while you were onstage.”

“Which particular son of a bitch are you referring to?” she asked sweetly.

“James Reid,” he said. “I let the calls go to voicemail.”

“His sales pitch is turning into harassment. He must be getting a big commission.”

“Want me to talk to him?”

“No, I can handle it.”

“Tell me about this land you’re going to inherit.”

“Why would I do that? You don’t share anything personal with me.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Baby, I just shared my body with you. Can’t get any more personal than that.”

He had her there. “You know what I mean. You always close up on me whenever I ask anything about your personal life.”

He didn’t argue. “What do you want to know?”

“How did you get those three bullets in your back?”

“I was shot three times.”

He was being flippant, but she wasn’t going to push him. If he didn’t want to tell her, she would let it go. He was proving her point, though. He closed up whenever she asked anything personal.

“It’s like talking to a tree stump,” she remarked on a sigh.

He laughed. Another minute passed, and then he said, “I was on a mission. That’s when I got shot.”

“Navy SEALs?”

“Yes.”

“You were in Afghanistan, and before you ask, I heard your father talking to you.”