At Your Command. Julie Miller
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“The hotel cleaners just sent it up, starched and pressed.”
“So we’ll make a point not to wrinkle it.” She reached for the knot of terry cloth between her breasts and dropped her towel.
Naked.
Damn. Zachariah’s cock throbbed to shameless attention as he stood transfixed by all her abundant glory.
“Take it off. And get over here.”
Zachariah tossed the duffel onto the bed. “At your command.”
He stripped in record time, never even considering the bed as he swapped his uniform for their box of condoms, and strode across the room with a single purpose. Her.
Becky’s kiss was waiting for him as he lifted her up onto the bathroom counter and spread her legs to move between them. She smoothed the friction between their lips with her tongue, then delved inside to toy with his. Every stroke kicked up the heat throbbing through him another impossible notch. She linked her arms behind his neck and pulled herself up against his body, teasing his chest with the brush of her nipples, teasing him down below with her fragrant, dampening heat. She was a decadent delight for each of his senses—from the contrasting reflection in the mirror of his suntanned hands moving over her fairer skin to the minty taste of her bold tongue in his mouth.
Zachariah tried to savor every moment, taking note of every sensation so he could replay the memories months from now when he was stuck in the middle of the desert or in some foreign jungle—far from letters and e-mails, farther still from kisses and touches like these.
But patience wasn’t his friend this morning. Becky’s mouth was pliant and eager, matching every foray he made. She trailed her fingers along his spine, sparking an electric impulse in every cell she touched. Still anchoring her atop the counter, Zachariah slipped his hand down between them, seeking her heat, testing her readiness. He stroked one finger along her slick crevice and she gasped, tearing her mouth from his and burying her face against his neck.
“Mmm.”
An answering groan from deep in his chest was all he could manage. He dipped one finger inside her, then two. She writhed against his hand. He found her responsive nub with his thumb and begged the cool, calm, controlled attorney to go wanton on him.
“Not fair,” she gasped, nipping at his collarbone. “You have to—” her hum vibrated against his skin “—come…too.” Her knees flexed convulsively around his hips as she neared her release. He knew the feeling. Understood the need. His aching dick poked her hip and thigh as he rocked helplessly against her. Zachariah was like a temperature trigger on a brick of C-4 explosive, rapidly heating up to the point of detonation.
Becky’s fingers dug into his back. “Zachariah?” She was breathing hard. “Zacha—” breathing deeply “—Zachari…?” Breathing quickly.
After seven days together, he recognized the sound. She was coming.
So was he.
“Not yet.” She kissed his neck. Kissed his chin. Grabbed his wrist and pulled his slick fingers from her before she climaxed. “Together,” she demanded. “This last time, we do it together.”
Their fingers tangled as they reached for the condoms he’d dropped beside her. There was laughter. Kisses. Fumbling hands.
“Enough.” He issued the order before he embarrassed himself right there on the counter. Taking charge of the race to their completion, he ripped open a package and turned his back on her to sheathe himself.
Not to be left out of the action for even a moment, she kissed his shoulder blade and reached around to tease his nipples into tortuous attention. “Beckster…” He groaned the warning, then went back on the offensive.
They were damn well going to finish this together. Zachariah turned and pulled her to the edge of the counter. She was more than a foot shorter than him. But tall enough that she was aligned perfectly with his straining, needy self. He pushed her thighs apart and nudged her entrance.
Wanton, indeed. With her hands clutching his biceps for balance, she arched her neck, thrusting her breasts up like an offering, her luscious globes bobbing beneath his hungry gaze. He studied the delicate red and blue veins engorging the hard tips, then squeezed one in his big hand and dipped his head to suckle her. Becky bucked against him as he pulled harder and harder. “Please. Please.”
He didn’t want to leave her. His conscience said he couldn’t just walk. They’d been pretty careful. But they’d also been pretty wild. Pretty intense. Pretty…frequent.
What if her pill or his condom had failed?
What if he came back and she’d moved on to someone else?
Couldn’t happen.
Wouldn’t happen.
“Zachariah…” she commanded, linking her heels behind his thighs and opening herself even wider. “Take me. Now.”
The order alone was enough to send him right to the edge.
Pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes as the inevitable countdown toward detonation began. “Marry me.”
“What?”
He slid his tip inside, barely an inch—denying for a moment what they both craved. They were breathing hard as he held himself on the brink and looked down into her blue eyes, locked onto his. The wheels were again spinning inside her head, evaluating the timing and motivations behind his impulsive—yet surprisingly serious—request.
“Don’t let this end. Marry me.”
His body nearly spasmed as he refused to indulge his need until she gave him an answer.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Becky grabbed his ass and urged him in. With one deep thrust, Zachariah exploded inside her. She shattered around him and cried out, “Yes!”
2
“ZACHARIAH! HEY, BIG GUY! Welcome home!”
Becky snatched her hand out of the air and pulled it into a fist near her stomach, mortified by her blind enthusiasm. Thank God the crowd of families and friends surrounding her had cheered loudly enough to drown out her impulsive shout. Glancing quickly around, she wished she were tall enough to see over more of the men and women near her.
“Smooth one, Owens,” she muttered under her breath.
Had she flagged anyone’s attention? Not that she’d really expected her least favorite fan to follow her the eighty miles from Richmond, Virginia, to the Marine Corps base at Quantico. He hadn’t had the balls to use his own phone or leave a name or traceable address yet, so she doubted he’d really show his face. But the letters and phone calls—no doubt the vengeful enterprise of one of the ex-husbands she’d pursued on behalf of her clients—were coming more frequently now. And dead roses had been left on the windshield of her car and at the front door to her condo, kicking the anonymous stalking up another notch.
It started simply with I hate you clipped from random magazine letters and sent to her office, along with some heavy breathing on her phone at home. Then he had tried to show he was smart by switching to computer printouts and adding some big words: I bet you aren’t getting any, Princess Plump-ass, so you have to emasculate every man you meet to compensate. The latest note, delivered to her office five days ago with an illegible postmark, had contained a new twist on the usual insults and hurtful words: You think you’re all that, don’t you, bitch? I’m going to take back what you’ve stolen from me. Even if it has to come out of your hide. Included had been a photograph of her walking down the courthouse steps, taken from a distance. In the picture, her heart had been cut out.
Though she’d reported that last message to her supervisor at the State Attorney’s office, and the letter and photo had been subsequently filed with