The SEAL's Rebel Librarian Read online

  The rain misting her hair into a gentle wave condensed into a droplet that trickled down the side of her face. “I hit on you,” he said. “But I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, her face clearly reflecting two things he knew very well: desire and hesitation, then blew out her breath, shook her head. “I’m thirty-four.”

  “How do you know I’m not thirty-four?”

  She cut him a no bullshit, please glance, then continued. “I’m thirty-four, and newly divorced, and on staff at the college where you are a student, and this is a really bad idea.”

  He said nothing, because he recognized the tone of a woman trying to talk herself out of something. His best move was to keep his mouth shut. She had her umbrella in one hand, her car keys in the other, and her car was nosed up to the yellow curb in front of the Ducati dealership. But she wasn’t moving.

  She slid him another look out of those incredible hazel eyes, sidelong, assessing. Weighing upsides and downsides. “Want to get a coffee before I go to work? As my motorcycle purchase advisor,” she clarified.

  Oh, hell no. He turned the full heat of his gaze on her. “You can call me your motorcycle purchase advisor. I can tell you I’m not enrolled as a degree-seeking student at Lancaster College, that I’m just taking a couple of classes. But that doesn’t suit a woman who just walked into a Ducati dealership with her eye on a Monster and straight up told the salesman to fuck off when he tried to talk her into a Rebel. Which, for the record, only pussies and girls ride. You’re neither.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. Then her chin lifted. “You’re right,” she said. “Do you want to get a coffee?”

  He leaned toward her. “Do you think coffee will keep us out of trouble?”

  “No,” she said, then turned her face so her lips were inches from his ear. “My place. In or out?”

  Chapter Two

  For a moment Erin listened to the rain plunk against the shallow metal awning over their heads, and tried to place the feeling roiling inside her. Her entire body felt charged up, a dangerous combination given the drenched air and the high-voltage current flowing through the man in front of her. Her brain misfired in a dozen different directions. How dare that salesman try to talk her out of buying the bike she wanted? What on earth had she done to deserve the vision of the as-yet-unnamed student riding a Ducati 1099 through a driving rain and walking into the dealership straight out of her dreams? The hummingbird whir and dart of her heart indicating a chemistry unlike anything she’d felt before. But one thought stayed on the surface of her overheated brain. He’d called her attempt to justify getting a cup of coffee together.

  Then she’d called his bluff that “coffee” actually meant “coffee.”

  Could she be like this, a woman who rode a motorcycle and propositioned hot guys?

  “In,” he said. “Always in.”

  Apparently she could. It took her a moment to identify the swoop and plummet of her stomach as the feeling of walking a very fine tightrope of control over a chasm. A crazy longing rose inside her, not lust, but something gut deep, aching for that feeling of hope and possibility and a future that would surprise her.

  She looked at his bike, then at her car. “I live about ten minutes from here,” she said. The rain, pattering steadily on metal, asphalt, glass, diluted her words but not her tone.

  “Address?”

  She gave it to him.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Her heart was pounding in her chest, the interior of her Civic fogging up as she sedately backed out of the parking lot into traffic. Her stomach fluttered as she drove home without catching sight of … of … what the hell was his name?

  Startled, almost hysterical laughter burst from her lips. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said to herself, peering through the rain-lashed windshield. The wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge, and he was nowhere in sight. But when she rounded the corner to the quiet street, she saw his bike turn up the driveway to the Craftsman house she was renting from a professor currently on sabbatical. She pushed the button to open the garage door. He walked his bike inside, standing to the side as she drove in and parked.

  Water streamed from his clothes to the cement floor of the single-car garage. He’d removed his helmet—his hair clung to his forehead as he watched her walk around the back bumper—then set it down on the bike seat. For a long moment, she looked at him, at his full-lipped mouth, at his blue eyes flashing in the dim-lit space, at his broad shoulders stretching the sheepskin-lined leather jacket, and listened to her body. His feet were braced apart, the energy she felt coiled under his skin transmitting despite the seemingly easy stance, and his gaze was even. Not challenging, not sultry, just a simple statement. Here I am. Let’s see what you’ve got.

  The confidence inherent in his attitude was unfamiliar to her, but very intriguing. Her skin felt tight, sensitized to the droplets of rain trickling from her collar and sleeves. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She tipped her head to indicate he should follow her along the covered walkway leading from the garage to the back door. Once inside, he glanced quickly at the kitchen, then through the widened arch leading to the dining and living rooms.

  “I’m going to drip all over your floors.”

  Puddles were already forming at his booted feet. “I’d let you, except they’re not my floors,” she said. “I’m house-sitting for a professor who’s on sabbatical in Australia. Stay there.”

  She shucked her raincoat and hung it from the row of hooks by the back door, then walked down the basement stairs to the laundry area, where she found a clean load of towels stacked on the dryer, all the time expecting to hear the back door close because he’d come to his senses. She grabbed two towels and hurried back upstairs to the kitchen.

  Still there. Still dripping on the slate. The reality of what they were about to do hit her, and she clutched the towels to her chest like she was the one saturated with rain. The plan was simple. Motorcycle, skydiving, all to work her way up to dating, and because she wasn’t dating or in a long-term relationship, she wasn’t on the pill and hadn’t bought condoms.

  The plan was fucked.

  “I don’t have condoms,” she said.

  Without batting an eyelash, he reached into the lining of his jacket and tossed his wallet on the counter. She crossed the kitchen. Rainwater seeped into the soles of her knee-high socks as she stood in front of him. He took one of the towels from her and ran it over his hair, then his face. “May I?” she murmured, oblique, trusting him to read her mind. Not really asking.

  He seemed to get that, because one corner of his mouth curled up, the smile not quite lighting up the shadows in, and under, his blue eyes. She flattened her palms against his chest, flexed her fingertips into the muscle, felt his nipples harden under the heels of her hands before sliding the jacket off his shoulders. It was surprisingly heavy, and the scent of lanolin and his skin rose from the warm folds as she hung it from the hook next to her raincoat, intoxicating, unexpected. Arousing.

  She turned back to him, lifted the hem of his T-shirt. The same enticing strip of abdomen he’d flashed yesterday peeked out at her—thin skin, hard muscles, the elastic of his underwear, the shocking thrill that went through her at the sight of his belt holding his jeans up. She brushed her thumb back and forth over his hip bone and watched the muscle shudder. Jump.

  She glanced at the clock on the stove. She had an hour before she had to be at work. God only knew if this would happen again, so she was going to make the most of it. She put her left hand on his other hip bone, then skated her hands up his torso, gathering his shirt as she went up and over his head. Letting the T-shirt drop to the floor, she set her hands on his shoulders, roped with muscle. He looked far leaner in his clothes, deceptively so. Serious strength resided in this body, skin over muscle, tattooed at the shoulder. A set of triangles shaped into a swirl, another one just above his right hip bone, in ornate letters, that led
her fingertips to the trail of hair arrowing into his jeans.

  When her fingers tucked into the elastic, the warmth of skin inside cotton and denim seduced her. She unfastened the button and unzipped his jeans, then worked the fabric down to the tops of his thighs. His cock, trapped in a painful-looking bend against his pelvis, sprang free, thick and heavy, pulsing slightly as it lifted into the air with his heartbeat.

  He heel-toed out of his motorcycle boots so she could get the wet denim off, leaving him naked in her kitchen. She lost her train of thought, then gave herself a mental shake. “It’s been a while,” she said. Uncertain where or how to begin, she flicked him a glance.

  “Here’s good,” he said. His gaze was soft and hot, holding hers as he took her hand and flattened her palms against his chest. Hard muscles under soft skin sparked a sense memory. She reached out to cup the underside of his cock, caressing from the root to the head. The shocked, strained grunt he made sent heat spiking through her so she did it again.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, and reached for the buttons of her blouse. Hands trembling, he fumbled with the placket, then tugged her shirttails from her wide-legged pants, revealing the soft gray lace of her bra. “Oh, fuck,” he said.

  The only luxury she’d claimed for herself while married to Jason was her underwear. Silky, lacy matching sets, every day, and she was suddenly, fiercely glad she’d held firm on that because he was staring at her breasts, lifted and cupped in the lace, like he’d never seen such a thing before. Then he drew her blouse over her breasts again, noting the way the lace was barely visible under the opaque fabric. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered again, and bent his head to kiss her.

  His mouth was temptation in flesh, warm, full, borderline pouty lips against hers. His cock still firmly in her hand, she parted her lips and felt his tongue slip inside to touch hers. His hands cupped her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples, then coaxed the straps from her shoulders. The fabric sagged a little, baring the upper curves and swells. Still gripping his shaft, she stepped forward, nestling his cock against her upper abdomen, framing the head between her breasts.

  His mouth tore away from hers as he bent his head to look between their bodies and groan. “That’s what you’re hiding under those prim clothes?” he asked, low and velvet-rough, then bent at the knees to wrap his arm around her hips, hoist her off her feet, and turn to set her on the counter. His hands were everywhere, scratching through her hair, cupping her jaw, holding her for his mouth as he stepped between her knees.

  She gasped, the primitive act of spreading her legs for him sending shock waves of lust radiating from her hot core. He tugged her bra down just enough to release her breasts, then cupped them and pinched her nipples. She gasped again, writhed too, and reached behind her to brace herself against the cabinet. Her legs drew up, clasping to his hips as she arched into the touch.

  Hands still trembling he wrestled with her waistband until he figured out the hook-and-eye closure, then jerked down the zipper. He stepped back just far enough to strip her trousers and panties off, leaving her in disheveled hair and blouse, and her argyle knee socks.

  His gaze held hers as he turned his hand to cup her sex. Looking into his blue-gray

  eyes while he gently parted her folds and dipped one finger between them was the hottest thing she’d ever done, sending a bolt of lust crashing through her.

  She was slick and ready for him, and this was her life now, half naked in the kitchen of the house she was living in after her divorce, with a totally naked student …

  “What … what’s…?” she began distractedly before her brain shorted out at the sight of his hips keeping her legs spread, his fingers dipping, exploring, then circling slick fluids around her clit.

  That her life was about to derail spectacularly was the last coherent thought she had. Fire spread inside, making her achingly aware of her sex, how desperately she wanted him inside her. Blind and seeking, she reached out and gripped the nape of his neck, pulling him closer so he could kiss her and touch her at the same time. His breath gusted over her lips, his tongue circling on her lower lip in time with his fingertip.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she sobbed, climax pulsing through her. He swore against her mouth and slid his fingers down, inside. Heel of his thumb to her clit, three fingers stretching the most sensitive flesh inside her, and she arched out the last of her release.

  Her legs were shaking as they relaxed against the counter. He reached for his wallet, flipped it open and fumbled out a condom packet. He dropped it, smacked his forehead on the counter when he bent to retrieve it.

  “Here,” she said, and took it from him. He braced both arms against the cabinets on either side of her head, watching as she smoothed the condom down his shaft. She tilted her hips. He gripped the base of his shaft, nudged forward to align them, and slid inside. All the way inside, gliding into her. Thoughts chased one another—I must be really wet … this angle is different from being on my back … it’s so sensitive I think I could come again … he’s really really really big—before all she could do was push back with her hand to force herself forward so her clit was pressed against his pubic bone.

  His arms curved under hers until his fingers curled into her shoulders from behind, pressing into her collarbone. She slid forward until her bottom was on the very edge of the counter, his hip bones pressing into her inner thighs. He started to thrust, steady upward and inward jerks of his hips, and suddenly she couldn’t keep quiet. She arched up, her head thumping against the cabinet door so she could hear the glasses clinking inside. He had her right where he wanted her, fingers denting her flesh hard enough she knew she’d have bruises in the morning, his hips thudding into her, every stroke gliding his thick cock over a spot inside her she was intellectually aware existed but had no firsthand proof of, until now. The glancing blows to her clit, the raw, hot presence of a man driving into her, pulling her legs tighter and tighter, winding her up like a top, until he used his stubbled cheek to turn her mouth to the side and bit down on her jaw.

  She came again, harder, only vaguely aware of sharp cries, of the tight arch of her back, his teeth against her skin. As her awareness returned, she felt him grunt, stiffen, then pull her hard against his body as he came. One final sobbing sigh eased from her throat as she felt each intimate pulse inside her.

  “I’m still wearing my socks,” she said stupidly.

  He gave a rough little chuckle and slipped out. “Bathroom?”

  “Second door on your right,” she said, gesturing vaguely through the dining room. The muscles in her thighs were firing randomly, making her legs twitch, which was embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as trying to stand up would be. So she was still sitting on the counter, contemplating the possibility that her life had just spectacularly derailed, when he came back into the room, his cock at half-mast.

  * * *

  One of the reasons why Jack got into so much trouble in life was that he could both talk himself into it and act himself into it. So when polite coffee turned into coffee with a side of trouble then took a hard left into my place in or out, his verbal skills shut off and his action side turned on. He’d never been the focus of such raw need. “That was intense,” he said as he shook his underwear free from his jeans and stepped into them.

  She showed no signs of moving from the counter, and that tendency to check the time on the microwave’s clock had disappeared. “I want that bike. I need that bike,” she said.

  He didn’t laugh at her, just shook out his wet jeans and pulled them on. “And?”

  “He wanted to sell me something I didn’t want. He wanted me to settle. It’s a button, I guess. I know he didn’t mean to push it—”

  That was a loaded fucking statement if he’d ever heard one, and coming from a sexily disheveled woman with the sex flush still fading from her cheeks and throat, he was a goner. He left his jeans half zipped, just enough to keep them on his hips, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at her. The look she cut him,
full of restless, angry energy, her hair a wild nimbus around her head, sent another zing of desire through him.

  “He was hammering away at it like a total fucking oblivious moron,” Jack said. “It’s not his job to tell you what you want, what you can handle. It’s his job to sell you the fucking bike.”

  When she realized exactly how naked she was, she straightened away from the cabinets, adjusted her breasts in the bra, and pulled the straps back up on her shoulders.

  “My ex-husband,” she began as she buttoned her blouse, “no—that’s not how I’m telling this story. Marriage is about compromise, but I got in the habit of settling, not only for less than I wanted, but for things I didn’t want, and for not getting things I did want. We had goals. Plans. I no longer had goals or plans.”

  “It’s just a motorcycle,” he said.

  “A donorcycle, he called it,” she said with a sage nod.

  He snorted. “Sure. But you ride safe, wear a helmet, wear leathers.”

  She lifted her hands to her hair, then winced. “I’m going to have to take a shower,” she said, and started unbuttoning her blouse. “A fast shower,” she amended as she scurried past him to the bathroom. “I said I wanted that bike, and I mean to have it.”

  The last was called to him over the sound of water running into the tub, then the shower switching on. He turned to his right, training compelling him to keep an eye on the back door, the bathroom door, and the enormous living room window overlooking the street. She reappeared in the bathroom door, switching her weight from one foot to the other as she tugged her socks off.

  “And now I’m one of those women. I’ve gone through a divorce, and you know a lot about it.”

  “Not really,” he said with a shrug. He’d heard more detail and way more bitterness from plenty of women in bars. “Seems reasonable to me.”

  She ducked back into the bathroom. He walked back into the kitchen, plucked his damp shirt from the floor and pulled it on, then tried to deal with his socks and boots. There was a trick to getting wet socks on, one he’d mastered during BUD/S, but his goddamn fingers still weren’t cooperating. He’d just gotten the second sock on when she reappeared, the ends of her hair damp and curling, back in the bra and blouse, which looked decidedly rumpled.