Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7)

Joint Forces (Wingmen Warriors #7) Page 12

He thumbed along the pages of the discarded book beside the computer. Even the Bard couldn't quiet the storm in him tonight.

Dinner with his wife and kids had been near perfect, so close to what he'd planned for himself during his teen years. Nice house. Plenty of food. The conversation was a bonus he hadn't known he was missing until Rena came into his life. Sure he didn't join in much, but he listened. Enjoyed. Like tonight.

And then she'd started cracking those chicken wing bones. Bo's breaking hand had echoed in his head. And…

It was all too much. Too much emotion, noise. Storm.

He'd retreated. Except his quiet office, books, computer weren't offering him much in the way of relief.

A noise broke the silence.

He glanced up at the clock again, pendulum swinging. Rena was asleep—he'd checked. That one look at her soft body curved into her pillow was the source of most of his current frustration.

Chris was due home over an hour ago, but the office window showcased an empty parking spot.

Floorboards groaned. Old house-settling noises? Or something else.

Unease cranked along with his heart rate. He slid the key into the bottom drawer of his desk, opened, pulled out his M9 Beretta pistol.

The sounds could be nothing. The hit-and-run could be nothing. Or it could all be something, and no way would any of it get near his family.

Another squeak of boards and a rustle spurred him to action.

He edged out into the hall, following the sounds. Quiet, stealthy sounds. Should he have called the cops first? His hand fell to his cell phone in his back pocket, pulled it free and ready as he followed.

His footsteps led him to the kitchen. He slipped around the corner, socks silent on ceramic tile until he found…

His hungry intruder head deep in the refrigerator, a mighty fine and familiar ass pertly in view, clothed in a red satin nightshirt he'd given Rena two Christmases ago.

Chapter 6

J.T. lowered the gun to his side and feasted on the luscious sight of his wife's incredible ass while she feasted on whatever held her attention in the refrigerator.

Adrenaline surged through him alongside relief. Lust raged at Mach speed, leaving him totally at the mercy of memories from last summer when he'd returned home from TDY—temporary duty. He'd been on the road so much over the past few years with Afghanistan, Iraq, and regular TDYs to supply troops all around the world, he'd spent little time in his wife's bed. In his wife's arms.

In his wife's body.

He'd eased into the kitchen last summer after his return from Guam, dropped his helmet bag softly to the floor. She'd heard, her spine straightening as she stood on a ladder stenciling an ivy border along the walls.

A smile had tipped her profile, but she hadn't moved, just waited for him to cross to her. He'd stopped behind her, so damn grateful for his son's band camp because—oh yeah—now Rena was alone in the house and he could wrap his arms around his wife to lift her off the ladder. Slide her back along his front as he lowered her to the ground.

He'd taken the green-soaked paintbrush from her, cupped the gentle weight of her br**sts in his hands as she pressed her bottom against the already straining length of his erection.

Seconds later she'd been gripping the edge of the counter, her dress had been up, his zipper open, her thong snapped.

An awesome memory. No chance of repeating it anytime soon, though. He needed to stay his course. No risking sex until he convinced her he should stay.

He crossed, placed his gun on top of the refrigerator.

Rena jumped, glanced over her shoulder. "God, J.T.! You scared a year off my life." She blushed, thrusting the bowl forward like a peace offering. "Want some chili?"

Peace would be nice. Except he couldn't get past the temptation of her unrestrained br**sts against the satin nightshirt. Who turned the air conditioner on so cold? "Heard a noise, and since you shouldn't be up at all it never crossed my mind it might be you. What the hell are you doing up, anyway?"

"No chili? Okay, then. More for me." She popped open the lid on the Tupperware bowl, snagged a spoon and started shoveling. She shouldn't have appeared graceful in the midst of a feeding frenzy. But she did. "You seemed so intent on what you were doing in the study, I didn't want to bother you. Can you reach down there for the grated cheese, please?"

She'd been watching him, too? Adrenaline surged hotter, faster, throbbing low and south fast. Kneeling in front of her to find the bag of cheese didn't help. He was at the perfect level to hitch up that satin and—

"Thanks." She snatched the cheese from his hand and sprinkled some on top of her chili. "I woke up to, uh, go to the bathroom. God, I'd forgotten the seven thousand bathroom runs a night that come with being pregnant. And then I realized I was starving. In the morning I can't eat without being sick, and then I spend the whole rest of the day unable to eat enough. Crazy, huh?"

Crazy? He stood. Yeah, he was definitely going nuts talking about puking when all he could think about was pressing her against the counter and hiking up her nightshirt. Reenacting that memory of a better time before their world exploded. He'd known the split was coming, always expected the end. Considered every day with her another dodged bullet. Nope, he hadn't been in the least surprised when his hand weights sailed out the window and bounced off his book onto the lawn.

However, he hadn't expected another chance three months ago, a chance he'd blown. A mistake he wouldn't repeat. Which meant no jumping Rena in the kitchen.

Her eyes flashed with inspiration. She snatched a pudding pack from the refrigerator door. "Cravings."

"Like before."

"Textbook." She limped to the minuscule kitchenette table. Sighing, she sagged into a seat, swinging her injured foot up onto one of the other chairs. "Hope you don't want any pudding, because this is the last one, so you'll have to pry it out of my hormonally tight grip."

J.T. kicked the refrigerator shut. He dropped into a chair across from her and watched her savor alternating bites of chili and chocolate pudding. She licked the spoon clean every time. Rapture spread across her face.

His knuckles itched to glide across her high cheekbones as a prelude to kissing away the chocolate on the corner of her mouth. Damn, she was beautiful. "I can't believe I missed it."

"Missed what?"

He shook his head at his own blindness the past few months. "That you're pregnant."

He let himself reach, touch just his thumb to the corner of her lush lips.

Ducking his touch, she grabbed for a napkin. "Because I'm eating like a pig? Thanks. I'm now totally reassured you don't want to come back home or you would have never made that comment."

Her hands fell to her stomach. His hungry eyes followed her gesture to the slight swell. He could almost feel the taut skin over the growing proof of their child. Had in fact felt it in days past when she'd carried their other children.

Would he be allowed to feel the roll of their baby under his hand this time? "Lower the hackles. I wasn't commenting on the food."

"Oh, uh, well, you probably didn't notice because I wore loose clothes."

If ever he'd needed the Bard's way with words, it was now. He'd just have to settle for simple honesty. "That still isn't what I meant." He angled closer, elbows on the table. "You know I'm not much of a guy for woo-hoo stuff. But that pregnancy-glow thing—there must be something scientific to it. I mean, hell, Rena, you've been in a wreck. Suffered a concussion. Damn near broke your foot, and you're still glowing so bright I could read by it."

Not an intimate touch to her tummy, but he could see his words warmed her nearly as much. Victory chugged through him.

A slow smile lit that glow to blinding levels. "I think there's a compliment in there somewhere."

"I guess so. Wish I'd actually thought to give it. But honestly, I'm just amazed that I could have been so clueless."

"We see what we want to see."

"Putting that psych degree to work?"

"Maybe. Or maybe just one of those side benefits to getting older."

Older. Odd how he could feel so old some days but she still seemed the same woman he'd married.

Only with better curves.

He reached for her hand. "Are you scared?"

Well, hell, that was downright sensitive, and damned if she didn't let him hold her hand. Maybe the Bard was rubbing off on him after all.

"Does it bother me having a baby this late in life? A little. With my job, I know the increased risks with age."

"And that worries you."

"I probably worry less than I did at eighteen. Maybe because I feel more … at peace about motherhood."

"So your fears are…?"

Being alone. He read it all over her face. He worked his thumb over her wrist. Who'd have thought he'd get such a rush out of holding his wife's hand and neither of them was even naked.

"I'm just being emotional. Hormones and all that. The timing's not the best, but I'm going to have a baby."

"We're going to have a baby." He squeezed her hand. "We. This is my child, too, so we're in this for another eighteen. At least. Remember that."

He tried to read her again and found … more of that fear. Of him? He deserved a lot of things, but not that.

The back door rattled with a key. Rena jerked her hand away, momentary connection snapped. Chris swung the door open.

Frustration brewed in him. "Where have you been?"

"Talking with a friend." Chris snagged the bowl of chili from the table, found a fresh spoon and started shoveling. "Time kinda slipped away. Sorry."

Rena's hand fell to her son's arm to stop him midbite. "We worry. Call next time."

"Sure," he answered evasively before dropping the bowl in the sink. Fishing a candy bar out of his pocket, he tore open the wrapper and tossed broken pieces into his mouth.

Warning bells clanged like an alert klaxon. The kid had plenty to be edgy about, but was there more?

He had two weeks to find out. Two weeks of nonstop one-on-one time with his wary wife, where he would be helping her with her every intimate need while refraining from giving her the most intimate of touches.

If J.T. didn't touch her, really touch her soon, she would burst into flames. Or scream. Or do something equally embarrassing that would leave her husband frowning pensively, then helping while giving her a wide berth as he'd done for the past week and a half.

True to his word, he'd been around whenever she needed him, all his flights conveniently scheduled at night after she fell asleep and Chris was already home. But even though J.T. slept part of the day, his presence still filled the house, reminding her of the good times, until she feared coming down with a convenient case of amnesia when it came to remembering all that drove them apart.

At least they were out of their too-close quarters, their home having become a sauna of need. Instead, spring heat baked the roof of the truck, lunch-hour traffic spewing exhaust on the highway leading toward the base. Nausea tickled, but at least it distracted her from her achy foot. Achy, but no longer throbbing and sans stitches.

A cargo plane roared low overhead on its approach for landing. She fidgeted along the bench seat, anxious to finish up the drive, get back to work, even for an hour or two. J.T. wasn't happy about it, but she couldn't juggle this particular patient to another counselor. And the afternoon would also offer J.T. the chance to fit in a training class at the squadron while he waited.

Could he tempt her from clear across base? Seeing him so hot and hunky in his flight suit didn't help.

He'd been doing a mighty fine job of tempting her the past few days even in his favorite Hawaiian shirts and jean shorts. So attentive. So blasted perfect. He carried her up the stairs. Down the stairs. To the shower. Sat beside her on the sofa, shared popcorn, watched chick flicks with her, brought tissues when she cried over the endings because her own life sucked so bad. And never, never once did he make a move on her.