Born Wild (23 page)

She could no longer think. Because he was so deep inside her, pressing into her, now working her with short, hard thrusts, his middle and index fingers slipping over the bud of nerves at the top of her sex, and she was pushed up higher, pulled closer to the edge of the abyss. Then he lengthened his thrusts, stilled his fingers, and she moaned in frustration, shoving her butt back at him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he growled, reaching up to feather his fingers across her nipple. “I'll get you there.”

Oh, would he ever. She had no doubt of that. He'd get her there and then he'd get her there again. And again. And again. And…

“Billy,” she moaned his name when he leaned forward, his sweaty chest against her back, his hot breath whispering across her cheek as he murmured deliciously naughty things in her ear.

Billy…
She glanced over her shoulder at the image of their bodies pressed together. His skin was deeply tanned compared to her fair complexion, the hairs on his legs and arms black and crinkly. And he looked big. Compared to her, he
was
big. His muscles huge and bulging, the side of his wonderfully perfect butt hollowing slightly each time he thrust into her. And with each long, lazy stroke she sank deeper into the infinite gulf of sensation. Her fingers tightened on the pillow, her teeth sinking into the weave of the fabric.

And suddenly, her release was rushing toward her. Her breath hitched in her throat as she waited for it, shamelessly reveling in it when it rushed over her in a huge swell of pulsing, aching climax.

“Ah, hell,” Billy cursed when her body clamped down on his. And it was obviously too much for him. He grabbed her hips, pumping into her violently until his own orgasm hit him, until he throbbed inside her. And then, together, they rode out the storm…

“You were supposed to wait,” he breathed in her ear once they'd both stopped blowing like a couple of winded racehorses.

“Did you,” she rasped, licking her lips and smiling at the weight of him along her back, pressing her into the mattress, “or did you not hear me when I said I'd stopped doing what other people tell me to do.”

“Mmm.” He rolled off her, and she muttered her disapproval as she heard the little
snap
as he pulled off the condom. She wasn't looking, but she assumed he tossed it toward the small metal trashcan to join its compatriot.

“Come here,” he said, snaking an arm around her waist, forcing her to roll onto her side and face him. She threw a thigh over his legs, an arm over his chest, and buried her nose against his neck, just under his ear, inhaling deeply.

“Are you…
sniffing
me?” he asked, his chest rumbling beneath her arm and against her breast.

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured. “Because you smell
good.
”

“I do?” he chuckled. “What do I smell like?”

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…

Lake Michigan

7:15 a.m.

Kisses.

It was the most wonderful way to wake up. Sweet, delicate kisses drifting down Bill's stomach toward the erection that was straining beneath the covers…

When Eve got to his bellybutton, she stopped, dipping her tongue inside, and his toes curled. He threw back the comforter, pushed her inky hair away from her forehead, and the soft light filtering in through the portholes highlighted the glint in her gorgeous sapphire eyes as she looked up at him.

“Good morning,” she breathed, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Indeed it is,” he told her, grinning, loving the half-smile pulling at one corner of her mouth. “And it'll be even better if you continue what you're doing.”

“What I'm doing?” She lifted a brow, playing the coquette to perfection. “Oh, you mean this?” She opened her hot, wet mouth, and laved the tip of his erection with the soft, raspy pad of her tongue.

“Mmm-hmmm…” He fisted his hands in her hair, thrusting his hips upward just slightly.
Sweet
Mother
Mary, have mercy.
“That's exactly what I m-mean.” And just as he was about to settle in—because, come on, the only thing better than waking up to soft kisses on his stomach was waking up to a blow-job; he
was
a guy, after all—the softly rocking sailboat suddenly rolled violently to the port side, nearly tossing them off the bed. Then, the vessel heaved to the starboard, and this time Bill
did
slide off the mattress, slamming against the teakwood decking on his back.

“Holy crap!” Eve yelled. He pulled himself to his knees in time to watch her jump from the rumpled bed and grab onto the doorframe separating the berth from the rest of the small cabin. A sizzle of white light blazed through the portholes followed almost immediately by a deafening
crash
of thunder. “We've sailed into a thunderstorm!”

And yeah, he didn't need to be told. The fact that every hair on his body was standing on end pretty much made that a foregone conclusion. Talk about a total soft-on. For future reference, the best way to lose chub? Sail into a thunderstorm and get tossed off the bed onto your ass.

“I, uh, I forgot to check the NOAA weather forecast last night,” he admitted as the boat heaved again. Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed his discarded swim trunks with one hand while steadying himself on the mattress with the other.

“We were a little busy,” she said, turning, stumbling down the length of the cabin to retrieve her bikini bottoms as the vessel bucked again. The sky opened up and rain pounded against the hull, creating a constant, dull roar.

Yeah, busy.
They'd certainly been that. And even with the vessel being tossed around like a cork on the ocean, he still took the time to appreciate the sight of Eve scrambling into those skimpy red bottoms while he hopped into his shorts. Shoving his cell phone into one Velcro pocket, he staggered out to the galley in time to see her slip an orange life vest over her T-shirt. Handing him a vest, he pulled it over his head just as the humming engine suddenly caught, choked, rumbled unsteadily for a bit, and finally sputtered and died.

“Shit,” he cursed. “That can't be another rope. We
can't
be that unlucky.”

Although, in all reality, considering how things had been going for Eve lately, he wouldn't lay down any money on that last statement.

“No.” She shook her head, her eyes wide. “It's probably zebra mussels. With the water all churned up like this—”

“
What
kind of mussels?” he asked as the boat took another violent roll to the port side. He banged his hip against the table and caught Eve as she slammed against him.

“Hurry,” she said, hastily pushing away, “we have to check the output port.”

He followed her up the short cabin stairs. When she opened the door to the deck, the wind ripped the thing from her hands. It slammed against the side of the cabin—
crash!
—splintering the wood and cracking the porthole window. Rain immediately deluged them, soaking them to the bone and pelting against any exposed skin like tiny, sharp knives as the boat caught a wave broadside and tipped precariously. Frothing gray water rushed over the deck, pouring into the open cabin and freezing Bill's legs from the knees down as he struggled to retain his balance.

“The engine's cooling system's output port is on the aft, starboard side!” Eve shouted as she pushed up onto the deck, grabbing onto the railing to steady herself as the vicious wind tried to yank her from the boat.

Boom!
Another flash of lightning blazed overhead, slicing through the violent sky, cleaving the angry, roiling clouds in two.

“Go check to see if there's a sooty residue near the port!” she yelled, stumbling toward the Harken roller that would unfurl the mainsail. “If there's not,” he had to strain to hear her over the howling wind, over the rain drumming against the deck and the waves crashing against the hull, “then try to restart the engine! If there
is
residue, come back and help me with the mainsail!”

Shit, shit,
shit…

Bill had been in some pretty hairy situations before, but usually he was the one who knew what steps to take. He wasn't used to relying on the expertise of another. Though, he had to admit, if he had to be caught out in the middle of Lake Michigan during a violent squall, he couldn't think of a better sailing partner than Eve.

The woman had been raised on the water. In fact, his sister had proudly informed him a couple of months ago that Eve was a five-time CYC Mackinac Island racing champ. At the time, he'd told Becky to stuff it, maintaining that he had no interest at all in Eve or her accomplishments. But, he had to admit as he stumbled across the heaving, bucking deck toward the rear of the vessel to check the cooling water output port—
please
don't let it be sooty; please let us still have engine function—
right now he took comfort in the knowledge that she was a first-class yachtsman…er…yachtswoman? Was that even a word?

Sploosh!
A giant gray wave rolled over the vessel behind him, and he turned to squint against the driving rain, his heart in his throat, half expecting to find Eve had been washed overboard. But she was hanging on to the main mast, wrestling with the forestay, the cable that ran from the top of the mast to the deck.

“Hurry, Billy!” she screamed when she caught him staring. It was all the impetus he needed. Clutching the railing in a tight fist, he shuffled forward on the slick deck until he reached the back of the vessel. Taking a firm handhold, he leaned over the side.

“Oh, fuck.” His whispered words were caught and tossed away by the viciously howling wind. “Residue!” he yelled to Eve, turning to make his way back to her.

“Okay!” She nodded, finally defeating the stubborn forestay. “Come help me with the mainsail! It's blowing at least forty knots! These waves are coming every eight to ten seconds, and some are sixteen feet high! One more broadside could flip us! We have to get control! Now!”

And even though his breath was burning in his lungs, even though his pulse was racing out of control, the way Eve was working, so quickly and so efficiently, gave him a modicum of…not comfort. There was nothing
comfortable
about their current situation. But knowing Eve, five-time CYC Mackinac Island racing-champ Eve, was in control made him feel as if the odds were stacked in their favor.

And in his line of work, anytime the odds were stacked in his favor he considered it a good day.

By the time he managed to shuffle back to the main mast, spreading his bare feet wide on the water-logged deck, she'd already begun the process of unfurling the mainsail. “We can't take it all the way up!” she instructed, her black hair plastered against her pale cheeks like long, dark fingers, her blue eyes bright with calculation. “We need it at about fifty percent to give us control!”

“Whatever you say, Captain!” he yelled, water filling his mouth and eyes as he tilted his head back to watch the mainsail climb toward the roiling sky, flapping violently with the wind, its cables clanging loudly against the mast.

When Eve was satisfied with the amount of woven sailcloth they'd unfurled, she instructed him. “Okay, let's move to the wheelhouse!”

Grabbing her hand, consoled by the feeling of her slim fingers laced with his, they shuffled around the cabin toward the covered cockpit. Ducking under the wheelhouse's roof was like stepping into a bass drum in the middle of the Rose Bowl parade. Rain hammered against the ceiling, roaring and pounding as towering waves continued to try to roll the boat. Then, Bill watched in amazement as Eve's hands grabbed the wheel. She turned it a bit, adjusted it a notch, then ducked her chin, water sheeting off her face, to watch the mainsail catch the wind and snap tight. The loud
pop
echoed even above the clamoring storm.

She nodded, blowing out a shaky breath as she maneuvered the boat into the waves until it was no longer rolling side to side but climbing each swell confidently before plunging down the other side.

“Sonofabitch,” he breathed, holding onto the steering console, shaking his head. “I think I just shit enough bricks to replicate the Great Wall of China.”

She reached up to scrub the water from her eyes. “You were in the Navy,” she said, making a face. “Surely you've been in worse storms than this.”

“Just because I was in the Navy, that doesn't mean I actually spent much time on a ship. And the ships I
have
been on were so big most storms didn't so much as make the vessel wobble.”

“Well,” she grinned, “welcome to the Wonderful World of Sailing. It's exciting here.”

“Hot damn,” he huffed in agreement, loving the way her eyes were bright with enthusiasm. Then, “Holy shit! You're actually having fun, aren't you?”

She laughed, shrugging one shoulder. Then her expression changed. Dimmed. Like someone had flipped a switch inside her. “Maybe not fun,” she admitted, “but for a second there, I forget my father or my ex-husband or
both
were trying to kill me. For a second there, I forgot about what happened to Buzzard…”

And as wonderful as it'd been to see excitement in her eyes, it was just as awful to see such unremitting pain and guilt there. “Sweetheart,” he tried to infuse his voice with understanding, “I told you, what happened to Buzzard wasn't—”

“I need to go out and reef the sail,” she cut him off. “With the force of these winds, I think we're running too heavy.”

“Let me—”

“No.” She shook her head, her sopping hair swishing across the thick orange fabric of the life vest. “I'm the one who knows how much sail to bring in. You need to stay here and man the wheel.” She pointed at the compass. “Try to keep it at this heading. That should ensure we're still going in the right direction for Ludington, but it will also keep up from sailing directly into the waves or having them hit us abeam.”

“Eve, I—”

“You got this?” she asked, taking a step back, indicating he should take control of the vessel.

What could he say but, “Yeah, I got this.”

When he grabbed the wheel, he was surprised by the way it bucked in his hand. It took strength to hold them on the correct course.

Strength…

Not something he'd ever really equated with Eve. But he was learning just how misguided and misinformed he was in that department. Still, the knowledge that she was one hell of a tough lady behind that delicate, fancy, cupcake exterior did nothing to mitigate his anxiety as she exited the wheelhouse and began inching her way across the slippery deck toward the mast. He realized he was holding his breath, trying to squint through the gray haze of rain to watch her every little movement, when his brain began to buzz.

Forcing himself to rake in much needed oxygen, he sent a prayer of thanks skyward when she quickly furled a tiny bit of sail before turning to make her way back to the cockpit.

Boooooommmm!

A blinding flash of bright white light accompanied a bone-rattling, ear-splitting crash that rocked the boat. The main mast lit up like a roman candle, and the hair on the top of Bill's head and the back of his neck lifted in warning. The metallic smell of electricity burned through the air and tasted like a new penny when he dragged in a harsh breath.

Jesus
Christ!
They'd been struck by lightning!

“Eve!” he yelled, turning toward the starboard side of the boat where he'd last seen her. But she was…
gone
.

***

Cold…

That was the first thing Eve noticed when she blinked open her eyes to find herself staring up into a frightening canopy of cruel, gray clouds. She was cold right down to the marrow of her bones. The second thing she noticed was a feeling of weightlessness, of being born up into the air and sinking back down again.

And then, suddenly, her stunned synapses began firing, and she realized she was adrift. She was adrift in the lake and—

A huge cross-wave rolled over her head, filling her mouth with acrid-tasting water, trickling down into her lungs before her life vest bobbed her to the surface.

“Uhhhhh,” she raked in a breath, coughing and sputtering, trying to orient herself in the water, trying to keep her head above the swells that lifted her aloft before slamming her down.

Oh, God.
She was going to die. People set adrift in the vastness of Lake Michigan in the middle of a storm didn't survive. They just didn't.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh—

“Eve!”

At first she wasn't sure if she'd heard correctly. She thought it was the wind howling and screaming and playing trick on her ears.