She inhaled again, nipping his earlobe this time. He responded by rubbing a hand over her shoulder and down her arm, entwining their fingers. “You smell like Irish Spring soap. And leather. And sex. And…you.” Then she added, “And maybe a little bit like me.”
He growled, playing with her fingers. “I like the sound of that. Because that means you probably smell a little bit like me.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she agreed. “We’ve marked each other without all that pesky lifting of a leg and urinating business.”
He snorted a laugh. “Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess.”
“That does not float my boat,” she assured him. “But speaking of markings,” she released his fingers to trace one of the star tattoos on his arm, “what do your tattoos mean? If they mean anything at all,” she was quick to add. “I totally understand if you got them just because they’re pretty or—”
“First of all,” he interrupted her, “my tattoos are not pretty.” She begged to differ. In her eyes, they were very pretty. But she assumed that description might’ve pricked his male ego. “They’re badass,” he finished. And, yep, assumption proved. “And secondly, they do have a meaning. But now that I know you think they’re…pretty,” his nose wrinkled when he said the word, “I’m not sure you want to hear what they stand for.”
“But I do,” she assured him, moving her finger to trace another star. “I do want to know.”
“The tale isn’t pretty,” he stressed the word.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she huffed, slapping playfully at his shoulder. “I take it back. They’re not pretty. They’re hardcore, gangsta-hot, straight-up dope. Is that better?”
A laugh burst from him, all low and throaty. It sent a frisson of pleasure through her chest down to her belly. “Did you just utter the phrase straight-up dope? Where are we?” He glanced around the cabin. “1990?”
“Get to the point, Billy,” she huffed.
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned at her when she pressed up on her elbow in order to scowl down at him. Too soon her expression smoothed. Because when Billy grinned like that, all playful and teasing, she could see remnants of that young petty officer she’d fallen in love with. She nipped his stubbled jaw for good measure before re-tucking her head beneath his chin so she could resume tracing his tattoos.
“Each of these tattoos represents an explosive device I successfully disarmed,” he told her. Which only had her pressing up again, her eyes skimming over his right arm where at least twenty-five colorful, multi-sized star tattoos ran from his shoulder to just beneath his elbow. The opposite arm sported what appeared to be the same amount.
Holy moly. Fifty times…at least fifty times, Billy put himself in the middle of an armed bomb…er explosive device, or whatever he calls them. Her mouth dried at the thought, at the magnitude of the danger he’d lived through, at the extent of what he’d accomplished, and the untold lives he’d undoubtedly saved.
“Geez Louise, Billy,” she breathed, searching his half-lidded, lazy eyes. “Were you—” She stopped herself, because the question she thought to pose sounded silly, even in her own head.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged her. “Ask whatever you want.”
“It’s stupid,” she assured him, shaking her head. “I already know the answer.”
“The answer to what?” he smiled, cocking his head on the pillow.
“To whether or not you were scared.”
“And was I?”
“Well, of course!” She threw a hand in the air. “You disarmed bombs for a living. A lot of bombs!” Her eyes flew over the myriad tattoos on his arms.
He grabbed her hand and flattened it against his chest. She could feel the steady beat of his heart. “You might be the only one who believes I was scared,” he told her, and she frowned at him.
“How is that possible?”
“Well, I’ve been told that when I’m in the middle of a mission, or a bomb, or anything particularly hair-raising, I get really still. And really, really calm.”
“Well, that just means you’re internalizing your fear,” she told him. “Which is undoubtedly why you’re so good at what you do, steady hands and all, but it’s also probably why you swill Pepto-Bismol like it’s going out of style.”
He barked a laugh. “Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. Phil?”
“Is it the wrong one?” she asked, lifting a brow.
“No,” he admitted, a half-smile playing at his wonderful lips.
“Hmm.” She nodded, once again tucking her head beneath his chin, reveling in the comforting sound of his heavy heartbeat. “And is that how you got your nickname? Wild Bill? Because you were crazy to have gone up against all those explosives?”
“Nah.” The word rasped in his chest and in her ear. “I got that name before ever shipping out. It was a hold-over from my last few months of SEAL training.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I went a little crazy there for a while. Drinking too much. Driving too fast. Pushing the boundaries with my superior officers. I was living on the wild side of life. Hence, the nickname.”
“But why?” she asked, wondering if, perhaps, he’d started to regret his decision to be a Navy SEAL. If he’d started to second-guess—
“Why do you think, Eve?” His voice was suddenly quiet, subdued, and her breath hitched in her lungs like she’d run out of oxygen on a deep dive.
“B-because of me?” she asked, pressing up to stare down at him. But she already knew the truth in her heart. And it killed her to think of the pain she’d caused him, to think of the career she might have caused him to lose had he ever stepped over the line as opposed to simply pushing it.
Well, that was just one more reason for her to hate herself for what she’d done…
When he opened his mouth to answer, she slapped her palm over his lips, shaking her head, tears pressing behind her eyes. “Don’t answer that,” she said. “I already know what you’ll say. And I’m sorry, Billy. I’m so—”
“Eve.” He moved her hand away. “Stop apologizing, okay?”
She shook her head. “Nope,” she sniffled. “I don’t think I can do that.”
He sighed, pulling her down to press her cheek against his chest. “Well then,” he said, “I’ll just have to distract you.”
“Distract me?” she asked, watching as he took her hand, curling all her fingers into a fist except for her pointer finger, which he straightened and used like a pencil, tracing one of the tattoos on the inside of his lean hip.
“Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, dropping a kiss into her crown as his rough palm smoothed over her hip. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
“The Grapes of Wrath?” she asked distractedly when he released her hand so she could continue the tracing on her own. She caught her lips between her teeth as his manhood twitched and swelled to throbbing, violent life.
“A bastardized version of it,” he whispered, reaching up to thumb her nipple. It sprang to instant, aching attention.
And though there was a part of her that still felt close to tears, a part of her that felt that even if she apologized a thousand more times it still wouldn’t be enough, there was another part of her that burned at the thought of Billy taking her again.
And he and John Steinbeck were certainly right about one thing. A man had to do what a man had to do. But a woman had to do what a woman had to do, too. So, lifting her head, she closed her mouth over his, breathing in his breath, reveling in his taste, letting herself get lost in him…