Major Attraction (8 page)

Ethan pleasured her that way until she bucked against his touch. Then he slipped inside her panties and zeroed
in on her hidden, feminine crevice. She was slick and tight and dripping on his fingers.

“Is this okay?” he managed to ask on a stuttered, feverish gasp beside her ear.

In answer, she squeezed his shoulders and lifted herself, granting him access to the very heart of her. Ethan dipped one, then two fingers inside and did to her what he wanted her to do for him.

He found that secret nub, thrust his tongue into her mouth. Her thighs clenched and tiny muscles fluttered all around his fingers. The delicate contractions intensified. J.C.'s breath rushed out. She threw back her head and Ethan gloried in her lusty response to his wicked touch. He twisted his fingers and she buried her face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She dug her teeth into his shirt and caught a bit of the skin underneath, stifling her cry of release as she—

Honk!

J.C. jumped in his embrace as her foot hit the car's horn a second time. “Aagh!”

Ethan quickly removed his hand from her pants and caught her before she fell to the ground. But, startled from the climax of passion, his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. He ended up smacking his head against the car roof and dumping her in on the seat.

“I'm sorry. Damn.” Ethan threw his hands up into the air and stepped away. “I'm sorry.”

“What am I doing?” J.C. huddled behind the steering wheel, her arms wrapped in protective cover across her chest. Her bra strap had slipped off her shoulder and caught in the crook of her elbow. Even in little more than moonlight, he could see she was red from the swell of that barely revealed breast all the way up her neck. What the hell had just happened? How did he make this right?
She flipped on the interior light, then just as quickly turned it off. Her focus darted around the interior of the car. “Where's my sweater?”

“Hell!” One quick glance and Ethan spotted the top on the asphalt beneath the car. Swearing at the pain behind his zipped-up jeans, he bent down and retrieved it. “If it's ruined, I'll replace it,” he promised, handing over the wrinkled mess.

“Forget it.” She snatched the sweater from his hand. He pulled the strap back onto her shoulder, trying to help, but she swatted him away. “I said forget it!”

Ultimately, Ethan backed off. He braced his hands at his waist and tipped his head to the moon, feeling the frustrated hormones rage through his body as his conscience and common sense kicked in way, way too late.

Public place. Possible audience.

And though they were masked by shadows, and the drunk across the way was snoring on a pile of newspapers, Ethan wasn't too far gone to realize the horrible blunder he'd just made.

What had happened to rational thought? Planning? Purpose?

Self-control had vanished as if it had never existed. And if that damn horn hadn't have honked, he would still be making a spectacle of himself—and of J.C.—for God, the spring night, and anyone else in the world to see. So much for discretion. So much for keeping his distance or treating her like a lady.

So much for thinking he could be as casual about sex as his brother Travis seemed to be.

Ethan's lust for Bethany Mead had nearly destroyed his career. It had certainly done irreparable damage to his heart. Josephine C.—whatever her middle name was—Gardner was supposed to be his professional salvation.

But until he got to know her better, until they had the details of their arrangement ironed out, until he could firmly remember that he'd only asked for two weeks out of her life—he couldn't afford to lose his focus or anything else.

Sexual frustration he could live with—if he could get to a cold shower fast enough. But a guilty conscience, professional regrets and blown chances were more than he could stand.

With his manhood still pointing due north, Ethan's brain was finally fully functioning again. Sometime during his self-damning version of a pep talk, J.C. had slipped back into her sweater. Her lips were swollen, her skin red with the depth of his need.

“I'm sorry.” His instinct was to touch her, hug her. But he suspected that was the last thing she wanted right now. “I didn't mean for that kiss to get so far out of hand. Certainly not here. Certainly not on our first night…together.” He swallowed hard and asked the tough question. “We are still together, aren't we?”

She nodded. “I promised you two weeks. And stop apologizing. We're both adults. I wanted all of that…
kiss.
I just didn't realize I'd want it all so soon.” She gripped the steering wheel in both hands and looked at his reflection in her sideview mirror as she spoke. “Apparently that familiar touching thing you mentioned won't be a problem for us.”

Ethan groaned. No problem at all.

And that could prove to be a huge problem if he let this woman and his attraction to her become more important than his future with the Corps.

B
LISS IS THAT
oft-elusive nirvana where conscious thought ends and one is left simply feeling the joy, the passion, the pleasure of the moment. Sure, there's a physiological element to it—increased blood flow, a slight rise in body temp, the release of hormones. But there's no analytical reasoning to explain the rapture that consumes your body; it just is. That's what an orgasm is all about, ladies.

Pure feeling. Pure heat. What a rush.

Bliss. Bliss. Bliss.

J.C.'s fingers froze on the keyboard. She opened her eyes and read the words on her laptop screen. “Oh, God, I can't publish this.”

She highlighted the last three paragraphs of her article and hit Delete.

Leaning back against the pillows of her purple chaise lounge, she scrolled through her laptop screen, trying to find where stream of consciousness had taken over from clinical opinion and common sense. She'd intended to write a cautionary piece, advising her readers to be wary of a military man's dogged determination to accomplish his goal—in the relationship arena as well as against the enemy. She'd included humor with some direct quotes—
“I'll show you my tattoo” and “Women love to see my sword. You wanna?”

She'd balanced her stats about the number of men who'd approached her—including the one who'd worn a
wedding ring, the one who'd offered her a hotel key but couldn't get her name right, the one who wouldn't take
no
for an answer—with a genuine compliment about how fit and healthy each man had been. She'd even admitted that some of them knew a few amazing kissing techniques.

Right there. She pointed to the traitorous, all too personal words on the screen.
Don't misread me here. If all you want is a night of sex, fine. Take precautions and have fun. You'll find plenty of able volunteers to choose from.

But I'm still holding off on recommending these guys for the long-term, ladies. In port, off base, on leave—time is a precious commodity to these guys. When their bulging biceps and overeager efforts to seduce didn't pique my interest, they quickly took their act on to the next available female. It wasn't ME they were interested in. It was the conquest. The chance to get laid. Any woman would have met their need. And we deserve better than being a matter of convenience, don't we?

And, hey, let's be honest, there was really only one kiss out of several offers and a couple of samples that made me want to come back for more.

And come and come…

“Ho, boy.” J.C. shoved her fingers into her mop of toss-and-turn hair and cursed her talent for remembering details.

Vividly.

She'd found the problem.
Kissing in the Major Leagues
had evolved into a testament to Ethan McCormick's sex appeal. Her article had taken a sharp left turn from chatty advice column to true confession, sharing all the juicy details about the way Ethan had made her feel. Safe. Hot. Raw. Orgasmic.

Bliss.

“Idiot.” With a heavy, restless sigh, J.C. closed her laptop. She swung her legs over the side of the chaise and walked to the window to inspect the view, reorienting herself to the real, waking, rosy spring morning. The world was alive outside and warm with the sun that couldn't yet penetrate her glass. There were already rowing crews training out on the river, joggers and walkers exercising on the pathway beside it, cars and their occupants starting their Friday commutes.

She still had on the T-shirt and flannel pants she wore for jammies. Her cooling coffee sat untouched on the table behind her and her usual instinct to rise early and dive into work had abandoned her this morning. After four hours of fitful sleep, she'd finally left the uncomfortable tangle of sheets on her bed and come out into the living room to write.

But her words sounded more like some starry-eyed lover's diary about her first date with destiny than a savvy journalist's perceptive take on the real world of men and women. Instead of warning her readers about grabbing the pleasure of the moment without considering the consequences of the future, she'd gone on and on about her body's wanton, wild response to the major's wicked hands.

J.C. flattened her palms against the cool pane of glass, trying to ease the heat that flushed her skin and mocked her resolve. Her research last night had lacked a definite scientific detachment.

Instead of disproving Lee Whiteley's claim, she'd confirmed the myth that a man in uniform made a great lover. He was ultramale. Potent. Strong in both need and physical abilities.

J.C. was no flyweight. Her love for dancing and long
walks had given her a muscular set of thighs and some generous hips. She liked her chocolate, too. But Ethan had lifted her right out of the car. He'd given her an anchor to cling to while he…while he kissed…while his hand…

Her thighs clenched and her fingertips dug into the windowpane as her mind conjured a jumble of erotic images—some, vivid memories—others, untested fantasies. The desire she'd felt last night instantly rekindled, leaving her feeling all prickly and unsettled, inside and out.

She stroked her cool fingertips across her sensitized mouth, recalling the tactile memory of Ethan's lips. She let her fingers slide down her throat to the neckline of her shirt. Did he have any idea how good he was? She'd had full-blown intercourse with former lovers that hadn't yielded as explosive a climax as the major's hands and mouth had given her.

The big lug had been distant and polite—awkward even—sitting in the coffee shop and getting acquainted. But then he pulled out that kiss, those hands, that magic—as if he was brandishing some sort of secret weapon. And she'd fallen prey to it. Boom. Just like that.

Boom?

“Oh, God.” J.C. backed away from the edge of the windowsill where she'd been rubbing herself. She clutched her hands into fists and hugged them around her middle, praying no one had been watching the unintentional show in the third-floor window.

How pathetic could she get?
Lonely woman fondles self in weak effort to recreate the best sex since
—ever. “You need to get laid, girl,” she advised herself. She needed to get that man out of her system and off that virtual pedestal her hormones had placed him on. She massaged the guilty tension gathering between her eyes. “I need to at least get a life. No wonder Lee worries about me.”

J.C. forced her brain to concentrate on watching the bustle of activity outside. An elderly couple strolled hand in hand down the river's walkway. A family of tourists clumped together, then ran apart, switching positions as they tried to take a photograph with the domed Jefferson Memorial in the background. She looked closer to home, taking note of her building's daytime security guard arguing with a black-haired man over the way he'd parked his car on the curb outside the parking lot gate.

Norman Flynn was a grouchy old codger who would bend the rules for a friendly smile and some home-baked cookies. The dark-haired man could shake his fists all he wanted. If he didn't say
please
and
thank-you
and grease the retired M.P.'s palm with some oatmeal scotchies, there was no way he was getting through that gate.

J.C.'s whole body relaxed into a smile as the first ray of hopeful sunshine broke through her brooding mood. She propped her hands on her hips and breathed in deeply, as if taking in her first breath of fresh, morning air.

Of course. A life. She had one. She just needed to get out of here and get on with it. A couple of miles of power walking should do the trick to get her started.

She dumped her coffee in the sink, packed her laptop in her bag and headed for the bedroom to change. She needed to talk to people. Say hi to Norm. Interact. Reassert her power over her own thoughts and actions. She needed to get back into the moment and get out of the past. The future would take care of itself.

She quickly made up the antique four-poster bed and changed into a pair of running pants and matching jacket. She grabbed her weights and headphones, tucked her keys into one jacket pocket and pepper spray into the other.

J.C. locked her door and jogged down the stairs. Ethan McCormick was just a man. A man who wouldn't commit
to more than two weeks with a woman. Needing her help on his promotion was just a built-in excuse to say goodbye and move on to his next conquest when he was done with her.

If she were to give advice to another woman in her situation, she would say to go for it. Keep your eyes wide-open. Keep your heart in the moment. Take advantage of the time limit and let the man make your body happy for a couple of weeks. Then move on. Take the edge off your desperation to find a long-term relationship.

Ethan himself had said he would give her anything she needed to return the favor of pretending to be his bride-to-be. He'd been talking money or gifts.

But J.C. intended to ask him for something much more personal.

Two weeks of bliss.

She was grinning like the Cheshire cat by the time she strode out onto the riverwalk beside the Potomac.

 

J.C.
GRIPPED THE WEIGHTS
in her fists and swung them in rhythm with the two-step tune playing on the country music station in her ears. In her mind, she hummed along to the Texas anthem, but she was concentrating on her breathing and elevated heart rate. The breeze off the river was cool, tinged with the greenish scents of the thickening grass and budding cherry trees atop its banks. But beads of perspiration gathered at the small of her back and tickled between her breasts as the springtime sun warmed her muscles with its heated caress.

Oh, yeah. She was large and in charge of her world once more. Fit, fine and ready for fun. She'd brainstormed a more succinct, less personal ending for her article. And she had plenty of time to shower and change before her
meeting so that she could drive uptown and find the perfect gown for tonight.

Something elegant and understated, in keeping with Ethan's country-clubbish goals. But something that emphasized her best attributes. Her legs? Cleavage? Let's see, what did Ethan like? J.C. giggled like a naughty schoolgirl. She could hardly emphasize
that
in public! Maybe she should just go for easy access, or—

Suddenly a man's hand clamped around her arm and dragged her out of step.

J.C. screamed as she stumbled against a wiry chest. “Let go of me! Hel—!” A sweaty palm stifled her mouth and the pungent smell of unwashed skin stung her nose.

She stomped on an instep and shoved with her free hand. She heard words of warning, but they were muffled by the earphones and music. She reached for the pepper spray, but the hand at her mouth latched on to her wrist. Trapped in her attacker's painful grip, she twisted her body to angle a knee toward his crotch. “I swear to God, I will—”

Black hair.

Ice chilled her veins and worked her heart into a pounding panic inside her chest. The tattooed bicep, the un-shaven face, the bleary black eyes all came into focus. Fear was eclipsed by shock. Anger quickly took its place. She stopped fighting and started thinking. “You again.”

The creep from the bar last night. Déjà vu.

He was breathing hard with the exertion of controlling her. The stale smell of hangover breath brushed past her nose. The instant he released her, J.C. put an arm's length of fresh air between them. But she didn't turn her back. He held up his hands in surrender and spoke in what sounded like a whisper. “I tried to get your attention, lady, but you didn't hear me.”

She jerked the headphones from her ears and hung them around her neck. She read worry rather than apology in his expression. She rubbed at the pinched skin on her wrists. “Whoever taught you it was okay to grab a woman like that?”

He ignored the question and moved closer, ducking his head to whisper. J.C. backed up the same distance. He muttered a curse as foul as his breath, his voice crystal clear now. “It's Corporal Guerro, ma'am. We met last night.”

“I know who you are.” She now recognized him as the man who'd been arguing with Norm in the parking lot. “How did you find me?”

“I'm not stalking you,” he insisted. “But the guard wouldn't let me up to your apartment.”

“I should hope not.”

“Look, I don't want to hurt you.”

“I don't want to be hurt!”

It was stupid to stand here and argue with this idiot. But when she stepped to the side to move past him, he blocked her path. He wouldn't let her pass on the other side, either. J.C. held her breath to squelch her furious resentment and curled her toes inside her Reeboks to hide her trembling. If she retreated the way she'd come, he'd probably chase her down and grab her again.

This was so not okay.

“How did you find me?” she repeated, keeping her voice as calm and even as when she addressed a client. Whatever reason prompted him to give up a night of sleep and track her down couldn't be good.

“With this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white cardboard rectangle. She immediately recognized the geometric design and black block print. Oh, no. A business card.
Her
business card.

J.C. lunged for the mini personnel file, but Juan flipped his hand up into the air, holding the card well out of reach. He laughed at her instinctive, foolhardy reaction, fully aware that he had the advantage right now. Regrouping, J.C. rocked back flat on her feet and schooled the panic from her voice. “I didn't give that to you.”

He slipped the card deep inside his front jeans pocket, accurately guessing she wouldn't try to retrieve it from there. “Manny found it in your purse and pocketed it before the major clocked him.”

Ethan. Yes, Ethan. He'd put this jerk in his place. A surge of adrenaline emboldened her to lie. “Ethan and I are engaged to be married. He won't be pleased to know you're following me. I think he made it clear last night that I'm off-limits to you.”