Major Attraction (5 page)

She wrapped her arms around
sweetie's
flat waist and sidled impossibly closer. Was that a tremor she felt go through him? Or her own body's involuntary response?

“What'd you say about me in that notebook?” Now Juan was addressing her. “It ain't cool to lead a man on like that.”

“Lead you on?” J.C. puffed up. “I told you I wasn't interested and you planted a kiss on me like that was going to change my mind.”

“That's when I decided I'd had enough.” Her rescuer had the most deliciously possessive timbre in his voice. “I'm the only man who gets to kiss her. Now beat it while you still can.”

“I'm sorry, honey.”

Sorry?
What was Mr. Tall, Blond and Built apologizing for?

Oh.
Honey.
The lovers quarrel charade. “I'm sorry, t—”

Without any explanation, without any fanfare—without giving her a chance to play her part—he turned her in his
arms, tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her mouth up to receive his kiss.

Alarm bells dinged inside J.C.'s head at the instant spark of raw, pulsing energy that cascaded through her at the touch of his lips on hers. Sheer, masculine power, bathed in untempered desire, assaulted her senses down to her most feminine core.

This was no polite, cover-story kiss. No make-believe apology. This was the physical expression of everything that had passed between them in those silent, heated moments at the bar.

Her breasts crushed against the rock-hard foundation of his chest as his big hands skimmed with needy roughness along everything they could touch. From a sifting tangle through her hair down over the flare of her hips where his long fingers dipped down to squeeze her bottom and lift her inexorably closer to his burgeoning male heat.

J.C. was on fire, crazy with the carnal madness he'd ignited in her passion-starved body. A feverish pressure pushed the tips of her aching breasts to rigid attention. The juncture between her thighs wept with unleashed need.

His lips were firm and demanding, seducing her mouth from corner to corner, and deeper inside. Stroking. Nipping. Asking. Taking.

J.C. clung to his shoulders and wrapped an arm behind his neck, running her sensitized palm back and forth across the erotic prickle of his short, soft hair. Her knees weakened at the unadulterated desire of their embrace. He wanted her. She wanted him. It was as if they'd been destined to share this kiss from the moment they'd been born. If she could crawl inside him right now, she would do it. Nothing less would quench the craving she had to
possess him. To complete herself in the raging wildfire of this kiss.

The deep-pitched moan in his throat was the first reminder that this was insane. As he slowly lowered her and her feet touched the ground, she twisted her body in a last, pulsing bid for orgasmic release. But the fire was cooling.

By the time she came up for air, Juan and his sidekick were long gone.
Sweetie
's hands were scorching the skin on her back inside her shirt. And she was ready to take her research into an intensely personal direction.

“Thank you,” she managed to eke out between swollen, unsatisfied lips that foolishly wanted more. “I guess I got in over my head.”

“You're not the only one.” He touched his forehead to hers, his husky, breathy voice a potent echo of her own.

J.C. smoothed her palms over the sculpted enticement of his chest and pushed some much-needed breathing room between them. “One question.”

“Yes?” His gray eyes opened, revealing beautiful irises dappled with shades of silver and steel and charcoal.

“Who are you?”

S
ON OF A BITCH
.
Son…of…a…bitch.

Ethan swiped a hand across his mouth and flexed his jaw, trying to ease the white-hot fever that ravaged every cell in his body, leaving him feeling raw and unguarded.

Where the hell had that come from? That kiss? That sensual assault? That complete abandonment of purpose and control?

Instinct more than conscious thought had him scanning the parking lot and street beyond to verify that the woman's two assailants had been smart enough to scramble for cover. Not that there'd been anything terrifically smart about what he'd just done.

All clear except for a couple strolling toward a pickup truck. Even the shadows seemed deserted, and the steady stream of traffic on the street running in front of Groucho's Pub indicated no particular interest or threat.

He should be feeling relief that he'd cleared the scene without further incident. But he was still wound tighter than a coil. He
was
the only danger lurking beyond the flash of the neon signs now. He'd been ready to get inside this woman's pants in a public parking lot because her body had proved to be every bit as lush as those lips. Ripe. Soft. Hot. Responsive.

Even now, as she realigned her clothing, her breasts rose and fell with her sharp, sweeping gasps for air. They weren't big, but man, they had attitude, thrusting tips that
were still at attention against the thin cotton of her sweater, begging him to touch. Her lips were a deep, rosy pink, stamped with the evidence of his need. They'd parted to reveal the sweet, soft interior he'd already feasted upon. She was a walking, talking seduction who disrupted every rational train of thought and standard course of action.

He'd just wanted her to be safe. He'd done the possessive tough-guy routine to get those wasted noncoms away from her. But he'd taken it too far. And, damn, if she hadn't gone every step of the way with him.

There'd been nothing tentative in the way she'd opened her mouth beneath his and dug her fingers into his flesh and rubbed herself against him, waking every dormant male hormone he possessed. He'd taken everything she'd offered and demanded more, just like a greedy man who hadn't had sex for one year, four months, two weeks and a handful of days. He hadn't realized how much he missed it. He hadn't been aware how successfully he'd shut down that part of himself to focus on solidifying his career. He hadn't known how much he needed, craved, wanted….

Criminy.
Ethan scraped his palm across the short crop of his hair and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. He wanted to shove his hands into his pockets to stifle the urge to reach for her again, but there just wasn't any extra room in his jeans at the moment. He'd have to do this through sheer willpower. He needed to reestablish control of the situation. Control of himself.

Gritting his teeth to keep anything stupid from flying out of his mouth, he bent his head to evaluate the turbulent shadows in her wide blue eyes.

“Are you okay?” The words snapped out with the efficiency of a dressing-down. He cursed his ineptitude at
conveying patience and concern and tried again. “They didn't hurt you, did they?”

She shook her head, smoothing those reddish brown wisps of hair he'd so thoroughly mussed back behind her ears. “I'm fine.”

Ethan ran his gaze up and down the trim curves of her body, inspecting her for any sign of injury. As she smoothed her sweater down over the waistband of her jeans, he noted that everything looked to be in exactly the right place. And that sure, sexy voice had claimed she was fine, but the tiny line marking the frown between her eyes could be an indication of emotional trauma. Trauma he might very well be responsible for. He wanted to touch that little line—kiss it, soothe it. But he clenched his hand into a fist at his side instead. “I'm sorry.”

She arched one eyebrow at him, replacing the frown with a question. “Our audience is gone. You don't have to keep apologizing.”

“I'm not doing it for show.” He reached around her and picked up her carry-everything-size shoulder bag from the trunk of the car. Shaking loose the kinks from the canvas strap, he stepped back and held it out to her. “I just meant to help. Those two looked like trouble from the get-go. When a man traps a woman, and she's pushing him away…” He briefly considered one of the sick games Bethany had tried to play on him once. Charging to her rescue had nearly held deadly consequences for the sap she'd used to provoke Ethan's protective instincts back then. His fingers tightened around the strap. “You didn't want them around, did you?”

She snatched the bag from his hand and hugged it to her stomach. “God, no. I mean, I can take care of myself nine times out of ten. But they were drunk and this isn't
the best-lit parking lot and…” The sassy bravado in her voice faded. “I'll admit I was a little scared.”

Great. She'd been scared, and he'd shown all the sensitivity of a tank. “I didn't mean to take advantage of your predicament. That kiss got way out of hand.”

“Do you hear me complaining?” There was something reassuring in her teasing tone and gentle smile that curled through Ethan's veins and made him consider launching an assault on those lips all over again. “But I would feel a little more comfortable if I knew your name before we tried anything like that a second time.”

Ethan's simmering libido slammed into his conscience and came to an abrupt halt.
Smooth move, McCormick.
How the hell did he ever think he could pull off a fake engagement if he couldn't even get the basics of dating etiquette right?

Meet the girl first. Find out what they had in common, if anything. Share some drinks, some food, maybe even a movie or, God forbid, a dance.
Then
kiss her. Lips only. Groping and mussing and tongues down throats came way later in a relationship.

He wasn't looking for a woman to get naked in the sheets with, anyway. He needed one who could play classy, ladylike—
engaged
—for a couple of weeks. But Ethan suspected he wasn't scoring any points that would encourage her to say yes to his unorthodox proposition.

Who are you?
She'd been standing there for several minutes, waiting for him to answer her question. Yep, McCormick, ultrasmooth.

“My apologies.” He retreated a step and extended his hand the way he should have in the first place. “I'm Major Ethan McCormick. USMC.”

 

“I
'M
…” J.C.'
S WORDS
choked on an uncharacteristic stutter of incoherent shock.

Uh-oh.

If her fingers weren't locked up in Ethan's firm grip, she would be jumping into her car, gunning the engine and putting distance between them as fast as her little red Camaro could take her.

She absolutely could not like this guy.

But she'd gotten so…distracted.

Major?

What rotten luck!

The best damn kiss of her life had to come from a diehard, career-driven Marine.

Processing the introduction as if he'd just announced he had trenchfoot, she withdrew her hand and hugged her arms around her bag. She made a conscious effort to close her mouth and hide her stunned expression. Disappointment cascaded through her, knocking aside the silly fantasy she'd conjured about unzipping her jeans and doing it right here on the trunk of her car with the big, bronze hero hunk who'd rescued her.

Of course, he was military. Common sense ridiculed her frustrated hormones. What did she expect in a place like this? With a crew cut like his? With that commanding voice?

But that kiss.
Ay-yi-yi.

Those eyes.

God, if he could make her horny just by looking at her across a noisy room, imagine what…

J.C. sighed. What a waste.

“You're a major?” Maybe she'd heard wrong. She tilted her chin and searched the square jut of his jaw, the buzz cut at his temples, that sexy, sexy mouth, clinging to an impossible shred of hope.

He folded his sturdy arms across that sturdier chest and nodded. “Twelve years of service, not counting my Annapolis training. Combat, peacetime, foreign, stateside. I'm currently stationed at DoD, Department of Defense. The Pentagon.”

Impressive.

Awful.

J.C. nodded, politely acknowledging his achievements while secretly cursing the irony of their intense hormonal chemistry. “So you're a career soldier?”

“Career Marine, ma'am,” he corrected. “A soldier fights in the Army.”

Ma'am?
She'd liked
honey
better. Oh, hell. She shouldn't care one way or the other.

“I see. Sorry.” Her father had been a career seaman, a sailor. A career jerk. Plenty of years to fool around on her mother before his dalliances caught up with him. “I guess there is a distinction in terminology among the different branches.”

The major grinned. Or at least, she gathered that was what the shift in the creases beside his mouth meant. “It's a pride thing. I'm sure the other branches are just as gung ho about their nicknames and traditions.”

Ah yes, pride. One of those questionable virtues her father had possessed in such abundance. But extreme pride in the job didn't often translate well into a relationship. She bristled at an old memory of her father jumping her case for leaving sticky finger marks on his white uniform when she'd hugged him goodbye once.
“I can't set sail looking like a bum.”
He'd lambasted her and handed her over to her mother without giving either of them a kiss.
“What were you thinking, Josie?”

At five years of age, she'd been thinking her daddy was
leaving for another six months and that she would miss him.

She'd finally learned to move beyond such juvenile sentimentality.

Breathing deeply to squelch any lingering resentment, J.C. challenged this modern-day warrior on his pride. “Do you always correct people when they make a mistake about the Corps? I'm using the proper term now, right?”

“Right. Marines, the Corps, USMC—they're all pretty interchangeable. Different bases, divisions, units and teams have various nicknames and numerical titles—including a few I wouldn't use in mixed company.”

Though he didn't expound, she dutifully smiled at his effort to make a joke. She had a few names for men like her father she didn't care to share, either.

The major tapped his chest as the lesson continued. “I'm a commissioned officer, meaning I have a college degree and I'm specially trained for command. I go by Major or sir. Those two boneheads who were here earlier were noncoms—noncommissioned officers. Enlisted men. But we're all Marines and we're all necessary elements of the Corps.”

“Wow.” Fount of information that he was, she noted that he'd made no effort to deny the
correction
part. She arched the brow above her right eye, subtly expressing her sarcasm. “Ask a simple question…”

His jaw tightened beneath a rueful frown. “Sorry. I tend to get carried away.
Semper Fi
and all that.”

The Marine Corps motto.
Semper Fidelis.
Always Faithful. To the Corps, that is.

He was quickly sliding back into the ultraserious, all-work/no-play personality she'd observed in the bar. This guy was so career focused that he might not have the time or energy to cheat on his woman. But then, think of that
poor woman who did get involved with him. Work, work, work. From the sound of things, she'd always come in second to his real mistress—the Corps.

Not a stellar recommendation for relationship material.

J.C.'s infatuation with Ethan's kiss began to fade. It surely must have been a fluke. Or maybe it hadn't been that great in the first place. Maybe the quality of Major McCormick's kiss had been enhanced by the danger of the situation she'd been in and her own man-starved libido. This guy didn't have any moves, no clue about flirting.

Ethan shifted in his dark brown loafers, diverting her attention back to the present conversation. Or, more pointedly, the awkward silence her thoughts had put between them. He smoothed one of those big hands across the top of his head, but the wave of dark golden stubble snapped right back into place.

“We never finished introductions. I'm assuming you have a name?” he asked.

“Oh, duh. Sorry.” Disappointment was justifiable. But rudeness she wouldn't tolerate, especially in herself. After all, the major
had
saved her from a potentially threatening and definitely uncomfortable run-in with Juan and Manny. “My turn to backtrack. I'm J. C. Gardner.”

“What does the J.C. stand for?”

“Josephine C…” Her voice trailed off in a hiss of sound as her analytical mind finally burst through the blockade of hormones and emotions inside her.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Golden opportunity.

Lee Whiteley and her readers would eat this up.

J.C. had a living, breathing, dysfunctional research specimen for her column standing right in front of her.

A major could give her a whole new perspective on the
upper echelon of military men. Did a commission make a man a better catch? Make him more honorable, trustworthy, reliable than an enlisted man? Or was the rank just a better cover for his infidelities? Were officers like Major McCormick a bunch of old farts who spouted military rhetoric instead of
I love you's?
Who were more devoted to the Corps than to their women? Did a man accustomed to being saluted make a good lover? Or would he expect that same kind of deference in the bedroom?

Oh, yeah.

Fifty bucks to prove a point.

Making it with a Major: The Inside Story

There was definitely a column here. Or two. Or more.

J.C.'s heart pumped a little faster, quickening her pulse. She bowed her head to hide the smug smile of satisfaction that threatened to erupt, and rifled through the contents of her purse. Her fingers tingled with anticipation as they brushed against her notebook. She breathed in deeply, her nostrils flaring as she schooled her patience and organized her thoughts.