Bungalow Nights(45)
“Why don’t you lean on my shoulder instead,” Vance suggested and, without waiting for her answer, put his arm around her and arranged her so that she was snuggled close to him, her head resting on his chest, the cold weight of the ice pack soothing the last of the throbbing ache from her scalp. He’d had her swallow two pain relievers earlier and apparently they’d kicked in, too.
Using the remote, he clicked on the TV across the room. Baseball. They hadn’t even tossed a coin, but she didn’t mind. There was no way she could follow any kind of storyline with her cheek absorbing the beat of Vance’s heart. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, and her bones seemed to go lax, while her blood stayed at that whenever-I’m-around-him simmer.
As minutes passed, though, she could feel the growing tension in his body. His hard chest turned rigid, his short breaths more shallow. Uneasy, she shifted a little and the ice pack slid down her bare arm, making her twitch. He plucked it away.
“Done?” he said, his voice low.
“Sure.” She watched him toss it onto the tray that was centered on the coffee table. Uncertain if she should move, Layla remained in an awkward half-raised position until she heard Vance sigh and he pulled her back against him.
But she couldn’t relax at all now, not with the way the walls seemed to squeeze inward. The noise of the baseball game didn’t permeate her consciousness. In her head she heard only Vance’s breaths and her own, a syncopated, unsettling rhythm. Layla’s temperature climbed. Growing up, she’d had a dog, a mutt named Stewart. He’d had the softest ears and the sweetest disposition and had positively craved human attention. When you petted him, he’d warm in that exact location—the pink stretch of his belly, the dip between his shoulders, the top of his head. Layla felt as though she was doing that now, every point of contact with Vance its own singular hot spot.
She cleared her throat, searching for something to say that might ease the strain. “So...Baxter has woman trouble?”
“All men have woman trouble.”
Her mouth curved. “Not Uncle Phil.” The dedicated bachelor stayed way clear of it.
“You’re wrong. He worries about you.” There was a hesitation. “I worry about you.”
Uh-oh. Slowly, Layla straightened to a sitting position and met his gaze. “Why did you go to Captain Crow’s tonight?” She’d be annoyed if he was playing big brother again. “Were you worrying about me then?”
His expression didn’t flicker. “We’re out of beer. Baxter wanted a drink.”
“Oh,” she said, somewhat mollified. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you worried about me?”
His gaze slanted to the side, avoiding hers. “I don’t want you hurt, Layla.”
More uh-oh. Why did that sound like a patronizing I don’t want to hurt you, Layla?
She glowered at him. “I don’t want you hurt, either, Vance.”
“We should call it a night.” Pushing off the cushions, he rose to his feet. When she didn’t follow suit, he huffed out a breath. “Look, I’m in a mood.”
Layla raised an eyebrow. “A mood for what?”
For a moment he went still, and then his lips pressed together. “Don’t push me.”
Half thrilled and half wary, Layla found she wanted to do just that. For days and days, he’d been so controlled and polite and...civilized. He didn’t look that way now, he looked bigger than usual, edgy and impatient, as if some force inside him was ready to spring loose.
God, please, spring loose on her. A woman didn’t have to want forever to want that. Because the chemistry between them had never gone away. “Or what?”
He sent her a quick glance. “Or what, what?”
She licked dry lips. “What happens if I push you?”
His electric eyes shot to hers. Held.
The visual contact came with a physical jolt. Then that sexual tether snapped into place, hook-to-eye, the connection made, the two of them engaged in a torrid tango without moving a muscle. Frustration, irritation, caution crossed Vance’s face and he narrowed his eyes at her. “Stop,” he said.
Lifting her hands, Layla shrugged. “Green flash.”
The room’s temperature jacked up another few degrees. Though she held herself still, her nipples contracted to aching points. She glanced down reflexively, worried he might be able to tell, but then she knew he could.
“Layla,” he groaned. A flush ran across his high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m trying to be noble here, but my temper’s pointing away from white knight and sliding straight toward hell-raiser.”
She shivered at the thought. That restless energy of his, unleashed.
“So...I think you should just head to your room.”
That restless energy of his, wasted. As if she’d sleep, thinking of him down the hall. “What about what I want?” Layla asked, rising from the couch.
His chest rose up and down on hard breaths and his nostrils flared as she came toe-to-toe with him. “You’re in a vulnerable place. You don’t know—”
“I’m not so fragile.” It infuriated her that he believed differently. Colonel Parker’s daughter had a spine of steel and a better understanding of the world than Vance gave her credit for. “All my life I’ve lived with the knowledge that things can turn on a dime. Which means I enjoy the moment I’m in—because I don’t expect anything to last forever.”
His nostrils flared again. She saw his fingers flex beneath that cast. “The other night, that wasn’t the real me,” he warned.
“How so?” Shivering, she remembered a very real kiss he’d pressed to the small of her back. The scrape of his whiskers up her spine.
“I’m not a gentle man,” he said. “And definitely no gentleman.”
She reached forward and crumpled his T-shirt in her fist. Yeah. This felt right. “I can handle whatever you dish out, soldier boy.”
And on her next breath, he yanked her close.
Be careful what you wish for, her head said. Her blood just sang.
* * *
VANCE DROVE HIS MOUTH against hers. Their teeth clacked and he pushed between hers to bury his tongue deep in her wet heat. His heartbeat was unruly, his blood rocketing through his system. His control was unraveling.
She melted against his chest and it almost calmed the beast in him. He’d gone a little crazy when he’d heard Layla was hurt, and then even crazier when he’d seen another man’s hands on her. A primitive compulsion had surged from the depths of his belly once again. She’s mine.
He speared the fingers of one hand in the hair at her nape, guiding back her head so he could taste the line of her jaw and the smooth, tender skin of her neck. She moaned and the sound spoke directly to his animal lust. He sucked on the tender flesh, wanting to taste more of her, wanting to mark her.
Maybe he should feel ashamed—but he’d warned her, hadn’t he? There wasn’t anything of the soulful lover in him tonight. She could run if she wanted, he’d let her go the instant she balked, but until then she was getting Vance, full throttle.
“No softness for you tonight, baby,” he murmured as he ran his mouth back to hers.
She shoved her hands under the hem of his T-shirt. Her touch on his bare skin made it jitter and his cock jumped in his jeans. “I didn’t ask for soft,” she said against his ravaging lips.
He angled his head to deepen the kiss, surging into her mouth at the same time as he caught the tight jut of her nipple between scissoring fingers. She bowed into the little pain, her hips pushing hard against his. He caught one round ass cheek in his other hand and held her to him as he ground his shaft against her, not trying to be pretty about what he wanted.
This is who I am, he was telling her. The man in the tea shop, the sensitive lover who coaxed instead of demanded that first time was a facade. Vance’s training made him a warrior first, a medic second and, before that, he’d come out of the womb restless and ready for action.
He released her nipple, only to pinch it anew, her needy moan gasoline to his fire. She tugged at his shirt and he managed to let go of her long enough to strip it off. With a little noise, she moved into him again, her mouth pressing here, there and everywhere.
Jesus. He felt like a tuning fork, vibrating in short jerky waves, each of Layla’s kisses a new strike.
He buried his face in her hair and breathed in her scent. Shampoo, salt air and baking notes: vanilla, cinnamon, a hint of lemon.
She found his nipple and licked the scrap of flesh. Vance shuddered and his fingers shook as they reached for the skinny straps of her top. Time to get this off. Time to get her naked.
He stripped off the stretchy cotton. She was naked beneath it, but there was a faint red line below her perfect breasts where the shirt’s elastic liner had pressed her skin. With a flick of his hand, he tossed the fabric away. “Don’t wear that again,” he muttered. “It hurt you.”