Troublemaker (29 page)

He might stay, or he might go. She had no control over that. The only thing she could control was how fully she lived
now
because now was all she had. That realization was almost as terrifying as that moment when she thought Tricks was going to die. She had been protecting herself with an illusion.

Silently he got up from the bed and went out onto the landing. The light went out. His absence speared through her, and she started to call out a strangled plea for him to come back when she saw his dark shape moving back to the bed.

He stood on the other side and she heard the rustling of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor. Her heartbeat began a hard, thumping pace, sending heat through her body and banishing the cold. His voice came in the darkness, deep and firm. “C'mon, Tricks, find some other place to sleep.” He snapped his fingers, and Tricks, the treacherous hussy, bounced up as if she'd been longing to get on her own comfortable bed but had been keeping Bo company while she was so upset, but thank you very much for relieving her of the duty. Her paws hit the floor and she trotted out with great purpose, as if she had something important to do.

Bo made a strangled sound at her own thoughts, half sob and half chuckle. She swallowed and managed to say, “What?” Not very coherent or eloquent, but it was the best she could do.

He sat down on the bed to remove his shoes. “You know what. The only question was
when
. The answer is
now
.”

That was succinct enough.

She wanted this. She wanted him, specifically. But she didn't want him here out of pity, and all this crying might be a major turnoff to him. Morgan didn't strike her as a man who had a lot of patience with weakness. “Are you sure?”

He was lifting the covers, and he paused. “You're kidding, right?”

“I'm a mess.” She was a tangled turmoil of emotions, grieving when there was no need to grieve, crying when she hated to cry, so overflowing with thoughts that she couldn't get a handle on any of them long enough to know for certain what she was feeling.

“I'm a guy,” he said prosaically as he got into bed beside her.

She was surprised into laughter and surprised that she
could
laugh. “Does that mean guys don't mind messes?”

“Pretty much.” He slid his arm under her neck, urged her closer so that she was lying completely against him, her head snuggled onto his shoulder. The heat of his bare skin engulfed her, warming her through the fabric of her clothing. Under her fingers she could feel the crispness of his chest hair, grown back enough to be somewhat soft.

“I just don't want you to do this because you feel sorry for me,” she confessed almost inaudibly.

For answer he took the hand lying on his chest and moved it down to the front of his shorts. His erection jumped at her touch, pushing into her palm. “Does this feel like sympathy?”

No, it definitely did not. Excitement speared through her; when he lifted his hand she left hers where it was, and trailed her fingertips up and down the hard length before folding her hand around his penis to get a good feel for the size of him. A little purring sound vibrated in her throat before she could catch it. He was so thick she had a pang of doubt before her hormones smothered it.
Yes,
she wanted him, she wanted this. She had always been alone, stood alone, and now she didn't want to.

At her touch he went rigid and gave a rough groan. Firmly he grabbed her hand and moved it away. “You aren't the only one with problems,” he growled, his voice sandpapery. “I haven't had sex in so long I'll last maybe fifteen seconds. I have to think about the tactical aspects of this.”

The darkness made it easy for her to relax, to smile. “You're looking at me the same way you would a military mission?”

“Damn straight. I have territory to conquer, like these points of interest.” He slipped his big hand inside the loose neck of her tank top and gently rubbed his palm over her nipples, making them tighten. The rasp of his rough skin sent a sharp twinge of sensation from her nipples straight to her groin. Her back arched in response, her fingers dug into his shoulder. Primal excitement lit up her nerve endings, firing off such a multitude of responses she instinctively turned into him to seek more of them. His heat seared her from head to toes, drawing her in, comforting and enticing.

“Hills and ravines,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple as he moved his hand to the small of her back and deftly slipped under the elastic waistband of her sleep pants to stroke the curves of her ass and slide a finger along the cleft there. Helplessly she arched again, her body knowing what it wanted and curving into his touch. Her heart was
racing, her breath coming in rapid puffs. Just like that he had her skin so sensitized she felt as if a mild electric shock was running through her. Just like that she was ready for him—but then, she'd been ready for him since the first time he'd kissed her.

“Interesting tight places,” he continued, sliding his hand farther down to curve it between her legs. Two big fingers pressed into her; the sensation of being penetrated and stretched was almost overwhelming. She clutched at his broad shoulders, digging her fingers into the pads of muscle. When he moved, he moved fast. There was something she needed to think about, but as long as he was doing what he was doing, she seemed incapable of thought, only of feeling.

Then his fingers were gone, and he deftly turned her onto her back; the sudden emptiness was so sharp she had to fight the irrational surge of anger at the absence of all those sensations. But at least that gave her a little breathing space, and she remembered what she'd wanted to tell him.

“I'm on the pill.” She blurted it out, too distracted to think of a lead-in. She had been taking the pill for years—not for birth control, but because otherwise her periods were horribly irregular.

“Good deal. I'd hate to get out of bed and make an emergency run to town to buy condoms. You might not let me back in.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

She might not, simply because she might panic. She hadn't made love in years, not since her divorce because in the bitter aftermath she had concluded that sex made women stupid. The obvious solution was to not let anyone close enough that she was even tempted—and she hadn't been, until Morgan.

When she didn't argue with his supposition, he gave a rueful laugh and kissed her. Until he did, she hadn't realized that in the middle of all the great-feeling things he was doing to her, she had really wanted to be kissed. She looped her arms around his neck and gave him back as good as she got, matching his tongue stroke for stroke, loving the taste and hunger and urgency of him. His hands clenched on her sides and he drew back, yanked the tank top off over her head, then came back down on top of her.

Oh.
That was the only thought she could muster. He was heavy and warm and the hair on his chest rubbed her tender nipples to achingly tight points. The weight of his legs nudged her thighs apart and he settled between her legs to push the hard ridge of his erection against her soft cleft. She made an incoherent noise, lifted against him. She had never before felt so . . .
overwhelmed,
so completely undone and turned on. He was big, he was dangerous, and he was about to do things to her she had thought she was done with, likely for the rest of her life. Instead, in his hands, she had gone from zero to ready so fast she was dizzy.

Being made love to like a military campaign was a novel experience. He was thorough in his tactics, laying waste to any possible skittishness she might suffer, overwhelming her with pleasure and moving on to new territory before she recovered enough to protest any particular liberty he might be taking. She tried to reciprocate, but he was having none of it. “No touching,” he ordered when she tried to caress his penis through his boxers. “My fuse is too short—”

“Doesn't feel short to me,” she murmured, earning a chuckle from him.

“Just save that for next time.”

Maybe, she thought, and maybe not. She took her arms from around his neck, stroked them down the muscles in his back, down to his hips where his boxers clung. She slipped her right hand beneath the waistband, drew back enough to murmur, “Why don't you take these off?”

“Not yet.”

His refusal only made her more determined to get the boxers off him. Swiftly she tugged them down as far as she could reach, baring part of his ass; he reached for her hand and while he was distracted by that she lifted her left leg high around him and slid her foot down his side until she hooked the waistband and could drag it downward.

He gave a smothered laugh. “Fighting dirty, huh? Guess I'll have to show you what fighting dirty really is.”

In a flash he had her sleep pants jerked down and off. His strength was so effortless she could only imagine what he was like when he was in top shape; even now he put most men to shame. She had a momentary
qualm about being nude while he wasn't, more vulnerable, but she didn't have time to dwell on it because he slid down between her legs, lifted her thighs over his shoulders, and put his mouth on her.

Oh, God. She arched, her fists knotting the sheet. He definitely knew what he was doing. Oh—
God!
He licked at her, sucked at her. She was flooded with sensation, pleasure that spiked and ebbed, only to spike again. Her muscles clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily stronger until she was shaking from the force of it, her body drawn bow-taut and aching. Heat seared her from the inside out until she felt molten.

Her climax roared at her like a freight train, fast and relentless. She gave a hoarse cry when it hit, the pleasure so all-encompassing she could only endure and try to ride it out. At her cry he surged upward, covered her, reached down to fit the head of his penis to her opening and pushed inside while the spasms were still wracking her. She cried out again, a guttural sound of both shock and ecstasy because he was big enough to stretch her to the point of pain, and feeling the bulk and heat of him so deep inside her intensified the rhythmic clenching of pleasure. She needed something to hold on to, to keep from spinning away, and the only rock she could find was him so she locked her legs and arms around him and clung through the tempest triggered by his hard, deep thrusts.

Maybe he did last only fifteen seconds; she didn't know, didn't care. All that mattered was that they were both caught, riding out the fury together. She was in his arms and he was in hers as he shuddered and bucked in release.

Then it was over and they lay there like storm wreckage, breathing hard and trembling, unable to muster the strength to separate. Their bodies were sweaty from exertion, glued together. That was good, she thought dimly, managing to lift one hand and put it on his side. He'd finally shed those damn boxers, though she couldn't have said when. Didn't matter.
Now
was what mattered.

“Holy shit,” he muttered weakly, started to lever himself off her, and instead collapsed back with a groan. He was so heavy she could barely
breathe, and she didn't care. She turned her face against his neck, inhaling his hot male scent and drawing it deep inside her.

“Stay here a minute.” She loved the feel of him on top of her, inside her. Had sex felt like this before? If it had, she didn't remember. She couldn't remember feeling stretched and invaded and possessed; she never would have allowed herself to be possessed. And yet . . . Morgan had done all of that, and she had reveled in it. As intense as the pleasure had been, it had also been mutual, and she had possessed him in turn.

Slowly their heartbeats returned to normal, their lungs stopped heaving in search of oxygen. Her body felt heavy and relaxed, resembling marshmallow more than muscle. He braced himself on his elbows over her, letting her breathe more easily, and nipped at her lower lip. She nipped in return and he threaded his fingers through her hair and began kissing her, slow deep kisses that impossibly ignited a subtle but unmistakable flare.

No way. Even if he was capable, she wasn't. Maybe in an hour or two. Right now she wanted to sleep, though the need to clean up was becoming more pressing with every second. She might need to change the sheets if she had the strength to care.

He stretched an arm upward and turned on the lamp. She blinked against the flare of light, then smiled at the expression on his face. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes heavy-lidded from pleasure explored and sated, his mouth curved in pure satisfaction. If ever there had been a perfect picture of masculine sexual triumph, he was it. Her own mouth curved in a smile because the triumph was hers;
she
had put that look on his face, and she didn't care if he ever realized it because this wasn't about keeping score, it was about making each other happy.

Her heart gave a hard thump of recognition, and she curved her hand around his neck to pull him down for another kiss.

Just as their mouths were about to meet, he froze. The look of satisfaction on his face changed to consternation.

Bo frowned in puzzlement. “What's wrong?”

He was motionless, as if he'd come face-to-face with a rattlesnake. Slowly he cut his eyes to the left.

Bo turned her head. Tricks was standing with her muzzle resting on the edge of the bed, her brows beetled above her dark eyes as if she simply couldn't believe what she'd seen her humans doing. The accusation in her eyes as she stared at Morgan was plain: he had to be the instigator because Bo had never done such a thing before.

“Ah, shit.” Morgan gently disengaged from Bo's body and rolled to lie beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “I may never get another hard-on in my life.”

H
E WAS, HAPPILY, VERY WRONG ABOUT THAT.

Bo woke naked in his arms, with her head on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. The bedcovers were evidently somewhere on the floor, given that they were nowhere in sight. She hadn't been cold at all, not with a living furnace lying next to her. She put her hand on his chest, feeling the crisp hair, the raised scar tissue, the padding of hard muscle. Looking down his long body, she followed the trail of hair down his taut abdomen to his penis and testicles. Men were so interesting, she thought sleepily, with everything out in the open to get in the way and have to be constantly adjusted. How did they even sit down?

His penis twitched, and she blinked in interest, watching closely. Then it began to swell and lengthen, and she smiled. At this signal he was awake, she tilted her head up to find him watching her. “Good morning,” she said, then nestled her head back on his shoulder.

“Morning.” His morning voice was always deeper than normal, and rusty. His hand smoothed down her bare back. “Damn, I like your outfit. You should wear it more often.”

“I wear it every day,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, it's the extra layers I don't like.”

Just as he was beginning to show her how much he liked her outfit, he jumped and said, “Shit!”

The tone of voice and word choice were dead giveaways. Bo turned her head, knowing what she would see; Tricks once again was standing beside the bed with her muzzle resting on the mattress, staring accusingly at them.

Morgan rolled onto his side and stared at the ceiling. “This has to be what parents feel like when they're getting it on and then see their kid standing there watching them.”

She snickered. “Not quite. Tricks won't ask what we're doing.”

“Yeah? Look at that expression.”

“It's past her breakfast time.” Her regular mealtimes were very important to Tricks.

He glanced at the clock. “Just five minutes!”

“She doesn't care. She knows the numbers on the clock, and she knows we're late.”

Once he would have scoffed at the idea that a dog knew numbers, but not now. He rolled out of bed and paused to vigorously rub Tricks's ears, which she enjoyed but which in no way got her attention off of food, before going on to the bathroom. Bo sighed in appreciation of the scenery, because such a tight, muscular ass was worthy of an in-depth study.

Then she realized—well, hell; she needed the bathroom too, and she was disconcerted by his occupation of hers. She hadn't shared a bathroom in so long the logistics hadn't occurred to her.

All she could do was roll out of bed, grab some clothes, and trudge down to
his
bedroom and bathroom. Already he'd marked the territory as his: his scent, his clothes, his toiletry items . . . his pistol on the bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room and simply absorbed the excess of testosterone. Yeah, she was loopy this morning, no doubt about it.

Tricks made short work of her inaugural trip outside that morning because she was behind in her schedule. If a dog's attitude could say “hurry up,” then Bo was being dog-nagged . . . not that it was the first time. Tricks didn't deal well with tardiness when it came to her food. Still, Bo bent down and hugged her close, closing her eyes in gratitude
that she still had Tricks with her, thinking that she might never completely recover from those moments of terror.

By the time Morgan came downstairs, Tricks had been fed and Bo was sitting at the bar sipping her first coffee. Morgan fetched his coffee, straddled the barstool beside hers, clasped her neck, and gave her a long, leisurely kiss. He hadn't shaved, and his stubble was rough on her face. Morning stubble was such an ordinary thing, but she laid her hand along his rough jaw and cherished the prickling against her palm. She leaned into him, enjoying the kiss, the touch, his presence. She felt at ease with him in a way she hadn't since she'd first been attracted to him and tried to fight it. The fight was over, and she'd won. Or lost. Or both. She couldn't make herself care, not today.

He lifted his mouth but kept his hand on her, stroking it down her back. “Do you want to do anything special today?” he asked

She shook her head, a little suspicious. She didn't want him, or anyone, to be “careful” with her, as if she were frail and in danger of going to pieces. Okay, so she'd gone to pieces a bit the night before, but she'd held it together until she was alone in her room. She had cried; she hadn't had a full-bore meltdown.

“I don't need the kid-glove treatment,” she said.

He shook his head, a little grin quirking his mouth and his blue eyes glinting at her. “You're the hardest woman to court I've ever seen.”

Court? Bemused, Bo considered the idea. First, to stay with his terminology, why would he be trying to court her
today
? He'd gotten what he wanted last night. That was what courting was, wasn't it? An effort to have sex? If he meant it in the old-fashioned sense of the word then . . . then she was at sea, because it meant a focus on the future that she couldn't quite get her head around—not yet, anyway. Deciding to enjoy the moment didn't mean she was completely changing how she approached life, just how she dealt with
him.

“
You've done my laundry,” she finally offered.

He laughed as he rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “See what I mean? How many women would consider someone doing laundry to be courting?”

“Probably most women. Laundry's a pain in the butt.”

“Well, hell, then throw down a load of underwear and I'll get right on it.”

She laughed and said, “I'd rather think about breakfast right now. What sounds good to you?”

Bo was oddly at peace as they went through the morning routine. She had made a decision and she was good with it, whatever happened. Yesterday had taught her that there was no way she could isolate herself from life and the bad things, and she couldn't predict or prepare for them; all she could do was live.

She might not have the future with Morgan, but she had the now, and that was sufficient. Suddenly she felt free: free to touch him whenever she wanted—which was often—free to walk around in whatever state of dress or undress she wanted, free to
want
. Wanting and denying herself had been a brand of torture; wanting and being able to fulfill that want was delicious.

They had made love twice more during the night; he was very good at it, and very focused and disciplined, all of which translated into something great for her. She was a little sore this morning but also infinitely relaxed. She didn't torment herself wondering if it was just sex to him while it was making love to her because knowing wouldn't change a thing. She could analyze something to death without a single detail being affected. Tomorrow might be different, but today was today.

After they'd had breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, she putzed around tidying things that weren't very messy to begin with, then she went upstairs. Taking him at his word, she threw a load of laundry down. By balling several garments together she got enough heft and weight to get some distance on it, and a pair of jeans landed neatly across his head as he sat in front of the TV, feet up and channel-hopping in classic male form. She expected him to bolt upright, but instead he laughed, leaned his head back, and said, “I wondered if you'd jump on that.”

“Consider it jumped on.”

While he started the laundry, she changed the sheets on the bed, a little amused and turned on because they definitely needed changing.
The dirty sheets went over the balcony too; he'd know what to do with them. Delighted by the game of throwing things over the balcony, Tricks began running and barking, then grabbed a stuffed animal and slung it around to kill it. Everyone else was having fun, so why shouldn't she?

Morgan grabbed one leg of the toy and began playing tug of war with her; while they were occupied, Bo wandered to her desk and stood looking down at it.

She had a tech-writing project she could work on. She studied it, thought about it, but couldn't make herself plant her butt in the chair. For the first time in forever she had absolutely no interest in work. As traumatic as the day before had been, and as eventful as the
night
before had been, she thought she needed a day to do nothing but relax and enjoy the life she had . . . somehow. Doing something. The question was: what?

She was saved by Tricks, who abruptly abandoned the game with Morgan, went to the door and gave Bo her “Well?” look. The first trip outside in the mornings was for necessity, not walking, and now it was past time for her first walk of the day.

Morgan armed himself, she got the house keys and cell phone, and out they went.

The day seemed to call for a long, rambling walk, much longer than usual. At first they didn't talk; the morning was warm but not yet uncomfortably so, the greenery was still fresh and damp from last night's dew, and the sky overhead was a clear blue except for cotton-ball clouds drifting by. It always amazed her how noisy nature was; the birds were singing so wildly they sounded drunk, the bushes rustled with what she hoped wasn't a rabbit because she didn't want Tricks to give chase, the trees swayed in a light breeze. Bees droned, insects buzzed, arguments broke out between birds.

Morgan took her hand and they walked side by side when they could; when they couldn't, he kept hold of her hand but walked in front, his head swiveling back and forth as he looked for trouble in any form, reptile, rodent, whatever might take Tricks's attention. Though she'd
been walking this path without incident for years, he used his grip on her hand to steady her as she stepped over logs and rocks.

She felt vaguely guilty, as if she was playing hooky.

“I don't know how to relax,” she confessed after thinking about it for a minute. “I feel as if I should be doing something.”

He laced his fingers with hers. Having him hold her hand felt new and exciting as well as . . . comfortable. She was comfortable with him. That struck her as sexy, which told her she had it bad when she could equate even comfortable with sexy. She suspected that if he had knock-knees, she'd find that sexy too.

He brushed aside a bush branch for her to pass. “You've worked hard since you moved here, digging yourself out of a hole. That takes guts. But I've noticed you aren't a sit-down-and-veg-in-front-of-the-TV kind of woman.”

“Vegging in front of the TV drove you nuts in no time, so you can't say anything.”

“I'm not much for staying indoors. When I did get some down time, I'd try to go fishing, but that's not on the table for now.”

Tricks darted out of sight behind a mossy boulder, and Bo pulled her hand free to run forward to keep her in sight, make sure she hadn't found a snake or a skunk. Instead Tricks was standing in front of a weed with a yellow bloom on top, staring at a bumblebee as it droned from one flowering weed to another. “Come here,” Bo said. “Don't eat the bee.” Tricks ignored her and continued to watch the bee until Bo said sternly, “Young lady!” That warning was the second tier leading to getting into serious trouble, and with a wag of her tail that said she'd seen enough, Tricks trotted back to the trail.

“Did you know bumblebees can't fly if their muscles are colder than eighty-six degrees?” Morgan said; he too was watching the bee. He folded her hand in his again as soon as she rejoined him.

Bo blinked. “I've seen them fly when the weather is colder than that.”

“They warm up their thoracic muscles by shivering. Can take up to five minutes.”

“Supposedly they shouldn't be able to fly at all.”

“That was an error in calculation. Bumblebees go into dynamic stall—they create a little vortex—plus their short wings displace a disproportionate amount of air.”

That was interesting, but the subject matter made her squint up at him. “And you know about the aerodynamics of bumblebees because—?”

“Just something interesting that was covered in flight school.”

She was silent a moment as she digested this new insight into him. Going to flight school logically meant he was a pilot. “What do you fly?”

“Helicopter and small fixed-wing. Flying's okay. I don't like it as much as I do the water.” He answered as casually as if it were no big deal, as if flying helicopters and small airplanes were commonplace. Maybe it was in his world; it wasn't in hers. In her world, people drove. She knew only one other person who could fly small planes. But she wasn't surprised by this facet of him, or the scope of his experience; she'd known from the beginning that he navigated very deep waters. Was this how a military wife felt? Or the wife of a firefighter, or a cop? As if his experiences were so dramatic and diametrically opposed to hers? How did people find common ground?

She could drive herself crazy trying to find the answer—because there wasn't one—or she could just let things be. She opted for her new zen attitude. They had slept together; that was the extent of their relationship. For now, that was enough. She might not feel the same way tomorrow, but she'd find that out tomorrow. In the meantime, she wanted to know more about something he seemed enthusiastic about.

“Where do you fish?”

“The Potomac, when I'm home from a mission. I try to get back to Florida a couple of times a year, do some deep-sea fishing, hit some bass lakes. Not that I get that much down time, because even when we aren't on missions, we're training our asses off, but I still hang on to my boat.”

“What kind of boat do you have?”

“Just an old fishing boat I named the
Shark
. When I get released to go back out in public, we'll take her out if you like fishing.” He tilted his
head back, eyed the pieces of sky visible through the tree limbs. The woods weren't so thick that walking was difficult, but the shade was nice.