[When SEALs Come Home 04] - Heated (12 page)

“Because people die on the road driving too fast. Running too hard. Whatever demons are riding your back, they’re your business and I won’t push. But I knew someone like you once,” she said, smoothing her fingers over the cover of the magazine.

He kept his eyes on the road and the path the headlights carved out of the gathering darkness. He hated the way winter made the nights longer and longer. All that dark made it hard to see, although it also shut out plenty.

“I’m one of a kind.” Laugh and she wouldn’t see how close to home she’d hit.

She laughed softly. “Maybe, but he had a need for speed as well. And he liked thumbing his nose at authority. He had this souped-up beater car with an engine that could go zero to ninety in less time than it took me to get the seat belt fastened.”

Great. Now he had a mental image of a younger, more carefree Mercy flying down a goddamned road without a seat belt.

“He sounds like a real winner,” he said, keeping the new fear to himself.

She shrugged. “He lived his whole life on fast forward, like he couldn’t wait to get to the good parts. He was always on the move, always running toward something.”

He sat there like an idiot, gripping the wheel as he bumped them down the dirt road to his place. He was supposed to say something insightful or thoughtful here, because even he could figure out that the guy in this story had been so busy running toward his future that he either hadn’t realized or hadn’t cared that he was running away from Mercy.

“Boyfriend? High school sweetheart?” Jealous. That’s how he felt. It was new territory for him.
Jealous
was something he didn’t do in his relationships. Of course, since he also didn’t do
relationships
... yeah. Completely uncharted territory here. If she said the guy in question was last week’s guy, he didn’t know what he’d do.

“We talked about getting married after we graduated from high school. I was applying to UCLA. He was going to get work as a stunt double, driving cars and standing in for the stars.”

He heard a really big
but
coming.

“He got shot in a drive-by shooting.  It opened my eyes to a few things, like how he was out all hours of the night and always had cash for whatever we wanted to do. He started drag racing, and then he started running from the cops, taking sides in a turf war.”

“He was a gang member.” That practically made him respectable in comparison.

“Yes. Eventually, he got arrested and sent away, but I’d lost him long before that. I just hadn’t accepted it. And he wasn’t the only one. I had a cousin who was gunned down, just standing outside her house. She wanted a little fresh air because the air con was out, and they shot her by mistake. They were driving by, in a rush, guns out, and she must have looked like their target, and they couldn’t be bothered to slow down and check.”

He resisted the urge to tell her that he knew about grief too, knew that shouting
fuck you
to the world didn’t fix things. It just broke them worse. She understood that about him, or she wouldn’t have shared her story with him.

“Sometimes slowing down isn’t a bad thing,” she added.

“You want me to smell the roses.” The look she gave him said his personal doubts about flowers came through loud and clear.

“You can smell whatever you want.” Her lips curved up in a grin. “But I am suggesting you slow down and give it a chance.”

“Is that what made you become a cop?” He eased the truck into his driveway.

“I tried the correctional facilities. I hated it.”

He tried and failed to imagine her patrolling a jail, making sure the inmates toed the line and were locked up at night.

“I like Strong,” she continued, and he wondered if she heard the same note of wonder in her voice that he did. “I grew up in Los Angeles, and I’m a city girl. An Angeleno through and through, but I like the way the mountains feel. There’s plenty of road and enough space. I’m not making sense, am I?”

She made a face, like she knew there had to be some way to explain how she fit in Strong or Strong fit with her, but she hadn’t figured it out yet. Some things just worked, no explanations needed. While he thought that over, she opened the door and hopped down. Still at a loss for words, he followed.

He liked his place. The old farmhouse was undoubtedly too big for him—he certainly didn’t need three bedrooms, for instance, when one was more than enough—but the price had been right, and he’d discovered he liked the fix-it-up part of owning a fixer-upper. It wasn’t pretty, and his stuff didn’t match, but it was his. He doubted, however, that the stacks of bike parts and work boots in the mudroom made the right impression. He should hire a housekeeping service—or get off his butt and take care of it. While his house wasn’t dirty, it sure wasn’t one of those magazine places either.

His loaner cat met them at the door. It was smart like that, and Joey was going to miss the little guy when Bree came home and reclaimed him.

“Meet WT, short for Whiskey Tango.”

She frowned at him. “You named your cat after a screw up?”

“My sister did. You’ve met Bree.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I would have pegged her for a Smokey, or a baby name.”

He shrugged. “I may have made a suggestion or two. I found the little guy after a hell of a barn fire. He rode out a bad hand in a pile of scrap wood, and if we’d gotten there any later, the situation would have been all Whiskey Tango Foxtrot for him.”

Making a face, she picked the kitten up, cuddling it. The beastie wasn’t so little anymore—it was getting to that leggy stage—but still baby enough to butt its head against her and purr like a madman. If there was one thing he was sure of, however, it was that when he walked through the door, WT believed it was dinnertime. The cat jumped down to eat out of Mercy’s arms like it was his last meal on earth.

She reached down to scratch the kitten behind the ears. “Why do you always drive so fast? I know you’ve got a reason.”

Her confidence irritated him, because she was right, but he wasn’t in the sharing mood. “And you’ve got a degree in psychology?”

Shit. Something flashed in her eyes, and he had a pretty good idea of what it was. He’d hurt her. Letting people in wasn’t something he did well, any more than apologizing was. Looked like he got to do both tonight. “I fucked up. That was the wrong question to ask.”

It was always best to own his mistakes.

Her lashes flickered, then her lips curved up in a rueful smile. “Am I that obvious?”

He shrugged. “Only to me.”

And only because he loved watching her. She had such an expressive face when she wasn’t wearing her professional poker face, filled with here-and-then-gone sparks of emotion. “Tell me what I said wrong, because I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s stupid.”
Not to me
, he thought. “I’d planned on going to college and majoring in psychology. It didn’t work out though.”

“I hit a sore spot.”

“I’ll get over it.”

He wanted to fix this for her too, but he had no idea how. He was missing more than one piece of the Mercy puzzle, and he didn’t think this was as simple as bringing her a college application or pointing out that there was such a thing as distance learning and she could earn a degree online. She knew those things, so it was that particular moment in time that she regretted. She’d wanted the experience then, but the moment had passed her by, and now all she had were the regrets. He was an expert in regrets.

“You promised me dinner,” she said lightly, ready to change the subject.

“I mean to deliver.” He’d picked up Chinese before he’d picked up her. Five minutes later, he was coming back through the door with two enormous plastic bags in his hand.

“Wow,” she said. “Did you leave any food for the rest of Strong?”

“I didn’t know what you liked.”

“Uh-huh. It looks like I have the entire menu to choose from.”

While they ate, they traded stories about their day. He told her about close calls on the fire line and jumps gone awry into Ponderosa pines; she shared some of the funnier calls she’d received. Afterward, she helped him pack up the leftovers and meticulously labeled each box with a Sharpie while he fought back a grin.

“You own a label maker, don’t you?”

She tucked the waxy flaps in one by one and then stacked the boxes from largest to smallest on the top shelf of his fridge. “Is that a crime?”

“It’s unexpected.” She made him smile, although he doubted she appreciated it. In his experience, women wanted to be sexy or mind-blowing or any of a dozen other things.

“Sit.” She pointed to his couch. “I owe you.”

“For dinner? We’re good.” He sat though. His deputy sheriff had a glint in her eye that intrigued him. “I’m happy to feed you anytime.” He meant it too. He’d take this woman however, whenever she’d let him.

“You remember my magazines?” When he nodded, she continued. “I want to try something I read about.”

“Your magazines are going to be the death of me.” He pressed a finger against her mouth. “I’m going to die a happy man, honey.”

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Holding Mercy, touching her... the sexy stuff was also fun and sweet. They laughed together, and her laughter was the sexiest, most erotic goddamned thing he’d ever shared in his life. He didn’t have to get his dick inside her, ride her like a cowboy, to feel like she’d let him in in a way he appreciated. There was no timetable for their relationship, for getting to the bedroom part of things. Just the two of them enjoying themselves and that worked for him.

“How do you like to touch yourself? Show me so I can learn.”

Jesus. His brain immediately reminded him he hadn’t had sex in months and certainly not with someone he cared about. An erotic image flashed through his head of Mercy on her knees before him, between his legs, taking him in her mouth. Parting her pretty pink lips with his dick and taking her mouth like he wanted to take her body. He’d drive in and out, fucking her lips, because she was willing to give him the fantasy. So yeah, he’d be happy to
show
her what he liked. And maybe, afterward, it could be his turn to learn what turned her on.

“You got it.” He was pretty certain his voice was rough. Hoarse, because she tied him up in knots although she didn’t seem to mind.

He popped open the buttons on his jeans breaking the record for speed. Her soft laugh said she’d spotted his urgency, but it was a happy sound, like she felt good because he needed this, needed her. Mercy didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Fortunately for him, he’d gone commando because a trip into town didn’t require dressing up and he’d thrown on the first things he’d found. She helped him tug the jeans down.

“You sure about this?” He didn’t want her to feel like she had to do this for him.

“Try to stop me.” She dropped down between his knees, watching him. Her face, tilted toward his, was all smiles. He gently tugged her ponytail free, spilling her hair around her shoulders. She was fully dressed—a condition he wanted desperately to remedy—in a fragile tank top beneath a bulky cardigan, worn blue jeans, and sweet Jesus...

“Have I told you how much I like your boots?” And he really, really liked the three-inch heels.

She flashed him a smile. “I borrowed them from Katie. They’re her dominatrix boots.”

And... ooookay. Now he’d definitely like to see her with just the boots on, her legs wrapped around his back. When he told her so, however, she shook her head.

“Then you wouldn’t be able to see the boots,” she pointed out. “And there goes your fantasy.”

But he’d feel them, every inch.

As she watched him, so intently he half expected her to take notes, he slapped his hand around the base of his dick. He was already hard, which seemed to be his constant state around Mercy, so no worries there. He stroked upward roughly, quickly. Dragged his palm back down again.

She bit her lip, leaned in for a better view. Fuck. Instead of feeling awkward, he felt sexy, and how weird was that?

“That doesn’t hurt?” Her eyes followed his palm on its next upward trip.

He let out a low groan, and she bit her lower lip, grinning.  “I guess not. My turn.”

Yes, please.

He tried to keep his eagerness to himself, to play it cool, but when she wrapped her hands around his shaft, nudging his out of the way, he groaned again. He didn’t normally like to sit back and let his woman make love to him, but for Mercy... yeah, he had no problem letting her take what she wanted.

“Have I mentioned how much I like ice cream?” Laughter lit her eyes. Better yet, when she exhaled, he felt her breath on every hot, needy inch of his dick.

“You like ice cream?” Jesus. He hoped she wasn’t grading him on his witty repartee, because all he could think about was her palm and the way she was slowly tugging it up and over him in a sweet, torturous glide.

“Yes. And you look like my favorite flavor.”

Yeah. Ice cream now topped his own personal shopping list. Better yet, she leaned forward and licked him like a goddamned ice cream cone, tasting him in small, wicked licks. When she reached the tip of him, she swirled her tongue around his shaft like she was trying to capture every last drop.

His head hit the back of the couch, his hands fisting her hair. Oh, yeah. Her hands followed her mouth, covering him. Up, then down, then back up again, her tongue covering him with sweet strokes that drove him crazy. Long minutes later, he tugged carefully on her hair. Not that he wanted her to stop, but he could be a gentleman about this.

“Honey, if you don’t stop now...” He’d be coming in her mouth and he definitely needed to hear that was okay. “I’m going to—”

“It’s okay,” she said and nibbled on him some more. His eyes flew closed. He’d wanted to watch her do this, the visual erotic as hell, but the way she made him feel was too intense.

Holy. Wow. Her mouth squeezed his tip, and she sucked hard and he shot over the edge, pumping into her mouth over and over with a low groan. When his dick stopped scrambling his brain and the shudders subsided some, he cracked an eye. Had he grossed her out? He pulled out, and—Jesus—she swallowed. Then smiled at him, all big eyes and a knowing grin.