Move the Sun (Signal Bend #1)(35)

No, her father kept to himself. Since his wife and mother had died, Lilli was the only person he confided in, the only one to whom he felt close.

And she’d gone away and left him alone in that big house full of ghosts. At least “the event” hadn’t happened at home. Who knows how long he would have lain there if it had. But it happened on the golf course, while he was entertaining a client.

Her father hated golf.

When the military honors were over and the priest had completed the service, the rain pounding on the green canopy that protected him, the casket and the seated family—which was only Lilli—she stood and let the so-called mourners come to her to offer their condolences. The rain discouraged any lingerers. She stood there, holding a folded American flag, as every car pulled away, everyone heading back to regularly scheduled lives. Finally, she was alone at the graveside, her father’s casket still propped above the hole someone had dug for him. It was fitting that she was alone.

She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, but eventually, a man in a tidy black suit, holding a discreet black umbrella, came up beside her. “I’m very sorry, miss, but we need to inter . . .”

Her father. They needed to inter her father. She looked up and saw two men in work clothes standing at a respectful distance, getting wet and clearly waiting for her to move along. She did. She went home.

She had a regularly scheduled life to get back to, as well. She had one week’s leave. One week in which to figure out what to do about the leavings of her father’s life—and her own. The house she’d grown up in, full of the curios of a lifetime. Family photos. Her childhood keepsakes. Her grandmother’s pottery. Her father’s den, full of plaques and trophies and mysterious papers. Her father’s car—his beautiful, black 1968

Barracuda fastback. He’d loved that car like a son. Her mother’s…no, there was almost nothing left of her mother. Her father had gone through the house in a purifying rage shortly after they buried her.

She wanted almost none of it. She packed up the family photos, the books, her grandmother’s pottery, a few pieces of jewelry, and a couple of mementos and put it all in storage. Then she contacted her father’s lawyer and set to him the task of selling everything else, taking his percentage, and sending her a check for the rest.

She threw her duffel into the back of the ‘Cuda and drove back to Fort Rucker, Alabama from Stockton, California, which was her home no longer.





CHAPTER NINE


Lilli knew she was drunk—too drunk. She’d had too many shots, too many beers, and not nearly enough to eat during the day. She’d screwed up. But she could not make herself care. She felt good. She felt loose. She’d had fun. And she felt really, incredibly, epically f*cking horny. She was standing against Isaac, pressed snugly to the hard wall of his huge body, feeling the rough, thick skin of his palms and fingertips on her back, unhooking her bra.

(She was in his house, though; this was a problem. She didn’t even know where his house was. She needed to focus on that.)

She was standing there, feeling his hands on her, his mouth on her, his big, hard cock bound in his jeans but still digging into her belly. And then his hands were on her breasts, cupping and caressing under her buttoned shirt and loose bra. Too many clothes. There were far too many clothes in this scenario. She fumbled at the buttons of her shirt, needing to free his hands and her breasts.

His mouth still hard on hers, he chuckled and turned his hands, grabbing the placket of her top from the inside and ripping it open. The buttons that had still been closed must have held, because Lilli heard a clear sound of rending fabric as her shirt fell open wide.

As she shrugged it off her shoulders, she backed away from his beautiful mouth enough to say, “Tha’

sucks, dude. I don’ have many clothes with me.”

(Something told her that she’d said a wrong thing in that sentence, but she didn’t bother figuring it out.) “I’ll buy ya a new one,” Isaac growled and he yanked her bra off her arms and took full possession of her breasts. “Fuck, you feel good.” Surprising her completely, he dropped to his knees, pressing his mouth to her belly. His beard tickled and scratched as he sucked her skin. She felt his hands at her jeans, opening them roughly, and she canted her hips closer to him, grabbing fistfuls of his hair to keep him as close to her as possible.

“God, God, God,” she moaned, wanting to be naked, wanting him to be naked. But his hands were on her ass now; he wasn’t pulling her jeans down, though he was biting at her thong, plucking it with his teeth.

She moaned, feeling a need for his rough hands on her bare skin.

“You smell so goddamn good.” He took a deep breath and growled it out; she felt the rumble of it against her pubic bone. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs and slid firmly down until he reached her boots. “These are badass, Sport. Sexy as f*ck.” He pulled down the zipper on one, then the other, and held her hips as she kicked her feet free of them.

Then he reached up and grabbed the loose waistband of her open jeans and yanked hard, bringing them down, her thong tangled up in them, until she could pull her feet and legs finally free.

And again, she was naked while he was fully clothed. But his hands were on her, finally. He pushed her roughly against the door—Jesus, they were still standing in his front hall—and lifted her right leg to hook it over his shoulder, spreading her wide. He ran his fingers back and forth through her folds, over her clit, and she couldn’t shut up, she couldn’t hold still. She had her hands yet knotted in his hair, and she pulled, trying to bring his mouth back to suck on her. With a low, unbelievably sexy chortle, he obliged, his hands wrapping around her hips until his fingers hooked in the cleft of her ass. He pressed his mouth to her clit and sucked it hard into his mouth, dragging it over his teeth.