“Says the female wearing sex for heels and walking around in this erotic little number.” He undid one of her jacket buttons.

“‘Erotic number.’ It’s a suit,” she muttered. “How dare I . . .”

“And the way you always keep all this hair pulled back.” He nuzzled against her neck, left completely open thanks to her basic ponytail. “It’s just begging to be touched.”

“I’m full of ulterior motives. It’s a wonder I can get dressed in the morning, with all my nefarious plots.” She sighed and angled her head so he had better access.

“But despite all your showing off and nefarious plots,” he said, finishing the last button, “there’s something I need you to do.”

“Hmm,” was all she could hum as he pushed the top sleeve off her arm.

“I need you to go over there, and strip all this professional armor off, one piece at a time,” he began, sucking gently on her throat.

“And then?” she breathed.

“And then, put on your pajamas and come to bed.”

She froze, then lifted her head. “What?”

He grinned at her confusion and kissed her nose. “Honey, I might have won that fight, and I might have been undermatched in the whole thing, but I still got handed a few knocks and I’m not up for tearing the sheets apart.”

She blinked. “Oh.” Then slithered off the bed and headed to her suitcase. She pulled her jacket off her other arm with economical motions he knew meant she was annoyed with him.

That was fine. She could be annoyed. But they both needed a night off from sexy times. Him, for the sheer purpose of recovery. Her, because her head was struggling to catch up. Even if she couldn’t see it, he could.

In reality, he could have survived just fine having sex. Guys did it every day. The adrenaline of a good fight was a powerful drug to push past any pain or soreness. Hell, sometimes the adrenaline was more potent than a shot of Viagra for some. If they didn’t find a willing woman twenty minutes after leaving the ropes, they were crawling up the wall.

Fighting had never been his aphrodisiac. It had been survival. Always survival. Foster homes with shitty bio kids or fellow fosters, the streets, even his earliest days in the Corps . . . his fists had been the one thing he could count on. Nothing sexual about survival.

As she slipped into her pajama bottoms, he grinned. “Penguins?”

She glanced down, then back up with an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t bring these thinking you’d see them.” Then, smoothing a hand down the short shorts with surfing birds all over them, she added in a defensive tone, “Penguins are cute.”

“That they are.” So was she, in her bare feet, cute penguin-themed shorts and practically see-through tank top. He held out a hand and, after a contrary moment of glaring at him, she relented and laid down with him.

“You suck,” she mumbled as she snuggled against him. Lying down, she fit against him perfectly. With her head nestled against his shoulder, she wrapped one arm around his chest, slid her leg between his, and sighed. “You’re still dressed.”

“I’ve gotta keep the mystery alive, you know.” When she chuckled quietly, he said, “I’ve got bruises. I don’t want to freak you out.”

There was a hesitation, but she said, “They won’t.” She tugged at the band of his polo shirt and slid it up until it caught under his arms. She traced one bruise on his ribs. “Did you get checked out?”

“We all did. They’re completely anal about it, thanks to concussions and all that. I’m fine.” He caught her hand and pressed it flat against his chest.

“Show me.”

When he cracked open an eye, she sat up and motioned for him to do the same. With a reluctant groan, he did. She pushed his shirt up and over his head.

Not too much damage, thankfully. His left jaw took the worst of it, but a good-sized bruise was forming on his left shoulder as well. Raising his arms up to pull the shirt off wasn’t what he’d call a fun day at the park.

After letting her fingertips trail over the discoloration, he closed his eyes. It felt so good, just to be touched lightly. As if the simple brush of her hands could release any pain and suffering the injuries contained, leaving them nothing but colorful reminders.

“How about down here?” She stuck one finger in the waistband of his jeans and tugged.

“Ever heard of the term ‘below the belt’?” When she nodded, he winced. “It exists for a reason. Nothing’s going on down there.” Except for an erection, which was a damn inconvenience when he’d sworn he wouldn’t push tonight.

“Hmm.” She rotated him so his back faced her, then pressed so he laid down, face first. “Looks like you’re okay back here, too.”

“You really didn’t watch the fight, did you?” He meant it as a joke, but when her hands halted in their exploration of his flesh, he knew she’d taken it personally. Reaching around blindly, he grabbed one hand and pulled it down to press a kiss to her palm. “Sorry. I know it was hard for you. I’m not offended or upset about it.”

She let a heavy sigh go, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. He almost asked, but then she started to massage his shoulders, and every good piece of conversation fled from his mind like a bird taking flight.

“Oh my God,” he muttered as she found a particularly tense knot of muscles just at his right shoulder. “If you could just keep doing that forever, that’d be great.”

She laughed. “No way. My hands will get too tired. But now that I think about it . . .” She went silent, and he could all but hear her making mental notes.

“Are you working?”

“No,” she said, but the guilt in her voice said, Of course I am.

“Well, stop it. No work tonight.”

“But I have to—”

“Have to spend time with one of your Marines. That’s work, right?”

She snorted. “I doubt my boss would condone considering this work. But now that you mention it . . .” Her voice trailed off again, and he bit back a sigh. The woman wouldn’t quit.

So, while she rubbed him down, then raised his flesh with fleeting, light touches over his spine and shoulders, he let it go.

And an hour later, as she lay beside him, with a bag of microwave popcorn on his stomach, watching some movie from the eighties, he realized even without sex, it was easily the best night he’d had with a woman, ever.

CHAPTER

18

Reagan’s fuzzy brain fought to keep track of the plot. “But why is he so interested in that boat?”

Greg placed one finger over her lips. “Shh, don’t analyze. Enjoy.”

“I know, but—”

“Shh.” He pushed a piece of popcorn into her open mouth, causing her to bite down. “Watch.”

She poked him in the ribs—the non-bruised ones, she wasn’t a monster—and watched him squirm. “Jerk.”

“That’s me. It’s on my business card.” They were quiet another few moments, and she enjoyed the feeling of his hand smoothing over her hair, down her shoulder to her elbow. It was hypnotic, and made her eyelids feel heavy. Without thinking, she matched her breathing to his . . . slow and even, deep and relaxing. And felt herself start to drift.

“Tell me about your family.”

“Hmm,” she said, fighting the siren song of sleep. “Brothers. Lots of brothers.”

He massaged her scalp lightly, and she all but wept. Yummy. So yummy. “You mentioned them before. Older or younger?”

“Mix. I’m in the middle.” Her fingertip traced through the hair that led down his chest and into the waistband of the jeans he still hadn’t taken off. “You could get more comfortable, if you want.”

“Trying to seduce me out of my clothes?” He tugged gently on a strand of her hair in mocking reprimand, and it felt good. “Not gonna work tonight.”

“Darn.” She sighed. “Two older, two younger.”