Tell it to the Marine(7)
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” He leaned in, his forehead just millimeters from hers, the sweet hints of Old Spice, cotton, and something deeply masculine filled her lungs.
“Because I spend all my time playing to egos, catering to what the audience wants, and meeting men who play the same parts…I wanted to meet someone real. Not an actor with an agenda or a director with plan…but a real, honest-to-God man with no other agenda beyond an entertaining evening.”
She bit her lip, forcing her gaze up to meet his bold directness. “I wanted a night of simple pleasures, man, woman, food…and if sex happened, I wanted it to be spectacular and all about mutual pleasure…not for career advancement or some egotistic need to punch a notch on a belt.”
“I promise.” His voice melted over her. “If sex happens, it will definitely be all about mutual pleasure.”
Chapter Three
She flowed beautifully in his arms, satin, silk, and softness drifting to the music. He fought to keep his hands from roaming. Her blue eyes watched him from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. The artless smiles, the raw honesty, and the flicker of nervous ticks in her hand gestures bulldozed every reservation he’d had about the date. From the first email he’d received from the mysterious Madame Eve to the moment he’d walked up to the table, his plan remained simple: enjoy a meal, some quiet conversation, and say good night.
Yes, he’d signed up for the 1Night Stand along with every other man in the unit. A show of solidarity for their brothers who needed the opportunity to meet someone, to reintegrate with the big bad world far away from the fierce and fast rules of the sandbox. But meeting her changed everything.
“Your turn, James.” Her voice possessed a husky quality that slid through his system like a well-aged whisky, heating every nerve it touched. “Why did you sign up?”
True to her word, her foot stepped on his, but he ignored the pinch of her shoe and the scrape across the top of his loafers. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. He could polish out the scuffmarks later.
“I spent a few years in the sandbox, received an honorable discharge, came home and finished my degree. The day I received my certification and license, I had a call from Captain Dexter. I’d reported to him during my first tour. Good man. He opened a facility here in Allen called Mike’s Place. Heard of it?”
She shook her head and the waterfall of champagne blonde hair danced in a caress against her shoulders. A cluster of strawberries shadowed her right shoulder, a birthmark he didn’t recall seeing on the screen. Hand skimming up her arm, he drew a thumb across the mark. An unfamiliar tug pulled behind his sternum. Cataloging differences between the smoking hot sweetheart on the big screen and the exquisite femininity in his arms was a hobby he could embrace.
“It’s a facility predicated on helping our brothers. It begins with therapy, physical, mental, and emotional. It offers rehabilitation for physical injuries, post-operative recovery support, group and individual therapy. We have a hospital wing for patients who need more intensive care and an outpatient wing for locals and those who live in the guest residences.”
“It sounds very well thought out.”
“It’s brilliant, actually. The Captain—Luke—is a dedicated Marine. He puts his men first. He added guest residences for out-of-state patients and their families, and apartments for staff. There’s a sports complex, a daycare and in the next six months, a full-time charter school with our own instructors for children of staff and patients. We don’t just focus on our brothers, but offer support for the whole family. Luke’s planning to expand over the next year to include care for widowed spouses and their children.”
The music shifted to a slower tempo and he paused to tug her closer until her body rested breast to chest with his and her thighs gently glided against his in a rasp of fabric.
“And you work there?” She murmured the words.
“Yes, I focused my thesis and clinical on trauma support. Reintegration after the sandbox is difficult in the best of circumstances, but when you combine physical injury or personal loss, you raise the emotional stakes, and we’re wired for combat, not civilian life. It takes time to reacclimatize.”
Her perfume carried hints of flowers and candy, like a breeze blowing from a bakery shop on a spring day. His cock jerked hopefully and he focused on a stand-down order. He wanted to take his time and savor every moment.
“You must have an amazing soul.”
Pleasure spiked at the compliment, but his brows quirked. “How so, ma—Lauren?” He’d get that right, sooner or later.