The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) (17 page)

She arched off the bed in frenzied
need. He felt so good, and she was breathless with it. She knew he was getting
close—his thrusts growing shorter and sharper. He reached between them to her
clit, and she screamed out her orgasm. Her mind spun as her hips pumped and
slapped against his, the wet sounds, their climactic grunts loud in the room.

Even through the condom and her
convulsing muscles, she felt him come, felt the heat of it, the force of it.
Just that alone threw her over the next edge of climax.

He collapsed on her, just flat-out
collapsed, but she didn't mind. At first. "Can't breathe," she finally
eked out.

He rolled off her, slipping out.
She groaned, feeling even that in her sensitized sheath.

Marc plopped next to her, his chest
rising and falling. He gasped in great breaths. "Jesus, Phoebe." Then
he realized she was quietly crying. He rolled to her side. "What's the
matter, honey? Did I hurt you?"

"No," she sobbed. "It's
just that last night is coming back to me."

"You're safe now. No one can
hurt you."

She rubbed her nose against his
chest, kissing it. "Marc, I'm so sorry about all this."

"Nothing is your fault,
sweetheart." He tightened his arms around her.

"I know, but I'm so sorry for
what Butch put you through. He was crazy, said crazy things. Oh Marc, he forced
their car off the road. You were right to suspect him. He said he was helping
his father, but his father didn't know what he'd done. Could that be true?"

"I don't know. I guess we'll
find that out. I'm sorry you got mixed up in this. My coming back to town
stirred things up."

"But this is what you came
back for. And if you hadn't, Butch would have kept coming after me, thinking I
would marry him. Oh God, he's crazy."

"Yes, but he's in jail now,
and he won't be getting out." He held her even tighter. Her shivering was
scaring him.

"Are you sure? He could get
bail."

"I doubt it. Besides acting
crazy, he attempted to murder you." He hugged her. "Let me get the
covers. You're shaking." Pulling them up, he rubbed his palms the length
of the arm she'd slung over his chest. "It's over, love," he
murmured, brushing his lips over her forehead.

"You saved my life," she
said in a small voice. "I don't know how to thank you."

"I think you just did, sweet."
He smiled to himself, then sobered.
I
love you. Holy crap. When had that happened?

He put a fingertip under her chin
to lift her face. He almost laughed. She was not a beautiful crier, not with
red, swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks. He loved her anyway. Before he could say
it out loud, his doorbell rang.

Chapter Sixteen

Phoebe stiffened at the sound.

"Who the hell could that be?"
he grumped. "I'd better find out and get rid of them."

"Hurry back."

"You bet!"

He rolled toward her and kissed her
so sweetly. She knew she looked awful. She always did after crying.

Throwing on a pair of sweats and a
t-shirt, he turned back, pointing at her. "Stay put."

Chime.

"I'll be right back."

The minute he left she swung out of
bed and rummaged around in his drawers for something to wear. She found a pair
of cotton boxers and a t-shirt and put them on before following him to the
door. It was Moira and Davy. Her heart warmed at the sight of them, even with
the worried looks on their faces.

"We knocked across the street
and then took a guess at where you were," Davy said. "You okay,
kiddo?"

Marc glanced over his shoulder as
she came up behind him. He slung his arm proprietarily around her shoulders.

Davy smirked. Moira beamed.
Oh, don't. You know I can't commit to
anyone.
Her friends knew that.

"Come on in," Marc
invited as he pulled her back a bit to admit her friends. He waved them toward
the sparse living room to sit down. They took the two side chairs. "Do you
guys want any coffee? It'll only take a minute."

Phoebe sat on the couch and gave
him a nod. "Please, I'd love some."

"Coming up, honey. Moira?
Davy?"

They both said yes. When Marc left
for the kitchen both of her friends took turns hugging her. Moira moved over to
the couch and asked, "Are you sure you're okay? You look awful."

Phoebe laughed. "I know I look
awful, but I'm fine. I just have scrapes and bruises. Nothing broken, no
concussion. Thank God Marc followed Butch's car. He pushed me over the falls,
or rather I fell over trying to get away from him." She momentarily closed
her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself.

Moira held her hand. "Butch is
being arraigned this morning for attempted murder and kidnapping."

"Do I need to be there?"
Phoebe asked, her heart thumping in a combination of fear and anger.

"No, it's not a hearing. They'll
bind him over for trial."

"Will he get bail?"

"He'll probably be remanded.
He's been ranting and raving that he did it all for his father."

"Pretty much admitting his
guilt," said Marc, coming back into the living room with two of the coffee
mugs.

Moira added, "And admitting
what he did to your parents, Marc. I'm so sorry."

He didn't respond as he disappeared
again into the kitchen.

This was what he'd come back to
find out—but she knew he'd never suspected that his high school friend killed
his parents. It was almost over. He could now go back to his unit knowing the
mystery had been solved. She would follow her plan to move to Chicago and make
the rounds of the clubs there. It was time to take her career to the next
level, agent or not.

Moira followed Marc into the
kitchen. It was something Phoebe should have done, but she felt strangely
static. Before Moira and Davy had come over, she and Marc had seemed so close,
had made such beautiful love. Now there was an end point.

She should be happy. This cleared the
way for her to move forward. Without Marc. There was no place for him in the
trajectory of her career. He certainly wouldn't want to be her boy toy and
follow her from town to town. And she definitely wasn't interested in settling
down.

It was time to leave, to go back to
her own house, and pack up. When he and Moira returned with two more mugs,
Phoebe stood. "Marc, now that your mystery is solved and I'm safe because
Butch is in jail, it's time to get back to our real lives."
My heart hurts. I'm in transition and
sometimes you must move to the next phase of life.
"You have to go
back, and I have some singing to do."

Marc moved toward her. "Phoebe…"

She glanced at her avidly watching
friends.
God.
The last thing she
wanted was an emotional scene. And since she was about ready to cry again, she
didn't want Marc to see it. "Thank you for everything you've done—for my
life." Her voice stumbled.
My God,
he saved my life.
She began shaking.
I
could have died. Butch was going to kill me, probably rape me first.

Wrapping her arms around her body,
she turned her back and took shuddering breaths trying to calm herself. She had
to get out of there, but she had to let Marc know she'd never forget what he'd
done. She had to be brave and strong enough for that.

Steeling herself, she turned again.
"I can't thank you any other way than to just say thank you with all my
heart. You know how you found me. I wouldn't have made it without your saving
me. I'll never forget you."

He strode toward her, clasping his
hands on her shoulders. His expression was mystified. "You're leaving?"
The question was delivered in an incredulous tone.

Just
a little longer.
"We have different agendas now. We always did."
Almost taking herself to a different plane of consciousness so she could keep
it together, she gazed up into his gorgeous pale-blue eyes. His face was
surrounded by an unmilitary growth of thick black hair. Memorizing his
features, she knew she'd love him for the rest of her life.

She angled out of his grasp. She
didn't want to risk kissing him. If she did that, she might never leave. She'd
wanted a singing career all her life. That hadn't changed. "Be careful
over there, Marc."

Chapter Seventeen

Six Months Later, Camp
Lejeune, North Carolina

Marc marched into the armory
alongside the men and women in his unit. He was with them, but then again he
was not. Most everyone in the unit would be met by someone in the throngs of
friends and family members waiting impatiently inside.

The Marines were fidgety but
silent, their emotions ratcheted up to extremes. Not one of them, man or woman,
didn't relish being alive and pretty much in one piece—mind and body. None of
them would ever forget the five unit members who didn't make it back. Neither
would they forget the seven wounded and lying at Walter Reed or at Landstuhl.

It was time for Marine Gunnery
Sergeant Marc Rahn, Jr. to end his military career, after eight years and three
tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Time to move on to the next phase of his life.
All he knew for sure was that he was alive, and now that the crime of his
parents' deaths had been solved, he could go home to Birchwood Falls.

Coincidentally, it was his
twenty-seventh birthday and the first day of this new life. He was going home
but wasn't sure he could bear to see it again without Phoebe Barnes.

No one met him today. No one
celebrated with him. After all the heat in the Middle East, now all he felt was
cold. Frozen. No emotion.

It didn't matter that he had no
woman to throw her arms around him and weep on his shoulder. It didn't matter
that no child would cry "Daddy!" and cling to his leg. This he was
used to. There hadn't been anyone in his life, except for meaningless
short-term sexual affairs, for all these years. Except for the amazing woman
six months ago.

Well, there were his Marine buddies
but none were more stoic than he. Let them have their frenetic reunions. They
deserved it—and more. He was just fine as he was. Isolated, single-minded, he'd
left his hometown a heartsick eighteen-year-old boy. He'd go back stronger,
smarter, resolute, and finally free of the uncertainty about his folks.

Turning away from all the hugging
and kissing, he ordered himself—much in the way he was used to ordering his
Marines—to ignore the signs of love. They weren't for him. Love left his life
eight years ago, brutally and suddenly, and again six months ago with the
disappearance of Phoebe. He didn't need it, didn't want it. She'd left town,
her singing career more important than anything he could give her. Apparently.

Alone in his hotel room, drifting
off into sleep, wishing Phoebe was really there…

Their
coming together was religiously cataclysmic. He couldn't believe it had been
that long since he'd touched a female body and that long since anything other
than his fist had touched his.

She'd
been there when he got off the bus with his unit. Speeches, back clasps,
hugs—and suddenly there she was standing in front of him. Embarrassed by his
shaking, he reached out a tentative hand. She took it, and they were both
trembling. She bit her lower lip. His gaze honed in on that, and without
another word they walked, deceptively sedately, to her vehicle.

The
hotel suite, dim and cool, was an oasis of normalcy compared to what he'd been
through.

They
stood inside the door. "Do you want to take a shower?" she asked, her
voice polite. "Would you like something to eat?"

His
hunger was for more than food. She'd met him in a tight skirt and even tighter
tank top with the lace imprint of her bra showing through. He well remembered
the ring beneath the lace—and it had been central in his fantasies while
overseas. "I'm rank," he warned.

"I
don't care."

"I
do," he responded. "You deserve better."

"Go."
With a promising smile, she urged him toward the bathroom.

Christ
almighty, it felt good. A private shower, unending hot water, and scented soap.
He let the water run down his back until he almost fell asleep. Shaved and
bathed, he emerged from the bathroom, a towel hooked around his hips, to see
her leaning in the doorway to the bedroom, a flimsy pink nightie barely
covering the good bits.

"I
don't know if I can do you justice," he said.

"You
don't have to the first time."

"Good,
'cause it's gonna take more than once." His lips quirked at the
provocative smirk on her face. Ooh rah. "I missed you."

Her
slender body felt wonderful in his hands. The nightie came off before they even
made it to the bed. His lips roamed the cool, smooth skin of her belly. His mouth
heated when it reached her breasts. He wanted to cry at the taste of her
raspberry-red nipples. The gold ring, the little hard nubs, all belonged to
him.

His
cock hurt. It had been hot and hard, weeping from its hole, since the first
minute he'd seen her. This was nothing like stroking himself. This was a
real-life cunt, a wet, soft pussy. It was fucking, banging, screwing,
everything the guys always talked about doing when they got home.

"Fuck
me," she groaned.

His
hungry dick throbbed. He swept it back and forth in her cleft, wetting its
head, washing it in her juices until she squirmed, thrust up, begging him to
shove it in her.

"Fuck
me already!" she growled demandingly.

He
did. With a shout. Jesus Christ, he almost passed out. For the first time in
six months, in one hundred eighty plus days and nights, his cock had been swallowed
whole by her glorious pussy.