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Becky lapped her sweet, pink tongue around her lips in an assessing, appreciative pout that made his entire body lurch. “You wear it well.”
“Thanks.”
She scanned him from shoulder to shoulder, from head to toe. Then she looked him straight in the eye. “Take it off, Captain.”
“Becky—”
“I said take it off.”
In a single beat of time, the atmosphere in the room had thickened.
“The hotel cleaners just sent it up, starched and pressed.”
“So we’ll make a point not to wrinkle it.” She reached for the knot of terry cloth between her breasts and dropped her towel.
Naked.
Damn. Zachariah’s cock throbbed to shameless attention as he stood transfixed by all her abundant glory.
“Take it off. And get over here.”
Zachariah tossed the duffel onto the bed. “At your command.”
He stripped in record time, never even considering the bed as he swapped his uniform for their box of condoms, and strode across the room with a single purpose. Her.
Becky’s kiss was waiting for him as he lifted her up onto the bathroom counter and spread her legs to move between them. She smoothed the friction between their lips with her tongue, then delved inside to toy with his. Every stroke kicked up the heat throbbing through him another impossible notch. She linked her arms behind his neck and pulled herself up against his body, teasing his chest with the brush of her nipples, teasing him down below with her fragrant, dampening heat. She was a decadent delight for each of his senses—from the contrasting reflection in the mirror of his suntanned hands moving over her fairer skin to the minty taste of her bold tongue in his mouth.
Zachariah tried to savor every moment, taking note of every sensation so he could replay the memories months from now when he was stuck in the middle of the desert or in some foreign jungle—far from letters and e-mails, farther still from kisses and touches like these.
But patience wasn’t his friend this morning. Becky’s mouth was pliant and eager, matching every foray he made. She trailed her fingers along his spine, sparking an electric impulse in every cell she touched. Still anchoring her atop the counter, Zachariah slipped his hand down between them, seeking her heat, testing her readiness. He stroked one finger along her slick crevice and she gasped, tearing her mouth from his and burying her face against his neck.
“Mmm.”
An answering groan from deep in his chest was all he could manage. He dipped one finger inside her, then two. She writhed against his hand. He found her responsive nub with his thumb and begged the cool, calm, controlled attorney to go wanton on him.
“Not fair,” she gasped, nipping at his collarbone. “You have to—” her hum vibrated against his skin “—come…too.” Her knees flexed convulsively around his hips as she neared her release. He knew the feeling. Understood the need. His aching dick poked her hip and thigh as he rocked helplessly against her. Zachariah was like a temperature trigger on a brick of C-4 explosive, rapidly heating up to the point of detonation.
Becky’s fingers dug into his back. “Zachariah?” She was breathing hard. “Zacha—” breathing deeply “—Zachari…?” Breathing quickly.
After seven days together, he recognized the sound. She was coming.
So was he.
“Not yet.” She kissed his neck. Kissed his chin. Grabbed his wrist and pulled his slick fingers from her before she climaxed. “Together,” she demanded. “This last time, we do it together.”
Their fingers tangled as they reached for the condoms he’d dropped beside her. There was laughter. Kisses. Fumbling hands.
“Enough.” He issued the order before he embarrassed himself right there on the counter. Taking charge of the race to their completion, he ripped open a package and turned his back on her to sheathe himself.
Not to be left out of the action for even a moment, she kissed his shoulder blade and reached around to tease his nipples into tortuous attention. “Beckster…” He groaned the warning, then went back on the offensive.
They were damn well going to finish this together. Zachariah turned and pulled her to the edge of the counter. She was more than a foot shorter than him. But tall enough that she was aligned perfectly with his straining, needy self. He pushed her thighs apart and nudged her entrance.
Wanton, indeed. With her hands clutching his biceps for balance, she arched her neck, thrusting her breasts up like an offering, her luscious globes bobbing beneath his hungry gaze. He studied the delicate red and blue veins engorging the hard tips, then squeezed one in his big hand and dipped his head to suckle her. Becky bucked against him as he pulled harder and harder. “Please. Please.”
He didn’t want to leave her. His conscience said he couldn’t just walk. They’d been pretty careful. But they’d also been pretty wild. Pretty intense. Pretty…frequent.
What if her pill or his condom had failed?
What if he came back and she’d moved on to someone else?
Couldn’t happen.
Wouldn’t happen.
“Zachariah…” she commanded, linking her heels behind his thighs and opening herself even wider. “Take me. Now.”
The order alone was enough to send him right to the edge.
Pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes as the inevitable countdown toward detonation began. “Marry me.”
“What?”
He slid his tip inside, barely an inch—denying for a moment what they both craved. They were breathing hard as he held himself on the brink and looked down into her blue eyes, locked onto his. The wheels were again spinning inside her head, evaluating the timing and motivations behind his impulsive—yet surprisingly serious—request.
“Don’t let this end. Marry me.”
His body nearly spasmed as he refused to indulge his need until she gave him an answer.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Becky grabbed his ass and urged him in. With one deep thrust, Zachariah exploded inside her. She shattered around him and cried out, “Yes!”
2
“ZACHARIAH! HEY, BIG GUY! Welcome home!”
Becky snatched her hand out of the air and pulled it into a fist near her stomach, mortified by her blind enthusiasm. Thank God the crowd of families and friends surrounding her had cheered loudly enough to drown out her impulsive shout. Glancing quickly around, she wished she were tall enough to see over more of the men and women near her.
“Smooth one, Owens,” she muttered under her breath.
Had she flagged anyone’s attention? Not that she’d really expected her least favorite fan to follow her the eighty miles from Richmond, Virginia, to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. He hadn’t had the balls to use his own phone or leave a name or traceable address yet, so she doubted he’d really show his face. But the letters and phone calls—no doubt the vengeful enterprise of one of the ex-husbands she’d pursued on behalf of her clients—were coming more frequently now. And dead roses had been left on the windshield of her car and at the front door to her condo, kicking the anonymous stalking up another notch.
It started simply with I hate you clipped from random magazine letters and sent to her office, along with some heavy breathing on her phone at home. Then he had tried to show he was smart by switching to computer printouts and adding some big words: I betyou aren’t getting any, Princess Plump-ass, so youhave to emasculate every man you meet to compensate. The latest note, delivered to her office five days ago with an illegible postmark, had contained a new twist on the usual insults and hurtful words: You think you’reall that, don’t you, bitch? I’m going to take back whatyou’ve stolen from me. Even if it has to come out ofyour hide. Included had been a photograph of her walking down the courthouse steps, taken from a distance. In the picture, her heart had been cut out.
Though she’d reported that last message to her supervisor at the State Attorney’s office, and the letter and photo had been subsequently filed with the Richmond PD, there was little they could do beyond monitoring the situation and working on identifying the culprit. It wasn’t as if Becky didn’t have plenty of candidates to choose from. With her work—taking deadbeat exes to court on behalf of those who couldn’t afford legal representation—she could name a dozen suspects who were less than thrilled by the settlements she’d won. Garnishment of wages. Termination or alteration of custody agreements. In one case, imprisonment. Of course, there was the whole public-humiliation factor of being exposed as a user or loser, in addition to the financial costs. Becky was good at her job. Damn good. Half-assed had never been the Owens way.
Still, though she’d like to think that someone was mouthing off because he’d gotten his wallet or pride hurt and that the need to strike back would eventually flicker and die, a smart woman wouldn’t take any chances. Becky breathed in deeply and curled her fingers through the chain-link fence blocking off the parking lot in front of her. She needed to purge the moment of panic and gather her wits.
Catching a glimpse of a pair of shoulders filling a bus window so completely that she could barely make out the square jaw and light-brown hair above them should not have her squealing like a schoolgirl who’d just been winked at by the senior boy on whom she had a crush. So what if Zachariah Clark’s impressive body and effortless strength had plagued her most erotic dreams these past eighteen months?
Eighteen months since she’d thrown Owens expectations to the wind and done exactly what she wanted.
She’d defied her father in order to land a job that allowed her to actually make a difference in the world.
She’d shared a blistering affair with a man she’d met in a bar—an unpedigreed soldier who worked with his hands instead of his family’s money.
She’d married him.
Becky exhaled that deep breath between tightly compressed lips. Her conscience had been paying a heavy price for her impetuousness ever since. She wasn’t sure she could handle it if her mother or father, or any one of her clients, got hurt because she was distracted and failed to live up to her promises. Their safety and well-being came first. That stalker toad and her own desires had to come in at a self-disciplined second.
She couldn’t allow a man’s being in her life again to give her a false sense of security, either. Zachariah wouldn’t be around for long. And people were depending on her, not him. She’d dealt with her problems while he was overseas, and she’d deal with them again after he was gone.
Cool, calm and collected was also the Owens way.
Ha! So why was she standing on tiptoe, trying to steal another glimpse through the windows of the approaching bus? Catching herself, Becky lowered her heels into her Italian leather sandals.
“You don’t do giddy,” she reminded herself on a muttered breath. She glanced from side to side once more, seeing nothing but eager children and anxious spouses and parents.
Nothing to fear.
No one who seemed interested in her at all.
She forced an angry breath from her lungs, hating that she’d given in to any degree of paranoia. She was here alone. Period. Get over it.
She focused her attention back on the bus.
As the only child of power broker Bertram Owens, “society”—meaning politicos in Richmond and D.C., the family tree and Bertram himself—demanded a certain degree of decorum from her. Whatever spontaneity that hadn’t been bred out of her by birth had been thoroughly reined in by years of training—except for six-and-a-half fabulous days with one certain Marine.
In the courtroom and at home, the restraint that she exercised almost daily served her well. She needed it now more than ever, knowing her father was home at the family estate outside of Richmond, waiting for her to fail. Waiting to pick up the pieces of what he considered her misguided adventure into independent living. Waiting to give her an I-told-you-so, let-me-take-care-of-this-for-you hug and steer her back onto the path an Owens heiress should be taking toward securing the family’s future. Namely, marrying one of the stuffy, upper-crust bores on her parents’ list of approved suitors, and settling down to expand the family dynasty like a good little girl.
Claiming she was seeing someone—who conveniently traveled a lot outside of the country so she wouldn’t have to produce him for family dinners or political receptions—had temporarily staved off her father’s obsession with marrying her off to make mergers and grandbabies. If push came to shove, she’d even pull out the marriage certificate. Though the deception would hurt at first, it was just the sort of crafty business maneuver her father might eventually respect.
However, Becky intended to save that revelation as an absolute last resort. Her mother, Lily, was still recovering from chemo and radiation treatments to forestall any recurrence of the breast cancer she’d conquered a year ago. Causing her mom stress by ruining her dreams for her only offspring wasn’t particularly appealing. And pissing off Bertram Owens wasn’t something that anyone—even his own daughter—did lightly.
It certainly wasn’t fair to Zachariah to thrust him into the midst of the secrets and lies that had become Becky’s life this past year.
In D.C., his proposal had seemed like the perfect out to get her father off her back about settling down with the right young man. Plus, she’d fallen victim to the foolish idea that saying yes would somehow prolong the wild and crazy freedom of their week together.
But then her mother’s condition had worsened. To be on hand for his wife’s treatment and recovery, Becky’s father had left his advisory appointment in Washington and moved back to Richmond full-time, working as a political consultant and party fund-raiser. Now he was close enough to check on Becky every day. Joy. In person if he wanted. Rapture. He played buddy-buddy with her superiors in the State Attorney’s office more often than she lunched with her girlfriends. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, for gosh sakes!
As much as she loved her parents, Becky refused to surrender her independence. She understood her father’s need to control and protect was rooted in love. She understood her mother’s dreams were equally altruistic. But Becky wanted to live, thrive—succeed—on her terms. She’d find a way to be her own person, a crackerjack attorney—and the Owenses’ daughter.
But none of it was easy.
Zachariah deserved to know what he was really getting into as her husband—what he probably wouldn’t want to get into if he did know.
And he should hear it from her—face-to-face.
But one look at those tanklike shoulders and her hormones had overridden every sensible intention. Swamped by emotions, she’d gotten carried away by the cheering crowd. There was something uniquely inspiring and heartwarming about welcoming home a busload of Marines returning from a war zone. Flags were flying. A band was playing. Her patriotism had kicked in, that was all.
She didn’t really expect that falling into Zachariah’s arms would make all her stresses go away. Not even for the night or two they’d have together.
Zachariah Clark was a man, not a myth. He was a good time. Okay, a very good time.
Be honest, girl.
He was the best time she’d ever had.
But he was a fallback plan, a welcome chapter in her life—not the whole book. He was a Marine who’d left her to do his job while she stayed at home and did hers. She suspected he was damn good at that job, or he wouldn’t be given assignments about which she knew so little and he told her even less. But he wasn’t a superhero. Okay, so Captain Clark might be built along superhuman proportions, but he was still just a man.
Becky breathed deeply—in through her nose, out through her mouth—steeling herself the same way she did each time she stepped up to argue a case before a judge. She could handle this. She could handle him.
That was the Owens way.
The bus pulled to a stop, and the liaison officer signaled the waiting families to enter through the gate onto the parking lot. But as the crowd carried Becky forward, an anxious anticipation buzzed across her skin, raising goose bumps. Despite her resolve to keep this reunion at arm’s length and impersonal until she could explain her situation and determine how Zachariah would fit into her life while he was home on leave, Becky found herself hurrying right along with everyone else, trying to spot him the instant he filed off the bus.
Was he as tall as she remembered? Had he been injured in any way? Would he still overlook the extra pounds that stress and genetics wouldn’t let her lose, and show that same lusty desire for her in his eyes?
Oh, my. Becky’s breath caught in her chest. Zachariah.
He was leaner and more tanned than she recalled. Harder somehow, through the squint of her eyes. Still, Zachariah Clark was impossible to miss. Standing a head taller than most of his comrades, he stepped off the bus with a wary alertness, already scanning the crowd.
“Zachariah!” Damn. Her hand shot into the air again and she waved.
Play it cool, Owens. Play it cool.
But his green eyes had already zeroed in on her. They widened with recognition. His rugged features softened with a lopsided grin. “Beckster!”
Screw decorum. Becky ran to greet him.
The people between them parted for those broad shoulders and captain’s bars as Zachariah pushed his way through the crowd. She met him halfway. He dropped his duffel bag, and his long, strong arms snaked around her as she leaped. He caught her and swung her around, squeezing her tightly and waking every feminine cell inside her with an instant reminder of just how powerfully built and masculine he was. His mouth crushed down over hers long before the world stopped spinning and her toes touched the asphalt beneath her again.
Who was she kidding? She wanted this. Talking could wait. Becky wound her arms around his neck and held on, kissing him, consuming him with a hunger that hadn’t abated one whit since D.C. She inhaled his clean, undoctored scent. Absorbed his heat. Clung to his hard strength. Reveled in the evidence of his desire for her, unabashedly swelling against her thigh.
Rational thought fled as embracing Zachariah reminded her how uncomplicated this was between them. Parts of her body that had lain dormant for eighteen long months roared to life with a frenzy that shook the Owens family tree. Her blood thickened and pulsed. Her breasts tingled with excitement. She lost track of the crowd, of curious eyes, of unpleasant realities—of everything except the desire to burrow beneath this soldier’s starched exterior and wrap herself up in the raw, sensual man inside the uniform.
She was still reaching for another kiss when his mouth withdrew beyond her reach. Zachariah had come to his senses sooner than she had. With his hands massaging circles at her waist, Becky braced her palms against the ragged rise and fall of his chest and tried to recover her own breath. “Wow.”
Bending to touch his forehead to hers, Zachariah’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Now that’s what I call a welcome home.”
Beaming beneath the approval in his low, rumbly voice, Becky twisted her fingers beneath his collar. “You haven’t seen half of what I’ve got planned for you this weekend, soldier.”
“It’s Marine, darlin’.” He pulled her hips forward into his, reminding her that he was ready for action. “But as long as you’ve made plans, I won’t quibble over…”
He angled his face as if he intended to kiss her again. But he jerked back, halfway to his destination, leaving her lips puckered with anticipation. His grip pinched hard at her waist and her mouth rounded into a startled, “Ow!”
