Lisa Jones - Jump Start

Ignoring the joke, and the undercurrent of “coupleness” or whatever real word one might call it that escaped her now, Jennifer argued, “Marcie is already upset over that idea, Bobby. Pressuring her isn’t going to help matters.”

“Well, I can see the look in Mark’s eye. He’s out to prove something and this isn’t over. But we can end it together, like I said. Come jump with us. Convince Marcie to come, too.”

She shook her head. “Me. Jumping out of a plane? Not in this lifetime. That’s way too out of control for me.” She opened her door and tossed her purse inside, before clicking the lock to the back door where the champagne was stored.

“You can tandem jump with me,” he said. “You’d be tied to me. I’ll have control then. I’ll keep you safe.”

He’d have control. There lay her problem. Bobby had control—when he’d left; for the past seven years, as she’d secretly wanted, needed and wondered; and now, because she was running from him. She had to take control, stop wallowing in the past. Deal with the right here and now.

“You can trust me,” Bobby said in a low, sandpaper-rough voice. “When I left—”

She did the only thing she knew to shut him up—she kissed him. She stepped forward, pressed her hand on the solid wall of his chest, pushed to her toes and kissed him. That was taking control. This was taking control. She was taking control.

They hadn’t been in love. Love endured. Love was honest. Love didn’t run away and never look back. They’d been in lust, and she was all about lust in that moment. All about pleasure. For two weeks, he was here, the man who’d been the best sex of her life. She’d be a fool to run from his flavor of pleasure. She would enjoy him, and then she would say goodbye.

Starting with this kiss. The instant Jennifer’s mouth touched Bobby’s, he pulled her closer, taking her mouth, as if he feared she might change her mind. His tongue parted her lips, intimately, full of demand. One of his hands tangled in her hair, the other slid up her back, pressing her close, molding her against all that delicious hard muscle. Her hands slid over his back. Long, strong thighs entwined with hers, his hips settling against hers. His erection, already thick, hard, pressing against her stomach.

She moaned into his mouth, heat pooling in the V of her body. She’d told herself she’d kissed him to shut him up, and while true, it had also been for pleasure. The same reason her hand was under his shirt, her palm absorbing warm, taut skin. Feeling pleasure was so much better than talking about the past. Feeling pleasure. Yes. Pleasure. He knew exactly where to touch her. She knew exactly where to touch him.

pImages** of their naked bodies entwined, their passionate, impossible-to-forget lovemaking sizzled in her mind and melted her body against his. Kissing him, tasting him, feeling him close.

“Jennifer,” he murmured against her lips, pulling back to stare at her. “I—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Kiss me again.”

“Bobby!” came Marcie’s shout from the door. “Some guy called the house phone. He says it’s urgent.”

“Damn it,” Bobby cursed under his breath, closing his hand around hers and kissing it. “I’m sorry. I gave the Army an emergency number. I’m on leave but—”

“Duty first,” she said, relief washing over her. “Then fun.” She’d started this game without planning. That was a lot for Jennifer.

“Bobby!” Marcie yelled again.

He stared down at her, his dark lashes narrowing around intelligent blue eyes, as if he were suspicious of what she would do next. He hesitated, then kissed her firmly. “Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered, steel determination in his voice. “We have to talk.” And then he was half walking, half jogging to the house.

She watched him, the long, lithe way he moved—like a soldier she didn’t know, but a lover she knew all too well. A past she didn’t want to know at all if it wasn’t between the sheets. It was easier that way. No, there would be no talking. There’d be more kissing. They’d do more pleasuring. They’d do it on her terms, though.

Tomorrow night at the party, where champagne would be plentiful, the fun and adventure would be on high octane. She closed the trunk and slid into the car, deciding the case of champagne in the car would wait until tomorrow. A smile touched her lips as she turned the ignition. There might even be some of that chocolate mousse on Bobby. A simple plan of pleasure.

What more could a girl want? Okay, bad question, one that stirred the wrong emotions. As did the idea of that phone call perhaps ordering him back to duty, perhaps without a goodbye, yet again. She dismissed the thought and put the car into gear. Refocused on her plan. On the chocolate mousse, and its removal, one delicious, sensual lick at a time. Oh, yes. Lots of licking. No talking.

THERE HAD NEVER BEEN a woman that tasted like honey, sunrise and heaven the way Jennifer did. Not before her. Not after her. Heat, desire and readiness climbed through his limbs, burned molten heat in his blood. Bobby all but ran to the door, eager to get the call over with, and return to Jennifer. The sound of tires on gravel stopped him in his tracks.

“Damn,” he murmured under his breath, scrubbing his jaw, watching the car pull away. He’d had her—in his arms, kissing him freely, willing to kiss him again. And in a snap, she was gone. Kind of like he had been all those years ago. Damn again. He deserved to be worked up and left behind. He deserved anything she did to him ten times over, and he wasn’t above admitting it.

Bobby fought the urge to run to the end of the driveway, to cut her off before she departed, and to tell her that and more. But when the Army called, a soldier answered, even one close to walking away from reenlistment. Especially when he knew what the call was about—the same reason he’d been working on getting out to that skydiving operation.

He’d been in town all of a few hours, when Bobby had gotten “official orders” that trumped his leave. When he’d been told to check out some ex-Special Ops guy named Rocky Smith, who Bobby didn’t know from Adam, but apparently owned the skydiving operation Texas Hotzone, about thirty miles outside Austin, in the adjacent small city of San Marcus. Seemed Rocky was catching some buzz in connection to a Mexican drug lord, and the Army wanted Bobby to see what he could find out. Even on leave, he wasn’t on leave. He reached the bottom of the porch stairs to find Marcie waiting for him at the top, hands on her hips. “She left with the champagne,” she said. “What did you do to her?”

Bobby grimaced as he double-stepped to the top. “I didn’t do anything to her,” he said. But he wanted to do plenty. To kiss every last inch of her and do it all over again. And again.

Marcie gave him a skeptical look and offered him the phone. “Sergeant Walker,” Bobby said into the phone. The reply was simple. Call in on a secure line at 0800. He hung up.

“That was it?” she asked. “The call is over?”

He nodded. “Report orders.”

“Not now?” she asked urgently.

“The day after the wedding,” he said, though he had a few more days before he was actually due to report. But by then, he would have made his decision. He was staying or he was reenlisting. “You know. You’re all worked up and cranky, you’re going to run Mark off before he says ‘I do.’”

She opened her mouth to argue and then shut it. “I know.”

“You’re both nervous and excited,” he said. “If the man wants to skydive, to escape that for a day, don’t hold him back. Go with him.”

“I don’t want him to get hurt,” she said.