Christmas with a SEAL. Tawny Weber
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Frankie pressed her tongue against her upper lip, enjoying his reaction.
“So now you know about me. Tell me about you and then we won’t be strangers anymore.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“No? I must have misunderstood,” she teased, not wanting to give away why she really knew so much about him. Tell a guy you knew he wore boxers and size-thirteen boots and liked his waffles with chopped bananas and he’d be bound to get crazy ideas and call her a stalker. “So you’re not a SEAL? You have no stories about growing up with Lara? You don’t have any hobbies or interests?”
His lips quirked.
“I am a SEAL, and what I do tends to be classified. If I told stories about Lara, she’d likely tell some about me. I don’t remember any embarrassing ones, but I’m sure she can. And no, I don’t have any hobbies.”
His hands shifted from her waist to cup her hips, his fingers brushing the top curve of her butt.
“And interests?” Frankie asked, her words just above a whisper.
“Right now my only interest is you,” he confessed quietly, his body moving against hers in time with the melody coming from the outdoor speakers.
“See, this kind of trouble, it’s good,” she told him, surprised she could even form words. Her heart was racing, her pulse dancing way too fast for the music. Her stomach was knotted, but she was too overwhelmed to tell if it was nerves or excitement.
“You think so?” he asked as his lips brushed over hers. Soft, so gentle that she almost whimpered at the sweetness. And almost groaned when he pulled away.
Oh, yeah. He was worth the trouble. Her breath a little shaky, Frankie leaned back to stare at Phillip, trying to gauge his thoughts. Or, more important, his decision on whether she was worth the trouble.
“Wanna leave?” She figured she’d better do the asking, since she knew he wouldn’t.
Good guys, proper guys like Phillip, they didn’t suggest one-night stands with women they thought were strangers. She’d wondered if his years in the Navy had changed that. She was glad it hadn’t, but man, it would’ve been so much easier if he just grabbed her and dragged her away.
Since he wouldn’t, she decided she would.
“Come on,” she insisted, ignoring the chill as she stepped out of his arms and grabbed his hand. She turned toward the elevator, but her feet were frozen to the floor.
“Frankie...”
If she hesitated, he’d say goodbye. He’d go back inside, say goodbye and that would be it. She wet her lips, tasting him.
She wanted him even more now than she’d ever dreamed she could. But nowhere in her imagination had she fantasized about dragging him off to sexual nirvana. It was a little unnerving. But not once in any of her fantasies had she chickened out.
So...
“Come on,” she said again, tugging his hand. She stopped to grab their glasses and what was left of the champagne, then tilted her head toward the elevator.
“Let’s see how exciting trouble can be,” she suggested.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Phillip murmured, looking back at the party as though he might actually consider joining the conga line to escape.
“Why?” Frankie asked, coming around to face him, so close the metal disks of her dress were probably leaving an imprint on both of their bodies.
“I’m not a relationship kind of guy,” he warned huskily, his gaze locked on his fingers as they trailed down her cheek, over her chin and along her throat.
“I’m not looking for a relationship,” she told him quietly, taking his hand in hers and pressing it against the curve of her breast above her dress.
No. She didn’t want the prince forever.
She just wanted him for one hot night.
* * *
PHILLIP RACKED HIS BRAIN, wondering where the hell logic, caution and good sense had gone. Because, like Elvis, they had clearly left the building.
For once, though, he didn’t care.
For the first time in months, he felt alive.
Loosed from the vicious grip of memories, his body celebrated its freedom by reminding him of all the reasons it felt great to be a man. Most of them below the belt and all of them quite happy to follow Frankie into that elevator.
So why was he hesitating?
He glanced at the party in the penthouse again, and closed his eyes. That was why. Family expectations, polite behavior and orders all demanded that he go back in there.
All his life, he’d met expectations, behaved appropriately and complied with demands before they were issued. He lived for orders, had been groomed to issue them. His entire life was a lesson in discipline.
And he was so damned tired of it.
He looked at Frankie, watching the way the neon from the Vegas night sky played over her hair. Her eyes were like midnight, dancing with the same delight that played out over her full lips. She was sexy, so temptingly sexy.
It wasn’t that he went through life ignoring temptation; he’d simply trained himself not to see it. But there was no denying that he saw her, in all her tempting glory. His gaze shifted from Frankie’s face, drifting down her body. Curves that even a dress of mirrors couldn’t detract from. And those legs. Phillip’s eyes shifted to take in their long, golden length. Would they feel as silky as they looked? She was on the short side, but her legs were so long. Long enough, he’d bet, to wrap around his waist.
Want hit him hard, hotter and faster than he’d ever felt before. Lust was the only word for it. Desire was too tame, passion too soft. This was edgy, needy, demanding.
Way too much for that simple kiss they’d shared.
Because his profession—and his personality—demanded accuracy, he needed to find out.
Was it really lust?
Or was it all in his head?
His gaze locked on hers, Phillip stepped closer. Her dress jingled and her lips parted. He took her mouth. This kiss was soft, too. A brush of the lips, sweet and tasting of champagne. He shifted the angle, his tongue sliding along the seam of her mouth.
It was as if he’d flipped a switch.
Hers, his, he had no idea.
But the kiss went wild.
She nipped at his bottom lip.
His tongue demanded entrance, thrusting, swirling, taking. Giving. Tiny explosions, a minefield of emotional bombs, burst inside him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus.
He could only feel, taste. Want.
Oh, God, he wanted.
Frankie’s arms wrapped around him, one across his shoulder so the champagne bottle she still held smacked him in the back. The other slid lower, her hand cupping, squeezing his butt.
Phillip wanted to reciprocate.
He wanted to touch her. To feel her skin beneath his palms, under his mouth.
But not here.
Somewhere private.
Because once he started, he wasn’t going to be able to stop.
He didn’t care whether it was lust alone or a temporary escape from the soul-deep exhaustion that had been eating way at him.
She was the answer to the question he couldn’t face.
A question that was tearing at his heart, cutting at his soul.
He