The SEAL's Rebel Librarian Page 5

“What did you do? Your … MOS?”

  She knew the abbreviation for Military Occupational Specialty, so she’d done her homework before teaching the class for incoming students who were former military. His respect for her tipped up another notch. “I was a SEAL.”

  She tipped her head to the side. “A Navy SEAL.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  For a moment he saw himself as she saw him, shades of Jack flickering past in her eyes: the younger lover drinking whiskey in her borrowed living room, a SEAL, which was for her a possible research subject. He saw those expressions a lot; women were always curious about SEALs, and men were too, curious, wondering if they’d measure up. But there was something else in her eyes, something he didn’t recognize.

  “I have a million questions,” she said.

  “Fire away.”

  “How did you get the scar over your eye?” She was smiling as she asked, head still tilted to the side.

  “I was three, sitting in the bed of a Tonka truck my sister was pushing me in. The truck ran into a crack in the sidewalk and stopped. I didn’t. Pitched forward. Split my eyebrow open.”

  “The sister who just got back from Turkey?”

  “Rose,” he said. “She’s the only sister I’ve got.”

  “Jack and Rose?”

  “We predate the movie Titanic,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting in a grin.

  “Parents?”

  “Dad took off when we were kids,” he said, touching it before he realized what he was doing. “Mom was around, but she’s an alcoholic. There, but really unreliable. Rose kept me honest.”

  “I’d bet she has some stories to tell.”

  He huffed out a laugh and gave her a lazy smile. Still sitting across the room on the piano bench, Erin kept one leg tucked under her bottom, the other crossed over her knee.

  The liquid trembled in the glass. He set it carefully on a magazine on the coffee table and wove his fingers together, letting them dangle between his knees. The singer’s throaty voice filled the silence between them, and he felt his face heat. Two fingers of whiskey shouldn’t be enough to make him flush, but he was still wearing his sheepskin-lined bomber jacket, and the room was warm enough for Erin to sit there in her silky blouse and tight skirt.

  “I want to make something really clear to you,” she said finally. “Before we … go any further with this.”

  “Okay,” he said, suddenly wary.

  “I’m not looking for anything permanent. This is just … fun. I haven’t had much fun the last few years.” She stopped, then gestured at him, a hand roll that conveyed embarrassed exasperation. “Not that you were expecting anything else, but it’s important to me that we both understand what this is about. I’m not looking for anything long-term.”

  It was the most precisely framed statement of boundaries and expectations he’d ever heard. “Thank fuck,” he said. “I’m talking to some security companies about jobs out of the country. The last thing either one of us needs is some big emotional mess. Just so you know, if you lead with that on Tinder, your swipe-right rate is going to go through the roof.”

  She laughed, a delighted, throaty chuckle. “I’ll keep it in mind.” She uncoiled her legs, set the glass of whiskey on the piano bench, and got to her feet, padding over to him. “May I try on your coat?”

  He stared up at her. “What?”

  “When I buy that bike, I’ll need protective gear,” she said. “That one looks nice and warm.”

  A bit bewildered, he shouldered out of the coat and handed it to her.

  “Oof,” she said, and wandered out of sight, presumably in search of a mirror. Her voice was muffled, distant when she spoke again. “It’s heavy.”

  “It would weigh less in your size. It’s good for fall and spring riding,” he said absently, falling back on details, specifics, on being helpful. He picked up his whiskey and tossed it back. “Get lightweight leathers for the summer, but loose enough to layer thermals under … neath…”

  His voice trailed off, because she was standing in the doorway, wearing thigh-high seamed stockings and his coat, her hair a tousled wreck around her face. The coat all but swallowed her up, but she hadn’t zipped the front, so he could see the pale lace of her bra and panties, mostly hidden by the heavy drape of leather and sheepskin.

  “Oh,” he said, somewhat stupidly. “Damn.”

  “I like it,” she said. “Very warm. What do you think?”

  It took a moment for his brain to jerk out of neutral, wheels spinning, no traction, RPMs revving higher and higher, and into sex gear, but when it did, when his rational mind and his primitive brain stem slid into a groove together, a bolt of lust unlike anything he’d ever felt in his life, hot and possessive and raw, pulsed straight to his cock.

  He straightened, vision going fuzzy at the edges. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, but she held her ground as he walked up to her. Opening the sides of the coat, he studied her, noting the rapid heartbeat in the quivering flesh of her breasts.

  “I need to make a closer inspection,” he said, pleased his voice was so steady.

  “Of course,” she said, and turned to walk down the hallway.

  It wasn’t far; the house was small, but even the few steps she took with the hem of the jacket just barely covering the curve of her ass, were enough to narrow his focus. His body. Her body. A quiet, dim, private bedroom, lit by a floor lamp next to a comfy armchair. The colorful shade threw blue and green and red spots of color on the bed and the walls.

  To his surprise, she clambered right up onto the bed, knee-walking to the center, where she turned to face him, sitting back on her heels with her knees slightly spread. Her chin lifted so she held his gaze, then she flipped up the jacket’s wide collar.

  “It can’t be purely functional,” she said, calm and collected, like she wasn’t sitting in the middle of her bed posed like a pin-up girl. “I’m done buying things that are practical. I want to love it.”

  He stopped at the foot of the bed, taking in details. She moved easily, the fluidity explained by the yoga mat in the corner of the bedroom, but she had the soft, giving body of a person who preferred a book and a cup of tea to a hard workout. The elastic waist of her panties and her underwire pushup bra pressed into her soft abdominal flesh, and while she’d adopted a pose everyone knew from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, she wasn’t looking at him with a practiced, sexy eye. She was wide awake and vibrantly present in the moment, her eyes a combination of innocence and demand he found utterly captivating.

  He kicked out of his motorcycle boots and kneeled on the bed, just a few inches away from her. “What look are you going for?”

  She crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down the sleeves, luxuriating in the soft leather, then nuzzled into the sheepskin collar. “I’m not sure,” she said, like it was a confession. She shifted on her knees, and the buckle, hanging loose from the waist, clinked as she moved. “Maybe it’s about how it makes me feel when I’m wearing it.”

  He reached out and fisted his hand in the leather and sheepskin, pulling insistently until she scooted forward to kneel between his spread thighs. He could smell the heat and arousal rising from the open throat of the jacket, and knew that the next time he wore it, he’d smell her skin, the faint remnants of her perfume. Then he slid his hand into her hair to cup the back of her head and pulled not quite gently, exposing her throat and ear. “How do you feel now?” he growled.

  Chapter Four

  Powerful. She felt powerful, and sexy, and totally unlike herself. Never in her life had Erin pranced around in a man’s jacket, wearing nothing but her bra and panties. While Jason was more than willing to spice up their sex life, the attempts had felt awkward, and a little silly. But this … this wasn’t just playing. This was coming from some place deep inside her, a place she hadn’t known existed until Jack asked her out in the stacks. It was like this was happening to another woman, to the woman who lived
in Nora’s house and faced down a Ducati salesman. Her heart thudded against her chest as sensory images bombarded her: his shoulders, stretched by the waffle-weave shirt he wore; his legs in the jeans; his hand in her hair, moving her head the way he wanted it to move; his voice, rasping over nerve endings as surely as the sheepskin rubbed against her bare arms and legs and caressed her nipples.

  Between her legs, her body grew slick, heated, aching for touch.

  “Hmm?” he said.

  She felt wild. Dangerous. Not in danger, but like she could do some damage herself if she wanted. She felt amped up, demanding. All the things she—in any of her roles, librarian, wife, steward of the college—didn’t think she was supposed to be. She was supposed to be helpful, giving, future-focused. A team player. A partner. Asking for very little, giving as much as she could. But right now she felt selfish, and entitled, and hedonistic.

  It was amazing, and almost unbearably real. The heat in his gaze as he looked her over, like he’d never seen anything as sexy as a librarian in a leather coat, wasn’t self-conscious or cheesy, like her ex would have thought.

  She laughed. That was the difference. Jason was a broker, a careful planner, and this kind of sex was as out of character for him as throwing caution to the winds and buying two round-trip tickets to Paris on a whim. Or a motorcycle.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  “I was thinking about my ex,” she said.

  “For the record, this is the least sexy foreplay ever,” he said, but laughter rippled under his voice.

  “No, no,” she protested. “I was thinking about how diff—”

  “You shouldn’t be thinking at all,” he said, and tightened his grip on the jacket, dragging her forward until she straddled his thigh, her mound pressed to his hip bone. She was a little worried about the placement of her knee, dangerously close to the crux of his thighs, but then he let go of the jacket and flattened his palm against her tailbone, pulling her close so he could work his hips against her. The movement of his hips, strong and sure, set a glancing rhythm against her clit and threatened to tip her off-balance until she got with the program and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Sensation swamped her. Her lacy lingerie chafed against her most sensitive skin and the sheepskin slid teasingly against her, but what drove her crazy was the close proximity of his mouth. His full lips were parted, his breath coming in soft, short exhales as his gaze flicked from her eyes to her mouth. Unable to wait a second longer, she closed the distance between them and kissed him.

  Plush, soft lips, hot and just a bit damp from their breath. Feeling daring, she opened her mouth a bit wider and touched her tongue to his lower lip. He made a soft little sound, part laugh, part growl, and slid his free hand into her hair, then tightened it into a fist and tugged her head back gently but firmly. Her eyes flew open.

  He smiled at her. “Not yet.”

  It was teasing torture, the slow rhythm of his hips, the way his lips glanced off hers, the promise of his tongue and deeper kisses always there but never given. Each time she dipped forward, his hand tightened in her hair, making her scalp sting. The final time she did it, she didn’t stop, kissed him through the pain until he groaned and cupped her head to hold her close and take her mouth, hot and deep, until she twisted away to lick and bite her way along his rough jaw.

  “Okay?” he growled, massaging her sore scalp.

  “Better than okay,” she said, and took his earlobe between her teeth. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

  Trapped between his hard body and the heavy coat, she was sweating, skin growing damp, the scent of desire rising unmistakably to blend with the lanolin left on his neck, where she’d buried her nose and was nuzzling into the strong slope of his shoulder. He pushed the coat from her shoulder to bare her bra strap, then used his chin and mouth to slip that down, too. Hot, stinging kisses dropped from the curve of her shoulder, along her collarbone to the hollow between them. She tipped her head back and bared her throat to him, gasp-laughing when he tightened his grip in her hair again and held her there, exposed and vulnerable. He nipped his way up the tendons in her neck, stopping at the soft spot under the hinge of her jaw, worrying at it with teeth and tongue.

  “No marks,” she gasped.

  “Where anyone could see them,” he countered.

  “Yes,” she said. He knew what she wanted, marks on her body as temporary as this interlude in her life, bruises and red marks that would fade when he left, leaving only memories.

  He bore her back to the bed, their legs still woven together. She arched and writhed, luxuriating in the drastically different and equally compelling sensations of hot, strong, hard man at her front and soft, warm, engulfing leather and sheepskin around her back and arms. He braced his weight on one arm and popped open the front clasp on her bra with the other, then laced his fingers through hers and pinned her hands above her head.

  She froze, tremors running from her scalp to her toes. Intellectually she knew sex was about the differences in size and strength between male and female, but this was the first time she really felt it. All it took to immobilize her was the weight of his torso against her hips, and his hands, his callused, rough, scarred hands. She closed her eyes and absorbed the disquieting combination of tenderness and possession, their fingers clasped, her calf draped over his thigh.

  He shifted down slightly and scraped his jaw and cheek over her breasts until the lace cups popped free, baring her to his mouth, then soothed the scrapes with the flat of his tongue, licking the soft flesh until her nipples peaked and she was writhing under him, desperate to get his mouth on her nipples.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please.”

  He brushed his bristly chin over her nipple, the contact slight enough to tease until he did it again, then again, then licked the sensitized skin, blew on the wet flesh, then closed his teeth over the tip. She arched and cried out, lifting her hips into his thigh, struggling to get her hands free.

  His fingers tightened ever so slightly, mostly in warning because there was no way she was getting free unless he let go. He stopped at her breastbone to suck a hot spot into her skin, then blew on it, and moved to her other nipple. By the time he was finished, her body alternated between fierce tension and a lax submission. Her nipples were hot, tender, throbbing with her pulse in the warm, dappled lamplight.

  Jack released her hands and sat back on his heels. Sweat dampened the front of his shirt, making it stick as he tried to tug it over his head. With a curse he yanked it free and tossed it to the floor. Dazed, she watched as he unbuckled his belt and opened his fly, giving a little grunt of relief as his cock surged into the newly opened space. Then he reached for her panties and tugged them off, then slid down on his belly, worked his arms under her thighs, and bent his head to her sex.

  His tongue circled her clit at the same time his fingers found her nipples. She arched and cried out, suddenly, shockingly aware of how turned on she was, slick, her clit swollen. He licked her open, circled her clit until he found a rhythm and pressure that made her quiver, then pinched her nipples.

  She came, back arched like the curve of a harp, shocked, sharp cries tearing from her throat. He licked her through it, then patted her belly gently and sat up. She opened her eyes to see him swipe his cupped hand over his mouth and jaw. His erection pressed against his boxer shorts, the fabric dark and wet in his opened fly. He paused, mid-swipe, and stared at her.

  Dangerous. Powerful. Demanding. Orgasm usually left her satiated and loose, but her nerves still thrummed with desire.

  “Get your clothes off,” she said, and scrambled backward, going for the condoms in the bedside table.

  Denim rasped against hair-roughened legs; when she turned back to him, a condom packet in hand, he was kneeling on the bed, naked and hard. “Oh, God,” she said, and reached for him.

  “Don’t even,” he said, and took the condom from her.

  Ignoring him, she knee-walked forward until she could cup his balls and
trace his hip bones while he rolled the condom down his shaft. She wriggled her shoulders, meaning to take the coat off, but he stopped her.

  “Leave it,” he said, and wrapped his arm around her waist and twisted. They ended up with positions reversed, Jack on his back, Erin sprawled on top of him.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  He shifted over a little, lifting her as he did so she straddled him in the center of the bed. “Your turn to do the work,” he said, a little roughly. “Fuck. Look at you.”

  She paused in the act of scooting back, blindly seeking his cock, and looked down at herself. Her skin was blotchy and red from her orgasm, with the marks from his stubble and teeth standing out against the fading sex flush. The curls at the top of her sex were damp from her juices and his mouth, and her hands extended from the too-big sleeves of the leather coat to brace against his shoulders. She looked like a train wreck, in all the best ways.

  “So … fucking … hot,” he said distractedly as he shifted and lifted his hips in one movement.

  She gasped when the blunt tip of his erection pushed against her, seeking entrance. He slid in, slick and easy, the stretch no less shocking than it was the first time they did this. She bit her lower lip and let her head fall back, inhaling a shuddering, pained breath.

  “Breathe,” he said. “Fuck, sorry, fuck, exhale. Erin. Exhale.”

  More helpfully he let his hips drop back to the bed, pulling out part way, leaving only the tip nestled in the sensitive flesh at her entrance. Air left her lungs the same way it came in, trembling like her arms. Tension seeped from her body, relaxing muscles; she eased down, taking him inside.

  They both groaned as she enveloped him, inch by slow inch, his hard cock stretching her soft, slick inner walls, until her hips rested against his. His fingers twitched, tightening against her hips, then relaxing.

  “Okay?” he asked after a long, humming moment passed. His voice was tight, and the single word sounded like it was forced out between clenched teeth.

  She let her head fall forward, then opened her eyes. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks and lips, partially obscuring her vision, but she could see the dark red flush on his cheekbones, spreading across his chest. “Don’t move,” she whispered.