Midnight Man (Midnight #1)(55)
“Hmm?” John was reaching up to place a ribbon near the apex of the tree. “Nah. My mom died when I was two and my dad wouldn’t have known how to decorate a tree if you’d put a gun to his head. We usually had Christmas lunch on base then went target shooting. That okay?”
He stepped back and admired his handiwork. He stood as if on a mission—broad shoulders straight, wide-legged for balance. A frown of concentration pulled his black eyebrows together. He looked exactly like a man who, against all odds, has just finished a demanding and daunting task. Attacking a well-defended enemy stronghold, maybe, or rescuing hostages held by ruthless terrorists. The warrior’s stance was a little ruined by the fact that he was festooned with red ribbons. Two clove-studded apples dangled from one big hand.
She stepped back, too, and he pulled her against his side, a heavy arm around her shoulders. “I smell like a goat,” he said. “Took me an hour to dig around the roots of that damned tree.”
She turned her head and sniffed delicately. “A pine-scented goat,” she said politely.
He snorted. “Tree turned out okay, though, didn’t it? Not bad for a first effort.”
The tree was pretty, she thought with satisfaction. It reached almost to the ceiling and the branches, thick and glossy, contrasted cheerily with the ribbons and apples and strands of fluffy white popcorn. The tree glowed with color. There were no store-bought ornaments on the tree, but that only made it charming, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Pity we don’t have an angel,” she sighed. Her mother had a wonderful hand-made papier-machè white-and-gold angel picked up in Naples, which would have looked perfect on top of the tree.
John squeezed her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. His deep voice was quiet as he said, “You wouldn’t fit on top.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Is it okay?”
Suzanne was watching him anxiously, so John had to stop simply forking food into his mouth like there was no tomorrow and pretend to savor it. The food was great, considering what Suzanne had had to work with. Certainly better than his usual lukewarm can of soup and crackers up in his hideaway. But the sober truth was, he was starved. There hadn’t been much time to eat these past two days and he’d worked up an appetite, what with the sex and digging up a tree. He’d have happily sucked up MREs or burnt toast, if he had to, let alone the perfectly decent meal she’d laid on. The fact that the food was good was a plus.
“It’s wonderful.” Reluctantly, he put his fork down and pasted an expression of sincerity on his face, when the only thing he wanted to do with his face was stuff it. “Never eaten better.”
Suzanne laughed. “You are so full of it, John Huntington. Are you trying to convince me that a man who keeps an account at Comme Chez Soi can become ecstatic over frozen turkey leg pumped full of God knows what preserving agents? Give me a break.”
“No, no,” he protested, eyeing his forkful of turkey and baked potato with longing. “It’s great, just great. Trust me.” She was going to protest further, he could see it on her face. He put the fork in his mouth so he could at least be chewing while she answered.
But she only shook her head. “I guess if you compare it to raw goat, it’s okay,” Suzanne conceded.
She was leaning forward, beautiful face lit with amusement. Candlelight loved her face, bringing out the soft glow of her skin, highlighting the elegant curve of her cheekbones, finding hidden licks of fire in her hair. This was a woman made for candlelit dinners and romancing.
Shit. He hadn’t done much of that with her. He didn’t really know how. He’d always considered whatever went on between ‘Hello’ and ‘Let’s get it on’ to be perfectly useless. An empty wasteland of time getting to what both parties wanted.
For the first time in his life, he could see how intriguing the journey from hello to sex could be, how pleasant it could be to smell the roses—or, rather, rose-scented skin—along the way.
His swim buddy during SEALS training, Martin Harding, had fallen in love with a philosophy student waitressing in Coronado. Marty had sent flowers and notes when they couldn’t meet, which was often. SEALS training didn’t allow for hearts and flowers. Marty had given up precious sleep time to see her when she got off work at eleven and to walk her home to her apartment in a rough neighborhood. And for three months he hadn’t gotten laid, not once. You’d have thought that Hell Week was the last week of seminary training, for all the good it had done Marty.
At the time, John had found that amazingly stupid. All that effort and not one fuck. What was the point? Except there was a point. Marty was now married to the girl and they had three kids. And were happy.
He’d gotten everything ass-backwards with Suzanne. She was a courting kind of woman. Even a blind man could see that, could see her refinement and class. Jesus, all he’d seen were dainty curves he wanted to put his hands on and full lips he wanted to kiss. All he could think about was what her breasts tasted like and how quickly he could make her wet. All he wanted was to get into her and stay there as long as his stamina could keep him.
Even now—right now—sitting in candlelight across from her, aware that she’d somehow waved a fairy’s magic wand to turn his dusty little mountain retreat into a Christmas delight, he wanted to do her. Hard and fast.