The damned persistent bogey slid in with a memory of the strain stamping her face back at the luggage hangar. He kissed the side of her brow. "Sorry Yasmine spilled it all out there."
"It's done. And there certainly are worse call signs than Tiara."
"Amen to that. Just ask poor ole Booger."
Her light laugh caressed his neck. His arms looped around her waist, hers around his. If only things could stay this warm and simple, he'd be a happy man.
"I'm sorry about your wife."
Well, hell. So much for wishes. He wasn't going to get away with light and easy any longer, not that Monica had ever let him take the easy way out. His hopes for an uncomplicated relationship like with Tina were as gone as she was.
"Me, too." His chin fell to rest on Monica's damp head and he let the water beat some sense into him. "And for what it's worth now, I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I could make excuses, but when I line them up now, they all sound lame-ass and I owe you better than that."
"Where do we go from here?''
At the moment he was so damned glad to have her back in his arms again, he didn't want to worry about the rest. Of course, that hadn't worked with Monica in the past. "I still don't understand why the hell we have to make permanent decisions now, but I get that you need a clear plan."
"Progress." She smiled against his chest.
He crooked a finger under her chin to tip her face up to him. "But I'm not going to let you lead me around by the nose for four years like you did with that wimpy-ass Hunter while you make up your mind if you like the plan or not." >Which of course was what Jack was telling her with the heat of his kiss. His submissive stint could evaporate at any moment. A power play that stirred her all the more.
He pulled away, slowly, sank into the chair. She circled around to face him, his arms splayed on the rests, his knees wide enough apart for her to step between them.
She brought one of her booted feet up to rest on his thigh. "Remember when I said I wanted you to undress me?"
Masculine approval rumbled low in his throat an instant before his fingers set to work on the long laces on her desert-tan combat boots. With expert touch, he freed the knots, constraints loosening, pressure releasing around more than her foot.
The boot thudded to the side and before the echo finished, Jack had one hand up the leg of her flight suit. Strong fingers caressed past her ankle. Without once looking away from her face, he lowered her sock, peeled it away in a sensual massage over her calf that left her swaying long before he repeated the ritual with her other boot.
He rubbed from her heel to her arch. "You have the sexiest feet."
"Feet? Korba, I think you're losing your touch."
Bold, calloused fingers played over her skin, behind her knee to linger on a sensitive patch of skin that threatened to buckle her other knee from under her.
As always, Jack rose to the challenge. "Really?''
"Keep on convincing me."
"This bossy gig of yours is starting to grow on me." His hands stroked up her thighs, over her quivering belly to cup the undersides of her breasts, tormenting her with the knowledge that too much fabric kept them from skin-to-skin contact. "I seem to recall your saying something about wanting my hands on you, undressing you, watching me see you."
He skimmed her flight suit down over her shoulders, loosened the Velcro around her wrists with expert hands until the uniform slid, pooled around her feet. "And I do enjoy seeing you, Mon."
His eyes scorched every inch of her bared skin, heating through the pale cream cotton of her sports bra and high-cut panties.
She knew he was subtly reassuring her without blatantly throwing the former wife issue out there like a bucket of ice water. Even thinking about the subject on her own was chilling enough. So she refused to think. Only feel. Take this moment.
Take Jack.
Monica canted forward until her mouth met his. The chair wheeled backward across the floor. Jack's hands clamped around her waist, steadying her with broad palms against tender flesh.
Without breaking their kiss, he lifted her while she brought her legs up to kneel, straddling his thighs. The snug confines of the chair pressed her flush against him. The chair bumped to a stop against the desk with her bag and gear.
After three and a half months without him, Monica indulged herself to the fullest with the breadth of his shoulders under her hands, the musky scent of him around her, the taste of his salty skin as she nipped his neck.
Jack peeled her sports bra over her head and sent it fluttering to the floor like a white flag of surrender. He filled his hands with her breasts, lifted, dipping his head to draw on the hardened nipple already sensitive, needy, while his thumb brushed, circled attention on her other.
Greedy for the feel of more of him, Monica crawled her fingers down his chest and yanked up his T-shirt. Since she couldn't get him na*ed without standing, she thanked heaven for the long zipper on his flight suit that still gave her easy access to him. All of him.