Below the Belt(20)

Ignore.

She’d call Mary back later, when she wasn’t still buzzing from the adrenaline rush of that kiss. Her mother could sniff out pheromones through the phone lines. When it came to men, dating or anything remotely embarrassing, Mary Cook was on the hunt.

Instead, she thumbed through her contacts and found what she needed. She breathed a sigh of relief when a voice answered.

“Kara, hi. Is it too late to call? I have a few questions about that whole visualize the goal thing you tried to teach me that one time.”


*

BRAD’S back had barely done more than bounce on the mattress when his door opened.

He draped his forearm over his eyes and groaned. “It was closed, numb nuts.”

“But not locked. Smells like someone wants company.”

Brad threw his pillow without looking. He heard it hit a wall. Pointless.

“Where’d you go?” When Brad didn’t answer, Higgs wandered around the room. Brad tracked his roommate’s path by the sound of his voice. “I know you were out for a while. And given you dressed up—”

“Jeans. I’m wearing jeans. In what world does that constitute dressing up?”

“—you probably weren’t going out for a drink at a titty bar.”

Gross. The last time he went into a titty bar, he was nineteen, eager to prove he was a mature adult to the other Marines in his platoon, and vomited up the beer they’d given him—illegally—behind the Dumpster in the alley out back.

Ah, youth.

He decided the best way to make his chatty roommate go away was to stop answering. Sometimes, mosquitos got high on the attention of being swatted at.

“And the group didn’t go out tonight anywhere. I know, since I would have been invited before you,” Higgs continued. It was true, but that didn’t account for the tightening in Brad’s belly at the honesty. “So I’m left to conclude you had a date.”

That one word had all his hackles rising. No, not a date. Not dating the trainer. “Wasn’t a date.”

“Ah, he speaks.” As if that were an invitation, Higgs sat at the edge of his bed, within kicking distance. Brave SOB. “And as you didn’t feel the need to denounce the other options—”

“You did for me,” he pointed out.

“—I am left to conclude—”

“Again.”

“—that it was a date, and that you are embarrassed by her. Which makes this all the more interesting.” Flopping back, he laced his hands behind his head. His elbow bumped Brad’s. “So tell me more.”

“Hold on, I forgot to put on my nightgown and grab my curlers. Do you want to do my hair, or should I do yours first?” Brad asked with as much of a sneer as he could work up.

“You got curlers? Go for it. No judgment.” Higgs shrugged. “She a stripper? Married? Ugly as sin?”

“What? No!” Brad sat up and shoved at his roommate. The man didn’t budge.

“So there is a woman. Damn, you’re bad at this.” Rolling to his feet, Higgs chuckled as Brad threw his second pillow—this time with perfect aim—at his back. “Just saying, if you’ve got a girl, and you want to keep her quiet for whatever reason, it might be a good idea to be more discreet. Take her down to Topsail Beach or something. But don’t leave the BOQ dressed like you’re gonna meet her father. Guys talk.” With a wink, he closed the door behind him.

He didn’t have a girl. First off, the whole have part was insulting. And secondly, Marianne Cook was most certainly not a girl. Those had been the curves of a petite bombshell of a woman under his hands. That kiss had been with an active participant. The thoughts that had rolled around in his mind all the way back to the BOQ had been of two consenting adults.

And now his dick was semi-hard, with no hope of sharing the fun of remedying that problem. Fantastic.

The worst part was, he’d enjoyed the evening. He was struggling to remember the last time he’d had such a good time with a woman, even his sister. Marianne was funny, smart and could clearly hold her own around a bunch of hard-ass Marines. That was appealing in more ways than one. Even if there’d been no spark, he’d have been happy to call her a friend and hang out. He had no doubt she’d be the kind of girl to flirt platonically with you one minute, then drink your ass under the table the next.

But that spark. That damn spark . . .

His lips were still tingling from the contact. He might have initiated the kiss, but she’d hopped on that ride without a second glance behind her. The things they’d do to each other if they got naked on a bed. Or a couch. Or against a wall . . .

He groaned and rolled over on his stomach. His erection pressed painfully into the mattress, an apt punishment for letting his mind wander down the can’t-go-there path.

She was intelligent, and she was cool. She’d probably laugh it off with him, if he managed to play it right. Marianne wasn’t the kind of woman to go running to a superior for a single kiss that they’d both participated in. She’d probably go right back to annoying the hell out of him about his knee, come to think of it.

Captain Rock, meet Major Hard Place.


*

MARIANNE jingled her keys—all forty of them—in the palm of her hand as she walked into the gym. She tossed them up and nearly bobbled them on the catch. And her mind turned, unbidden, to the last time she’d dropped them, and what had followed.