For the Love of Jazz (11 page)

“Witch,” he muttered as he looked at her, his eyes dazed. She grinned at him and he growled. He reached for her and Annie didn’t pull away fast enough. He growled against her mouth and the sound of it echoed through her entire body. With a pivot, he tumbled her down on the couch, slid his hand inside the waist of her panties and jerked. If she hadn’t already been shaking with hunger, that desperate, greedy gesture would have done it.

“Why waste time, you little witch?” Jazz muttered against her mouth. Witch—definitely a witch, Jazz decided as she stared up at him, a sexy, confident smile on her swollen lips and her eyes hot and wild. Looping his hands under her head, he held her still as he covered her mouth with his, as he pinned her hips against the cushion with his own.

Her thighs parted and she shifted slightly under him, staring up at him with a sly little smile. As he pressed slowly against her, her eyes drifted closed and she moaned softly in the back of her throat. The wet warmth enveloped him tightly, snugly as he eased forward.

Snug. Too snug. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered.

She lifted her hips up, taking him deeper as he tried to pull back. “Been a while,” she whispered. Then she smiled. “Waiting for you.”

Even if she didn’t mean that, it was humbling to hear her say it. “Damnation, Annie,” he muttered. “Annie, you, oh, hell…” His words trailed off into a groan as she rolled her hips under his. “Would you slow down?”

Lids rising slowly, Anne-Marie stared up at him, her wicked, green eyes glinting up at him. “Why should I slow down? I’ve been waiting for this for half my life, Jazz. Don’t make me wait any more.”

She smiled up at him, a sexy invitation of a smile, as she reached up and cupped his face, urging him to meet her eyes. That confident female smile had every nerve in his body humming; his nerves broke into a chorus when she trailed her fingers up his sides, then slid her hands down, gripped his hips, lifted hers to meet him.

“Jazz,” she whispered, her husky, soft voice caressing his ears like silk. “Make love to me. I’ve been wanting this for as long as I can remember.”

With a groan, he lowered his head, buried his face in the smooth, softly scented skin of her neck and thrust deep, planting his length within her body.

Distantly, Anne-Marie realized there was a little more pain than she’d expected. It had definitely been a while but the pain of taking him inside was well worth it and she was in too much wonder to dwell on it. Having him inside her felt like coming home.

She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him back to her when he withdrew, rising to meet his hips with every thrust. “Annie…” When he breathed her name against her skin, goosebumps went rushing down her body. How many times? she wondered. How many times had she imagined this?

As vivid as her imagination was, it could never compare to the reality of having him next to her, having him buried inside her, whispering her name while he rained kisses over her face. His length throbbed inside, rubbed against nerve endings so sensitive, that each stroke was an exquisite pain. Blood pounded in her ears and the sound of it almost drowned out Jazz’s rumbling groan. Lights flashed behind her closed lids when he slid a hand between them and circled his fingers around her clit.

The first mini-climax hit her hard and fast and her head was still spinning a minute later when he started to move inside her once more.
Thunder and lightning,
Anne-Marie thought, just a little dazed. A lot dazed.

Jazz propped himself on his elbows, dragging air into his lungs. Her flesh, soft, slick and tight, caressed the length of him, pulsing around his cock with every beat of her heart. They fit together perfectly, he realized with some wonder. Slowly, he pulled out and eased back into her. The scent of her filled his head, honeysuckle-scented flesh and sweet, hungry woman. Innocent and seductress combined.

Her inner muscles clenched around him and he gritted his teeth against the urge to take her, mark her and brand her as his own. By God, this may be the only night he ever had.

He would make it last.

He pulled back, resting his weight on his knees. Sliding his hands up the sides of her legs, he cupped the firm flesh of her bottom in his hands and pulled her against him. The shudder that rippled through her drew him deeper inside. “Look at me, Anne-Marie,” he demanded, pulling her harder against him.

Her eyes opened, dazed and smoky with need. Every breath she took burned, every pulse of her heart sent fire coursing through her veins. Her skin, super sensitive, felt hot and tight, as though her body was trying to turn inside out on her. An explosion was building within her and when it finally broke free, it was going to make that little, mini-orgasm seem like raindrops in the ocean.

She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t focus or think. His cock throbbed inside her and instinct had her tensing her inner muscles, tightening around him. That made the ache inside all that much worse. But she couldn’t stop herself from doing it again and again. His hands came up, stroking up her thighs and capturing her knees. He pushed them up against her chest and his eyes burned into hers as he rolled his hips against her.

He was so deep inside her she hurt. The way he watched her had her flushing consciously and then he touched her, rubbing his thumb around and around her clit until she bucked and cried out his name. She tried to rub herself against him, but he kept her pinned down so that she couldn’t. The loss of control was terrifyingly erotic and Anne-Marie wasn’t sure what was going to win out, the terror or the hunger.

“Jazz, please,” she gasped out, her torso twisting, arching off the couch. He fell forward, pinning her body to the couch, his shoulders wedged between her knees.

Her muscles were squeezing him tight, clamping around him, holding him. Staring blindly up at him, her face flushed, lips red and swollen, hands seeking. “Come with me, Annie,” he whispered. He watched her face as he drove deep within her.

She shook her head, trying to pull away from the storm that was brewing within her. “Yes,” he demanded gutturally. “Yes.” He surged forward, burying himself in her body over and over, lifting her to him. “Yes.”

At his words, she plummeted, falling headfirst inside a seething volcano. There was more lightning—more thunder, more of everything. She felt caught in a maelstrom of pleasure, with heat suffusing her body in waves, washing against her, within her. The pleasure seemed to batter her, going on and on. His cock jerked inside her and she felt the heat of it as he came inside her.

A choked cry tore from her lips and she strained up against him, everything within reach. He pulled out, drove deep within her one more time. She fell apart underneath him, shattered into a million tiny pieces.

And when he pressed a soothing kiss to her temple, he put the pieces back together again. The low moan that rumbled through his chest vibrated throughout her body and she held him close. She smiled slightly, knowing that she had been right about him all along. He made her whole.

With his heart pounding against hers, she slept.

* * *

“What did you end up doing with yourself, Jazz?” Anne asked softly, later that night. Her hand traced an absent pattern on his chest, her head tucked against his shoulder. “You never told me what happened after you left here. What you’ve been doing.”

“Whatever I could, for the longest time. I had to delay going into the Marines until I healed up but I ended up only serving a year.” A faint, bitter grin tugged at his lips. “Training op went bad and my leg was messed up six different ways to Sunday.”

With a frown, Anne pushed up onto her elbow so she could look at his leg. “Damn,” she whispered as she studied the jagged, twisted scar. His kneecap looked a little off center and judging by the numerous neat surgical scars, he’d gone under the knife for corrective surgery a time or two. “Does it bother you?”

He shook his head, not even glancing down. He held a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “No. Aches some if it gets too cold, but other than that?” He just shrugged.

“So you had to leave the Marines?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine with that.” Finally, a real smile appeared as he glanced up and said, “I was told I had issues with authority.”

Anne-Marie widened her eyes. “Really. You don’t say,” she said, her voice deadpan. Lying back down beside him, she curled up against him with her hand on his chest. “So after that, where did you end up? Where have you been living all this time?” she asked.

“Around,” he murmured. But she wasn’t going to let it go at that. She heard the reluctance to talk that lingered under his voice, but Anne-Marie paid it no attention. She was so hungry for everything that had to do with Jazz, had so much time to make up for.

And so many empty days ahead for which she had to prepare.

Jazz wouldn’t stay around, and Anne-Marie knew, certain as she knew her own name, he wouldn’t let her go with him when he left.

“Buffalo,” he finally said on a sigh. “I’ve lived in Buffalo, New York, the past nine years.”

“And what do you do in Buffalo? Are you an arm breaker?” Anne-Marie guessed, smiling against his bare skin. “A professional hockey player? A male dancer?”

Gripping a lock of silky hair in his hand, Jazz gave it a good sharp yank, smiling when she yelped. “You are still every bit as nosy as you ever were, Annie.”

Pulling up, rubbing at her scalp, she scowled at him. “Pardon me, but I wasn’t aware it was rude to inquire about your bedmate’s life.”

With a hoot of laughter, Jazz asked, “How do you do it? How can you sit there, naked as a jaybird, and act as regal as the Queen of frigging England?”

Pursing her lips, she primly replied, “It’s a gift. And you are trying to change the subject.”

Flopping onto his stomach, staring out at the dark sky, Jazz groaned. “I write, Annie. Okay?”

Her lips fell apart in a surprised gasp and she rubbed at her ear. “Excuse me, Jazz. I’m sorry, but it sounded to me like you just said that you write. You mean write as in, writing for a living.”

“It hasn’t always been for a living. Started out as something to keep my sanity while I was in rehab for my leg. Then for a while, it was to keep food in my mouth and gas in the tank while I wandered around the Bible Belt.” He flopped over onto his back and met her eyes, a little reluctantly, it seemed. “My pen name is J.C. McCoy and I write for AdventPub.”

“AdventPub. McCoy,” Anne murmured. “McCoy. Wait a second, you write that guy, uh, Vince?”

“Vance,” he corrected wearily, waiting for the censure.

“Daddy reads those sometimes,” she whispered, a frown sitting on her face. With a wrinkle of her pert nose, she added, “Not exactly my taste, though.”

“Your dad reads them?” he repeated dumbly.

“Yeah. Every once in a while, he gets tired of medical journals. We both do. He picks up one of those and I pick up a romance.” Reaching up, Anne rubbed her temple with her forefinger, still frowning. “I can’t believe this. You write?”

Where was the disapproval?

Didn’t she know what kind of trash it was?

But Desmond read them. Confused, Jazz sat up, turning to look at her in the soft moonlight. “Yeah, I write. Not exactly Nobel prize winning stuff, though.”

“Nobody calls romance Nobel material, either. But I love to pick one up whenever I have time,” Anne said with a casual shrug. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied him. “I don’t quite believe it, Jazz, but I think you are embarrassed.”

That confused, vaguely blank look still on his face, Jazz asked, “Your dad really reads them?”

“Uh-huh. So does my business partner, Jake. I believe he keeps one on his desk all the time.” A smile lighting her face, Anne-Marie sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Imagine that. Jazz McNeil, a big time author.”

“I wouldn’t call writing Vance Marrone big time, Anne. You’d hate him. He’s a jerk, a bastard and a user,” Jazz said in a flat voice. shaking his head.

“He’s also just a figment of your imagination, Jazz. One you created and gave life. Not everybody can do that,” Anne-Marie said. “I certainly can’t. I couldn’t tell a story to save my life.”

Stroking his stiff shoulders, Anne said, “You oughta be proud of yourself, Jazz. Most wannabe writers would kill to say they have as many published books as you do.”

With a snort, he said, “They’re welcome to him. I don’t want him any more.”

“If you don’t like him, then write about something else,” Anne-Marie suggested with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “I’m certain you can write anything you want to. A writer. Hot damn, Jazz. That’s unbelievable.”

Lowering them back to the bed, his arms holding her tight against him, Jazz let the dazed wonder wash over him. She wasn’t unhappy about it, didn’t disapprove.

Hell, she actually seemed proud of him.

Imagine that.

* * *

Desmond sat in front of his computer, doggedly working to complete an article for the AMA. Why in hell had he agreed to this article anyway?

When the door whispered open, he didn’t even hear.

I am supposed to be slowing things down, getting ready to retire.
He sat back, flexing his hands, unaware as a shadow moved around the corner of the room to stand behind him. Staring at his hands, he hardly even recognized them any more. They were getting stiff, and every now and then, shaky. It only happened when he was worn-out and he was careful to make sure he got enough rest, that he ate right, and did everything else required to keep his energy level up, but there was no denying the inevitable.

Desmond was getting old. No surgeon in his right mind operated with shaky hands. If he couldn’t do surgery, then it was time to shut down the business. Or sell it out.
With hope, I’ll find some young version of myself.
They needed his skills here in central Kentucky, needed them badly. They were only a half hour out outside of Lexington but the small, rural county had many patients that wouldn’t make that trip into the city to see a specialist for their ticker. Many of his colleagues had questioned his decision to return home and set up his practice. While dedicated physicians, they were caught up in the business of being a highly regarded doctor with their business luncheons, weekends spent golfing, skiing or a thousand other things that didn’t interest Desmond in the least.