Between Duty and Desire (9 page)

“And just so I’m clear on this, what is the purpose of this exercise?”

“The purpose is for you to engage in conversation with adult males and females, dance if you’re so inclined, and possibly make arrangements for future dates or—”

She held up her hand. “Let’s just work on the conversation part first. I’m not interested in dating. I’m not sure I ever will be,” she said firmly.

Brock didn’t bother to correct her. No use arguing over home plate when he had to get her to first base. He cocked his head toward the bar. “Stalling time is over.”

She made a face. “You, you, you better come in after me, just in case…” Her mouth hung open as if she were searching for the right words.

“Just in case you get stampeded by every male in the place,” he offered for her.

She snorted in disbelief and shoved open her car door. “Yeah, right. Like that’s ever going to happen to me.”

Brock watched her get out of the car and walk toward the entrance to the bar, her hips swinging from side to side as she planted one high heel in front of the other. Second—and third—thoughts chugged
through his mind. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea after all. Maybe she wasn’t ready.

Maybe
he
wasn’t ready.

Marine Lingo Translation
Crumbcatcher: Mouth.

B
rock gave Callie three minutes before he strolled into the bar. Spotting her from the doorway, he was surprised to see her already chatting animatedly with a man. He sidled over to an empty table that gave him a good view but wasn’t too close to the bar, and watched the two of them talk.

After a few minutes, it became clear that they were talking about a couple of paintings hanging from the walls. The man carried her drink and his beer and guided her to one of the pictures. They appeared to discuss the painting for several minutes then returned to the bar. Callie wrote something down on a napkin and handed it to the man.

Brock raised his eyebrows and took a swig of his Corona. If she’d given him her phone number, the guy must have been smooth. He studied the man carefully. He looked midthirties, a little on the short side, dressed more appropriately for the city than this beach bar where drinks were served in plastic cups, and he’d slicked back his hair with gel.

The man kept moving way too close to Callie for Brock’s taste, but she didn’t seem to mind. She smiled and laughed.

Brock frowned. A restless sensation skittered through him. It was all well and good to get Callie out and dating again, but she needed to develop some self-protective skills toward men. He didn’t want anyone taking advantage of her.

Acting in her best interest—at least that was what he told himself—he ambled to Callie’s side. She smiled at him. “Brock, I’ve met another artist. He did those paintings on the far wall. Aren’t they fantastic?”

Brock nodded in a noncommittal way. “Yeah. Are you from around here?”

The man shook his head and extended his hand. “No. Just passing through. I have a gallery in Atlanta. I’m Rick Lowry.”

“Brock Armstrong,” he said.

“Brock is moving to Atlanta soon. He’s an architect.”

“It’s a great city. I prefer Boston or New York, but I have other reasons for staying.” He glanced toward the other side of the bar and his face lit up. “There’s
George waving me over.” He turned back to Brock and pulled a card out of his pocket. “Listen, if you need anything when you get to Atlanta, give me a call. I know the best bars.” He smiled at Callie. “Keep in touch. Let me know when you want to do a show. Bye now.”

Brock took a deep gulp of his beer as he felt Callie looking at him.

“I think George is his partner,” Callie said.

Brock nodded. “I got that impression. I imagine he won’t be asking you to dance.”

“No, but he might ask you,” she said and chuckled.

Brock shot her a sideways glance. “Aren’t you the funny one? I send you in here to hook up with a guy and you immediately find the one who doesn’t like women.”

Her lips twitched. “I wouldn’t say he doesn’t like women at all. He just may not like them—” she waved her hand “—romantically.”

At that moment, the band on the patio geared up, filling the area with loud music.

“That’s not a…”

Brock leaned closer, straining to hear her. “What did you say?”

“I said that’s not all bad since this is my first time out and I told you I’m not interested in—”

“Excuse me,” a male voice interjected.

Callie and Brock looked up in surprise.

The man cocked his head toward the dance floor. “Wanna dance?”

Brock watched the man’s gaze slide over Callie’s body like a laser-guided missile, not missing a curve. He fought a sudden strange urge to cover her with something—a blanket, on oversize beach towel, his body. Taking a deep breath, he dismissed the instinct and told himself this was what he’d wanted for her. He glanced at Callie and saw her jaw hanging slightly open in surprise.

She started to shake her head and Brock intervened. “Sure she will. Callie loves to dance.”

Callie blinked then glared at him. “I, uh—”

“She’s just a little shy,” Brock said.

“I can help with that,” the guy said in a seductive voice that made Brock grind his teeth. The man extended his hand and Callie hesitantly accepted.

No big deal, he told himself. This was what he’d wanted for Callie. Besides, the band wasn’t playing a slow song, so the guy wouldn’t be putting his hands all over her.

Sighing, Brock ordered another beer and watched Callie. Twenty minutes later, he glanced at his watch. The guy must have been persuasive if he’d hung on to her this long. Brock heard the music slow and watched the man pull her into his arms.

His gut clenched and he held his breath. Swearing at himself, he deliberately took a breath. Why was he overreacting like this? It was just a dance. It was what he’d wanted for her.

Glued to the sight of her, he felt her gaze connect with his when the man’s back was facing Brock.
Even from this distance in the darkened bar, he saw emotions churning in her eyes. He glimpsed a combination of discomfort warring with need. She bit her lip and pulled away. He could practically hear the apology. He saw it written on her face as she left the dance floor.

She sat next to him and took a sip of her now-melted margarita. “Are you happy now?”

Not exactly, he thought. “It’s a step,” he said. “The first one is the hardest.”

“I guess,” she murmured. “Can we walk out on the beach for a couple of minutes? I need some air.”

“Sure,” he said. “Do you want your drink?”

She shrugged, but shook her head. “No.”

They walked past the band and dance floor to the back door. Callie slipped off her shoes and carried them in one hand as she stepped onto the sand. “Oh, barefoot on the sand feels so much better than these heels.”

Glad he’d skipped socks, Brock ditched his loafers and joined her. They walked closer to the shore and he watched her inhale the ocean breeze. She seemed restless and edgy.

“Was it that bad? I thought you told me that you like to dance,” he said.

“I do like to dance, but I didn’t feel comfortable with that man.”

“Probably because you didn’t know him. You might have grown more comfortable.”

She shrugged. “I felt a lot more comfortable with you,” she said and met his gaze.

He saw flickers of hunger in her eyes that matched what he was feeling for her. His gut tightened. “Maybe you shouldn’t feel quite so comfortable with me.”

“Why?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.

Brock looked away and stifled a groan. How did he explain that he wanted her so much, he went to bed every night burning with it? How did he confess his carnal need for her and still have her trust him?

She put her hand on his arm and he instinctively tightened his bicep. He’d spent so much time denying himself, he hadn’t realized how much her touch could effect him.

“Why?” she repeated, her gaze imploring.

Brock sighed. “Because I may be doing my damndest to look after you, but I’m still a man. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman and being around you—” He broke off. “Being with you reminds me of what I’m missing.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You want me?”

He felt a scratchy irritation skitter down his neck. “What’s so surprising about that? You’re warm and sexy. You’re beautiful.”

She lifted her hand to his forehead. “Are you sure you’re not ill? Delusional? I’m not beautiful. And I couldn’t be sexy if I tried.”

“You don’t have to try. You haven’t been looking at yourself like I have,” he muttered, covering her hand with his and lowering it to his mouth. He rubbed his mouth over her palm, then darted his tongue over the inside of her wrist. He did the seductive move as
a warning.
Know the limits, he was trying to tell her. Don’t push the boundaries or you might get something you don’t want.

Expecting her to gasp and jerk her hand away, he was surprised when she stared at him in fascination and allowed him to continue to hold her hand in his.

Moving closer, she licked her lips and the sight of her pink tongue made him hard. “I want you, too,” she whispered. “I feel guilty about it. Like I shouldn’t,” she continued in a rush.

Her confession made his heart jump. “You shouldn’t want me,” he told her. “I’m not the right kind of guy for you.”

“The right kind of guy died,” she said, her voice turning bitter. “I may fight it, but I’m still breathing, still living, still hurting and now wanting. I’m tired of feeling guilty for living when Rob died.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty for living, Callie,” he said, cradling her jaw, fighting the urge to draw her to him.

She closed her eyes. “Sometimes I think I must have turned into the worst woman on the planet. I want you. I don’t love you, but I want you. I want to kiss you and touch you. I want you to touch me and get rid of this frustration and dissatisfaction that never goes away. I want to be one of those women you’ve had where they know the game and don’t care.”

Brock’s temperature climbed several degrees. It would be so easy to take advantage of her now. So easy. He could pull her against him and touch her. He
could kiss away the guilt and any vestiges of resistance. “You’re not that kind of woman,” he told her.

“Maybe I am,” she said, opening her eyes, and he could feel the heat of her arousal between them. It thrummed with a dark and desperate need that matched his. “Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I’m terrible and wicked because I want you, but I’d just be using you.” She inhaled audibly and pulled her hand from his. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It’s crazy. I’ve gone crazy,” she said and turned away.

She was his for the taking. The knowledge was unbearably tempting. She could ease the burning inside him. But how could he justify taking Rob’s woman?

Rob was dead,
a voice inside him ruthlessly reminded him. Rob couldn’t take care of Callie’s needs anymore. Brock couldn’t take care of her the way she needed to be cared for, but he was confident he could take care of her in bed. He could let her use him.

What a joke,
he thought. As if he would be doing her a favor. He was dying to get close to her, inside her.

Swearing under his breath, he scraped his hand through his hair. Maybe he was making this too complicated. Maybe this was part of the healing process for Callie. Maybe she needed to have sex with him so she could be ready for the guy she would really fall for. The thought pinched, but he brushed the sensation aside. Maybe he was looking for a justification where there was none.

Maybe it was time to stop thinking so damn much.

His heart pounding in his chest, he moved closer
to her, right behind her so he could smell a hint of her soft, sweet fragrance. “Are you sure about this?” he asked in a low voice against her ear.

“Yes,” she said. “How horrible am I?”

Feeling like Satan himself, he lifted her hair from the side of her neck and lowered his mouth to brush his lips over her skin, while he slid his other hand around to her belly. “Maybe we should skip the re criminations and just agree to be horrible together.”

He felt her shudder in his arms, then she turned around to face him and lifted her hands to cradle his head. “I’ve never been with a man like you.”

“So we’re even. I’ve never been with a woman like you,” he said, seeing the lack of confidence in her eyes. “Maybe you can teach me something.”

She gave a short, catchy laugh of disbelief. “Fat chance.”

“You can try,” he said, moving his hands around to the back of her waist and pulling her against him.

“C’mon, Callie,” he taunted. “Give it a try.” Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth against hers and rubbed from side to side, absorbing the taste and texture of her lips. The kiss was a tease to himself, to her, and as she slid her fingers through his hair and gave a soft moan, he wanted more.

Opening his mouth, he drew her lips into his, tasting her, wanting to inhale her sweetness. She responded by sliding her tongue against his in a shy, but sensual shimmy that did crazy things to his nerve
endings. Another moan escaped her lips and he felt the fire in his belly burn higher.

He opened his mouth and consumed her lips and tongue with his. As if there was a raging inferno pushing him onward, he rocked against the cradle of her femininity. The friction made him even harder. She ground against him in response, sucking his tongue deep into her sweet recesses.

She was so warm, so sexy, so ready. He felt the fringe of her desperation ripple through him. She caught him off guard when she tugged his shirt free from his jeans. Her hands on his belly were a welcome surprise.

He slid his hands lower to cup her sweet bottom as they moved against each other. He grew harder with each movement, each stolen breath she took. Unable to resist the temptation of her bare skin, he slipped one of his hands up under the hem of her dress, higher, finding her naked derriere. She was wearing the damn thong.

He broke into a sweat. The image of her naked bottom jerked him into third gear. He slid his fingers over the silky rounded contours. She undulated against him, as hot and bothered as he was. He could ditch this little scrap of silk and slide inside her right now. She wasn’t at all cognizant of their proximity to the public bar, and he barely was.

He should stop, show some sanity, but oh—she felt so good, and she was wiggling against him like she couldn’t get close enough. He wanted just a little
more.
Just a little more,
he thought, as he slid his fingers between her legs and found her warm and wet.

“Oh, you feel so good,” he muttered.

She moaned into his mouth and he stroked her, finding her bead of femininity swollen. He rubbed her with his thumb and plunged his finger inside her. The pitch of her voice changed, higher, more desperate. More than anything, he wanted to take care of the need he felt and heard coming from inside her.

He French-kissed her as he stroked her sweet spot and she opened her mouth gasping. He felt her contract intimately in his hand. “I—I—ohhhhhh.” He covered her mouth with his to conceal the volume, drinking in her cry of pleasure.

“Oh my G—” She broke off and gasped for air, clinging to him. She ducked her head in his shoulder. “I don’t know whether to die from embarrassment or just thank you,” she finally managed in a husky breath.