Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

the head.
     
    He was instantly hot. Incredibly turned on.
     
    Closing his eyes, Caleb drank her in, the smell of her hair, the salt tang of her skin, the hot, wild sweetness of her mouth. Her breasts—she had amazing breasts— squashed against him. Her hands slipped from around his neck and slithered down his chest. She started unbuckling his belt.
     
    He sucked in his breath. Un-fucking-believable .
     
    Like a letter to Penthouse . Like one of Private Ziggy Fell’s stories, “How I Spent My Time in the Green Zone.” Like a frigging dream.
     
    Except since Mosul, Caleb’s dreams hadn’t been this good.
     
    Nothing had ever felt this good.
     
    She cupped him, shaped him through his jeans, making this little hum of satisfaction in her throat, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. He was so screwed. Or he would be soon if he didn’t do something about it.
     
    Her hand explored, setting him on fire, threatening to send his careful plans up in smoke.
     
    He speared his fingers into her hair, tugging back her head so he could see her face. She met his gaze boldly, those wide eyes dark with knowledge and desire, a tiny smile curving that slick, red mouth.
     
    26
    Why would he want to do anything to derail what could be the best fantasy sex of his life?
     
    She wasn’t an insurgent or a victim, a Third World prostitute or his ex-wife. She wasn’t like anyone he had ever known. He could do whatever he wanted with her. Whatever she wanted.
     
    His blood hammered through his body, thundered in his ears. And for whatever reason, she wanted . . . him.
     
    Cradling the back of her head, he took her mouth with his. Hot. Her kiss was sweet and hot, her skin warm and damp with desire. Her hands left him to reach behind her own back. He fought his disappointment. But then the tiny triangles of her swimsuit tumbled to her lap, freeing her breasts to his gaze. To his touch. He covered them with his palms, testing their shape, their weight, their mind-blowing softness.
     
    She tugged at his buckle, fumbled briefly with his zipper. He pushed her hands aside to help, standing between her legs as she perched on the picnic table.
     
    His own hands trembled. A little overeager there , Ace . Would she notice? Or would she be too distracted, too revolted, by the purple waffle weave of scar tissue on his thigh to care about his reactions?
     
    But she didn’t comment on his scars. She shoved down his jeans and his briefs, freeing his bobbing erection, and squeezed his bare ass. Like she wanted this. Wanted him, scars and all.
     
    Incredible.
     
    He had just enough brains left to dig in his sagging pocket for his wallet.
     
    Margred frowned as he pulled out the condom. “We don’t need that.”
     
    He glanced down at his dark erection, thrusting against the shadowed curve of her belly, and fought to keep his tone light. “Looks to me like we will soon.”
     
    She laughed, and his tension eased.
     
    27
    “I meant, I have no diseases,” she explained.
     
    “Me either,” he said. The Army poked and prodded, tested and treated for everything. And since his discharge there had been no one.
     
    With one finger she traced from the coarse hair at his groin all along his length to the blunt, sensitive tip. A different tension gripped him.
    “Yes, you look . . . healthy.”
     
    Except for the jagged purple scar running up his thigh, the pins and plates holding him together, he was fine.
     
    The sight of her slender, stroking finger almost drove the words from his head. “You could still get pregnant.”
     
    “No,” she said, and stooped, and replaced her hand with her mouth.
     
    His body jolted as if he’d been struck by lightning. Her hair tumbled over his thigh, brushed his belly, as she took him deep. The hot, wet suction shut down his brain. Heat built in the back of his head, in the base of his balls. He was losing it. He was losing control.
     
    Pushing her flat on the picnic table, he gripped her knees. He needed to be with her. In her. Closer. Now.
     
    “Wait,” she gasped.
     
    He froze.
     
    She slid her arms out of his jacket sleeves and then wriggled out of her bikini bottoms. He stared. She had no tan lines. No tan at all. She was all smooth muscles and full curves, her small, pink nipples and thick, dark bush in startling contrast to her creamy skin.
     
    She lay back and smiled at him. “Now.”
     
    Yes .
     
    His barriers crashed. His control crumbled. He spread her thighs wide. She was