Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) Page 3

  Screw it; he was only human. “Tell me something, Chloe.”

  Her throat worked, and she swallowed with an audible gulp. Her pupils widened. “What do you want to know?”

  “You planning to reschedule the birthday party?”

  She coughed out a laugh and shook her head. “No. Tonight’s event is officially and permanently canceled.”

  “Good.” Giving in to temptation, he trailed his fingers along the back of her shoulder and down her spine, stepping closer to her in the process. Her body heat seeped right through her thin robe and his built-to-withstand-anything uniform. Her eyelids drifted to half-mast and her lips parted as his hand glided past the small of her back, over her hip, and, finally, along the bottom edge of her robe. When his fingers slipped beneath the hem and circled the tattoo, her breath hitched.

  He traced the smooth skin. Goose bumps rose where he touched her.

  “Thanks for rescuing me,” she whispered. One little step brought her to him. She put her beer on the kitchen counter.

  “Good timing on my part.” Lord, those lips of hers—all full, lush curves. The kind he could nibble on for days. They parted as she inhaled and prepared to reply. He leaned closer, despite the increasingly distant part of his brain that again said, Don’t touch.

  “Under three minutes,” she murmured and came up on her tiptoes so their mouths hovered inches apart. “I believe I promised you a kiss, and I always keep my—”

  He closed the last little distance between and claimed his reward. The sweet, achingly soft touch of her lips against his scorched every last cautionary thought about entertaining bundles of trouble straight out of his mind. He tangled all ten fingers into her hair and dove into the kiss.

  Every part of her gave. Pliant lips parted. Soft, silk-covered breasts cushioned his chest.

  He closed his fist around a handful of her red-blond curls and pulled her head back to the perfect angle. Then he sent his tongue on a tour of her mouth, stroking every part of her he could reach. The sweet, intoxicating slide of her tongue over his, the taste of her, made him hungry to taste her everywhere…her breasts, the soft, vulnerable skin below her navel, and the softer, even more vulnerable hollow between her legs.

  She moaned. The hand on his shoulder tightened and the one pressed to the back of his neck urged him closer…deeper. He slid his thigh between hers, and barely stifled a groan when she ground herself against him and made a grateful sound in the back of her throat. He’d never gone from a low idle to full throttle so fast in his life. Her body shivered with need, equally out of control, and all he could think was, More.

  He cupped her ass and hauled her up. At the same, time she looped both arms around his neck, twined a leg around his hip, and tried to climb him like a sequoia.

  A lightning bolt ripped down his back and tore into his leg. The pain was so brutal, so overwhelming, for a moment all he could do was suck in air and pray not to pass out. And, just like that, the private in his pants retreated—a humbling reminder he wasn’t fit for active duty.

  Fuck. Me.

  The irony was nobody could. Not while his spine threatened to shatter into a million pieces at the least little thing. Has she felt him flinch? Had she, God forbid, felt him go limp?

  He opened his eyes and stared into gray ones clouded with an absolutely annihilating blend of passion and concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I have to go,” he muttered and looked down at their intertwined bodies rather than face whatever emotion played next across her expressive features. He let go slowly, returning her to her own two feet before disentangling himself, so she didn’t lose her balance and he didn’t crumple to the floor.

  He straightened as if his vertebrae were made of spun glass and chanced a glance at her. She’d turned away and concentrated on tightening the belt on her robe, but her protective stance didn’t conceal her rigid posture and jerky movements.

  “Sorry. That was…” What could he say? “Not the wisest move on my part. I can’t do this. I—”

  Nice job. You sound like an asshole. “I’ve got to go.” He stepped around her, walked out the door, and just kept walking—along the hall, down the stairs, straight into the warm, spring night. When he’d gone about a quarter of a mile, he stopped, stared up at the big, full moon surrounded by a fleet of stars, and took a deep, head-clearing breath. He smelled cinnamon and honey.

  “Fuck.”

  Chapter Three

  “Do you regain your virginity after a whole year of no sex?”

  Chloe propped the phone between her ear and her shoulder and stared at the muscular-skeletal diagram hanging in the front office area of the Camp Pendleton Massage Therapy Clinic. “I don’t know,” she told Lynne, her recruiter at Helping Hands Clinical Solutions.

  Lynne called every week to check in and see how an assignment was going, but Chloe always did well and never had any work-related issues, so her personal life had quickly taken center stage in their conversations. The thirty-seven-year-old, married mother of two couldn’t seem to get her head around Chloe’s year of living like a nun. According to Lynne, the word said it all. Nun.

  “But I thought last night was the BIG night. Happy birthday, and all that? What happened?”

  Chloe sighed and shifted her attention to the appointment book on the desk in front of her, which lay open to the afternoon’s schedule. Five minutes until her next client. “He canceled at the last minute. Turns out his coworkers kidnapped him and hauled him off to TJ for a birthday bar crawl.”

  “Oh. That’s very disappointing.”

  No argument, but, honestly, she heard more disappointment in Lynne’s voice than she felt herself. “It’s okay. This was fate’s way of telling me something. What, I’m not sure, but something.”

  “Think you’ll reschedule?”

  The question conjured an image in her head. Not of Troy, but, rather, Major Michael McCade, and how quickly he’d exited her apartment last night after she’d locked lips with him. “I don’t know, Lynne.” She picked up a pen and doodled the word “Fate” in flowing letters on a yellow Post-it note. “I’m beginning to wonder if, maybe, after all this time I’m actually…unfuckable?”

  “Oh please. If you’re unfuckable, I’m downright untouchable. You still have your tight, firm, twenty-something body. Stretch marks haven’t slashed their way across your belly. Your hips haven’t widened to twice their original span from the ordeal of passing nine-plus pounds of bouncing baby boy—twice.”

  “Your husband loves your belly and hips.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed, sounding content, “but that’s love, not lust. Nobody’s lusted after me in a hundred years. You inspire lust simply by breathing, and don’t let your cheating ex-husband make you doubt it. By the same token, stop reading any message into Troy’s no-show. He doesn’t know what he missed.”

  “He doesn’t,” she conceded, “but his no-show isn’t the only reason I’ve come to doubt my fuckability. I got a little…um…hung up with the handcuff, and my neighbor across the hall had to come rescue me.”

  She doodled the word “Rescue” in the same flowing script, directly under “Fate.”

  “The cheating wife? You met her?” Lynne asked, obviously scandalized.

  “No, my other neighbor…a very tall, dark-haired, extremely mouthwatering Major Michael McCade—

  “Shall we call him Major Hottie?”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. So, Major Hottie walked in and you were lying on your bed wearing your new undies and a handcuff and nothing else?”

  “Yep. He waded right into my little drama.”

  “Very heroic of him.”

  “No doubt. The man is standing in my bedroom, looking like a big, strapping Boy Scout in his cammies, and trying his best to be a gentleman, but he’s eyeing me like he’s not quite sure whether he wants to gobble me up in one big bite or run fast in the other direction.”

  “And you?”

  “Jesus, Lynne, the mere sight o
f him is filling my head with such naughty thoughts, I’m ready to roll over and let him spank me ’til I cry, or come, or both. Then he hunkers down and works the cuffs with this kind of innate skill that makes me want to beg him to work the rest of me with those same talented hands. His smile tells me he knows it, and he totally could, without breaking a sweat. So we go out to the kitchen, have a beer, and I swear to you, the chemistry between us is crackling. There’s a freaking electrical storm right there in my apartment. He leans in, we kiss, and whoosh! I go up in flames.”

  “Wow. Flame kiss. Niiiice.”

  “Right. My inhibitions—such as they were—go poof, I’m ready to climb on and ride him like a wild Mustang, when, all of the sudden he pulls away, says, ‘I can’t,’ and…I kid you not…walks out my door.”

  “Holy shit, why?”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing ever since he left. And the only reason I can come up with is I’m unfuckable.”

  “Shut up. You’re not. Maybe he’s gay…or in a relationship.”

  Chloe laughed. “He’s not gay. I could feel it.”

  “You could feel that he wasn’t gay?” Doubt infused Lynne’s question.

  “If he’s gay, he had a weapon of mass destruction in his pants when we kissed. His hands were all over my ass and he couldn’t get his body close enough to mine. My verdict? He ain’t gay. He’s not in a relationship either, or he wouldn’t have kissed me in the first place.”

  “Right, ’cause people in relationships never cheat.”

  “Boy Scout, remember? There’s something fundamentally trustworthy about him.”

  “Must be his skill at picking locks,” Lynne said dryly.

  “Okay, he’s a bad-ass Boy Scout who knows his way around a pair of handcuffs, but still fundamentally trustworthy. He was physically attracted, but, for some reason that had nothing to do with being gay or taken, he backed off. My pheromones must be stale from lack of use, and now I’ve got the stink of desperate woman on me.” Horny, desperate woman.

  She drew the word “Pathetic,” on her Post-it note.

  “You do not have a desperate woman stink on you. There’s some other explanation.”

  “Such as?” Sad, how badly she wanted another explanation.

  “I don’t know. Give me a second to cool down and focus. I’m still back at spanking me ’til I cry or come.”

  The door to the waiting room opened and closed. In the opaque sliding glass shielding the waiting room from the front office area, Chloe saw the shadow of a client come in and take a seat. She crumpled her Post-it note and tossed it into the trash bin under the counter.

  “I should probably thank him for the hasty retreat. Major Hottie is military down to the soles of his combat boots, and he has keeper written all over him. Camouflage gives me hives, and the only things I keep these days fit in my suitcase. Maybe he sensed our lives are moving in different directions and decided not to start something we’d both end up regretting after we got all the spanking and crying and coming out of the way.”

  “You want to talk regret? I was all revved up to live vicariously through your exploits. Let an old married woman dream, ’kay?”

  “Okay, but you’ll have to dream on your own. I have two more clients this afternoon and the first one just arrived.”

  “More vets?”

  “Dunno. I still need to look at the charts. Probably.”

  “Well, good luck with that. Sempler is very happy with you.”

  Sempler was the stick-up-his-ass manager of the clinic. “Really? Seems like he’s waiting for me to screw up.”

  “Don’t screw up. You’re the first therapist we’ve placed there who’s lasted longer than a week.”

  Not surprising. Mr. Sempler lived to criticize. But Chloe liked southern California, and, frankly, she needed the paycheck. “I won’t. ’Bye, Lynne.”

  “’Bye, Unfuckable.”

  Har. Chloe hung up and then stood and smoothed her formfitting, raspberry-pink sleeveless sweater over her drapey white maxi-skirt. Massage therapy involved constant standing, stretching, and extending, so, for work, she always chose comfy clothes she could move in. Too bad she didn’t get to choose everything about her work wardrobe. She lifted her lab coat from where she’d slung it over the back of the chair and shrugged it on. The coat was Sempler’s edict. Personally, she thought the white coat made some of the clients tense—which she considered counterproductive—but he was the boss. She picked up a pen and tucked it into her breast pocket and then grabbed the chart for the next client on her way to the waiting room. Hopefully this new client would demand all of her attention, because she was sick of thinking about—

  Oh hell. She drew to a stop. What was up with her karma these days? There, in the waiting room, sat a tall, dark monument of testosterone otherwise known as Major Hottie. He looked up from his study of the bamboo floor at the same time she halted, and inscrutable brown eyes settled on her. She glanced at the file in her hand. Sure enough, the tab read, “McCade.” Perfect.

  She ignored the nervous flutter in her stomach, and gave him her best professional smile. “Hello, Major McCade.”

  “Howdy neighbor.”

  Okay then, no pretending last night didn’t happen. Other than that, she had absolutely no read on him. He was a master of self-containment. She drew in a deep, fortifying breath. “Please follow me.” He stood to obey, so she led him to the treatment room at the end of the hall and gestured for him to have a seat on the padded, sheet-draped table. She sat on the rolling stool at the head of the treatment table and flipped open his chart. Her ears barely registered the tropical-rainforest soundtrack that spilled from hidden speakers and merged with the gurgle of the countertop Zen fountain. A quick read told her what she needed to know. His referring physician’s report was very detailed and included copies of his images—acute herniated lumbar disc, with resultant sciatica. Ouch. She looked at him, noticing how upright he sat and wondering, for the first time, if that had more to do with discomfort than military bearing.

  “I see this is your first massage-therapy session.”

  “Yep.” He frowned, and his eyes shifted to the door. She got the distinct feeling he wasn’t there by choice and wondered if her presence contributed to his reluctance.

  She let out a breath. “Major, your overall comfort plays a vital role in healing. Would you prefer a different therapist?”

  “Michael,” he corrected with a gently mocking smile she realized was mostly self-directed. “And no,” he looked down at his boots, “if I have to do this holistic stuff, I’d just as soon stick with you.”

  She didn’t take his attitude personally. Men, especially the alpha-types, tended to think of massage as the shoulder rub they gave their girlfriend or wife as a precursor to sex. Definitely not a legitimate modality. She clicked her pen and prepared to make some notes. “Tell me, Michael, how’ve you been sleeping lately?”

  The question surprised him enough to drag his attention away from the study of his bootlaces. She could read the answer well enough in his weary eyes, but she waited for him to admit it to her.

  “Not great. Maybe five hours a night.” Unconsciously, he rubbed a hand over his lower back.

  She mentally subtracted a couple hours from his estimate, because the tough guys never admitted the full extent of a problem. Poor man. He must be exhausted. Lucky she’d chosen this treatment room. It was the quietest, and with only one other client scheduled this afternoon, he could sleep for an hour or so after his session ended.

  “Okay.” She stood and crossed to the door. “There’s a hanger over here for your clothes. Get undressed and lay on the table, under the sheet, facedown. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll get started.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Completely undressed?”

  She raised hers right back. “You can leave your socks on if you’d like. Is there a problem?”

  Michael stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. “You’re in charge.”

 
She tamped down on her smirk until she exited the room. She would be, in about ten minutes. Her attraction to massage therapy lay in the ability to bring people relief from pain and tension and provide a deep state of relaxation. After almost five years of doing bodywork, she had confidence in her skills. He’d sleep like a baby by the time she was done with him.

  …

  Michael eased down onto the massage table, raised the sheet up to the middle of his chest, and carefully turned onto his stomach. He waited there, head resting on his folded arms, and looked around the room. Light green walls and bamboo floors conveyed earthy tranquility. Pale, honeycomb blinds filtered the sunlight coming in from the single window on the wall to his left. A small fountain gurgled on top of a bureau on the opposite wall. Above the bureau hung a row of cabinets holding God only knew. Soft music flowed from the speakers in the corners of the room.

  All the serenity made him want to go directly to the gym and punch the big bag until his knuckles swelled and rendered him unable to make a fist. He couldn’t have felt more like a chick at a day spa if Chloe had handed him a fluffy pink robe and cozy slippers.

  Fuck it. He didn’t have a choice. Harding expected him to complete all recommended treatments and get a clean bill of health before he’d be cleared to fly. Dane wanted the massage therapy to help…whatever…keep his muscles from pulling his bones out of whack. Fifty minutes out of his day, but it felt like a colossal waste of time. Was there any absurdity he wouldn’t endure in order to fly again?

  Probably not, he acknowledged as his wandering gaze snagged on a light pink bottle of massage oil sitting on top of the small cabinet closest to the treatment table.

  A soft knock behind him interrupted his reluctant effort to get in touch with his feminine side. Chloe entered, looking sexy-professional with her hair caught up in a loose twist at the back of her head. A few untamed strands curled free to frame her face. The clinical white coat hid her traffic-stopping curves, but for some perverse reason, made him fixate on every remembered inch of smooth skin currently cloaked from his view.