The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) (10 page)

"What the…!" She'd landed
on some sort of cushion. Why would there be a cushion on the floor? There was
supposed to be a clear path from the door across the living room to her
bedroom.

A lamp flicked on. She saw Marc
bending over it. Then her gaze landed on… "What the hell?" she
repeated. Shock kept her on the floor in an indelicate sprawl. Her living room
had been totally ransacked. Papers, books, throw pillows, and couch cushions
were ripped up and tossed everywhere. Glass vases had been broken, and their
fresh flowers and water soaked into the hardwood floor.

"Good God!"

"Don't move," Marc
ordered. He knelt beside her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. What's going on? The
room is ruined." She held back her sobs, not sure if she was more scared
or angry.
Confused, yeah.

He pressed his hand on her
shoulder. "Stay here. Let me look around first." He disappeared into
the kitchen, back out into the living room, then down the hall to the bedrooms.

When he re-entered the living room
she noticed the butcher knife in his hand, although he carried it down against
his leg.

"No one is here. It looks like
your back door was jimmied." He handed her his cell phone. "Better
call 9-1-1."

"Butch! He was at the bar. I
don't want him coming over."

"He's probably not on duty.
Call. I'll be here with you. Don't worry. I won't leave you alone."

"Nothing like this has ever
happened to me before." Her voice shook as she made the call. "Oh my
God, are the other rooms torn up too?" She'd been so shocked, she'd
forgotten about them.

"I'm afraid so." He
helped her up. "Don't touch anything. Wait until the cops get here."

They turned on the porch light and
stood near the railing waiting for the police. His arm around her shoulders
helped keep her from collapsing. She started to shiver and huddled against him,
her arm wrapped around his waist. "Who would do this? I don't understand.
I don't have anything of that much value."

"No hoards of cash or the
crown jewels?" he asked, amusement in his teasing voice.

It was obvious he was trying to
keep her calm. It worked for a minute, until she heard the siren. Her heart
began pounding painfully again, and her voice quivered. "I hope it's not
Butch. I just can't deal with him."

"What happened, Phoebe? Did he
hurt you?" His voice took on a suspicious edge.

She shook her head, rustling her
hair against his shirt.

"I saw you come home without
him the other night. And then I saw him parked down the street."

"What? Down the street?"
In shock, she gazed into Marc's eyes.

"Yeah."

"That son of a bitch! What was
he doing?" Now angry, she forgot her fear for the moment.

"What happened, Phoebe?"

Shifting so she could see his face,
she said, "He told me he was going to marry me."

"Told you? You mean propose?"

"No, he told me. I've only
gone out twice with him. I don't know why he got so serious. I haven't done
anything to show him I wanted to get married, not to anyone."

Marc's lips thinned into a grim
line, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. "The first time I saw him he said
you were his girlfriend."

"Well I'm not and I wasn't. He
even ordered me to get rid of my pink streak."

Smiling, Marc touched her hair,
threading his fingers through said streak. "I like your hair just the way
it is."

Before he could kiss her—she was
sure that's why his eyes went to half-mast and he lowered his head—the siren,
getting closer, cut through the quiet of the night and stopped when the police
car pulled up to her house and an officer climbed out. Thank God it wasn't Butch.

"Marc," she whispered. "Butch
was at Ollie's earlier. He would have had time to do this."

Marc nodded. "Don't say
anything about it. We don't know for sure what's going on, but I'm inclined to
think you're right."

Within half an hour, the responding
officer questioned them, looked around the house, took photographs—focusing on
the jimmy marks on the back door—and left.

"You're coming home with me,"
Marc said. "Grab the stuff you'll need."

He gave her a bolstering hug and
propelled her toward her bedroom. She balked, looking warily back at him. "I
think I'll call Moira and stay with her."

"Phoebe." He shook his
head and grimaced. "It's late, and I live right across the street."
He lifted her chin with his forefinger. "Nothing will happen, as much as I
might like it to. Your virtue is safe with me."

"Is it?" She wasn't
entirely sure she wanted it to be safe.

"You've been through a trauma
here. Do you think I'm the kind of guy who'd take advantage of that?"

She gazed at him a long, assessing
moment.

"Come on. You've got to be
tired. Let's go get some shuteye and deal with all this in the morning."

She didn't have too many options at
this point, and she could control whatever happened between them at his house.
But she was probably too wired to sleep.

The minute they walked into his
house he said, "You're taking my bedroom. It's down that hall, bathroom
across the hall. I have other bedrooms but no beds. I'll take the couch."

"Marc, I'll sleep on the
couch. I'm not taking your bed."

"Honey, no. I'm not letting
you sleep out here. I'd feel safer with you in the bedroom. I'll just get a
pillow and blanket out and use the bathroom. Then it's all yours."

He disappeared down the hallway
with her bag. She heard him running water in the bathroom, then a few minutes
later he reappeared in the living room.

"Now scoot." He shooed
her toward the back of the house.

"Wait a minute." She
motioned around her, then tears seeped out as she tried to blink them back. "Thank
you for all this. I'm just so stunned right now. My brain is fried." She
walked to the big picture window and gazed out into the darkened street. "Do
you think it could have been Butch?"

Marc came up behind her and slid
warm hands over her shoulders. "Truthfully?"

"I'm sorry. I know you were
friends when you were kids." Marc had expressed a dislike for Butch, but
they had a longer standing relationship than she and Marc had.

He turned her to face him. "We're
not friends, and I don't trust him."

"No?" A little of the
anxious pain in her chest lessened.

"No. He sealed his fate when I
caught him parked up the street watching your house."

She shivered, closing her eyes at
the thought of Butch stalking her. Marc pulled her into his arms, pressing her
head to his shoulder. She sighed. It felt so safe to be in his arms, to feel
the heat of his body against hers.

His fingers slid through her hair,
cupping her head. His breath bathed her face as he kissed her forehead. Lifting
her face, she let their lips meet. Lord, it was sweet.

He smoothed his lips over hers with
the lightest, almost-ticklish touch. Tears fell. When she'd first fallen, then
saw her house all askew, she'd been terrified. Marc had been there, had
comforted her through the whole thing, had taken control with the officer, and
now admitted that Butch was not his friend.

She wanted more than the light
kisses. Suddenly, it was an imperative need. Stretching up and gripping his
shoulders, she deepened the kiss.

Holy
hell.
Her tongue caressed his lips and slid into his mouth. Her sweet
little tongue.
Fuck.
He squeezed his
eyes shut. Cradling her head, he held it possessively and took over exploring
the depths of her mouth. He hadn't been with a woman in forever, and he wanted
her.
Damn she tastes good!
His dick
was so hard he hurt.

Breaking the kiss, he started with
the top button of her blouse, revealing her skin and the ripe mounds of her
breasts. The lacy bra under her ruffled blouse was overload to his sex-starved
pea brain.

He shook, partly with fear and
partly with lust. It had been so long—he was afraid he'd go too fast, be too
aggressive, scare her, hurt her.

She gripped his biceps. He was sure
she meant to push him away, but her gaze tracked up to his. Licking her lips,
she blinked once. When her teeth scraped at her lower lip, he was pretty sure
she wanted him to continue. Opening each tiny button with big, suddenly clumsy
fingers, he spread the edges of the blouse apart and heard her rough intake of
breath and her moan.
Oh yeah.

"Phoebe, you're so beautiful."
And she was. Sheer white lace cupped her breasts, the nipple ring visible
through the material. He felt the rush of cum as his hips flexed. His knees
wobbled. He traced a breast, held it in his palm, brushing his thumb around the
ring. "Jesus."

Her panicked, searing, aroused gaze
shifted to his.

He held onto his control as hard as
he could, but neither his mind nor his fingers wanted to stop. They tweaked her
nipple, tugged on the ring. Her head fell back, her body arching. Her groan
almost brought him to his knees. When he twisted the golden piercing, she
wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him down for a frenzied kiss.

Sliding his fingers around her
back, he unhooked her bra. He pulled it away and lost his breath at the sight
of her lush breasts and peaked nipple. Picking her up, he carried her to the
couch, draping her across his lap.

It would take too much time to push
her tight skirt up to her waist so she could straddle him. That was how much he
wanted that nipple in his mouth. Closing his lips around the tip, he drew on
it, tucking the tip of his tongue through the tiny ring.

She sobbed her arousal, and her
fingers tightened in his hair. His nose landed against the cushion of her
breast as she lifted herself to him. He suckled and toyed with her until he had
her squirming across his thighs, brushing his cock.

"Marc, oh God." She
rocked against him, her nails digging into his shoulders and neck.

Tucking his hand beneath her skirt,
he pushed it up as best he could, his fingers caressing her warm, firm skin. He
suckled the hard nipple while tracing a path up the inside of her thighs until
he reached her soft curls. She gave a loud moan and pushed herself against his
fingers.
God.
She was wet, her
panties soaked.

All that heat, that liquid fire. He
couldn't wait a second longer. Pushing her down onto the couch, he jerked her
skirt up to her waist, pulled her panties completely off. He groaned, spread
her with his thumbs and speared the tip of his tongue onto her clit. The stiff
bud tasted like sweet heaven.

"Marc!" Her shrill cry
echoed in the room and her hips bucked. She apparently liked what he was doing.

Delicately circling her clit, he
began to suckle in earnest. He massaged her folds with his thumbs, moving ever
closer to thrusting one inside her. She reacted wildly, moaning and pumping and
pulling at his hair with frenzied fingers.

"Please…"

She raised her knees, almost
suffocating him as she held his head between her thighs. He would have laughed
if he could take his mouth off her, but the last thing he wanted to do was
stop.

The feel of his thumb—thick but not
as thick as his cock—in the hot, wet clench of her passage was amazing,
especially when he added a finger. He brought her to a shrieking climax with
every inch of her lower body pulsing and beating, bumping and grinding.

Holee
…
Her responsiveness and enthusiasm blew his mind.
Wouldn't she be someone to come home to
after six months or more in the god-fucking-awful desert?
Now that her
screams had died down, all he heard was whimpering. He gave her a final lick
and savored the scent and flavor of her sweet essence. She moaned thickly.

He glanced up. Her face was slack
and her eyes closed. She looked like she'd passed out.

Oh
for fuck's sake. She passed out.

Chapter Ten

Marc had fully intended to help
clean up Phoebe's house in the morning, but she'd come storming out to the
living room, jerking him awake at the sound of her voice.

"I'm so sorry, Marc. You, ah…"

"Don't worry about it."

She brushed her hand across her
mouth, looking everywhere but at him. "Did I fall asleep on you?"

He was groggy, but his cock had
risen at the sight of her. He needed either her or a cup of coffee in the worst
way possible. He cleared his throat. "I think passed out was more like it,
but you were under stress." He tried to keep his voice even but wanted to
laugh.

"I don't know what to say. I
don't think that's ever happened to me before." Biting her lip, she still wouldn't
look him in the eye.

"I think that's what the man
says." Taking pity on her, Marc rose and tipped up her chin to meet his
gaze. "It's all right, Phoebe, but I'd like a repeat. I hope you would
too."

Now she did meet his gaze. For
long, heart-stopping minutes her green eyes held his like flames with all the
heat they were generating. His mouth twitched in amusement.

She was the one who turned away. "Well,
it's probably late. I'd better go home and change. I've got to go to work."

"Rehearse?"

"No. The resale shop."

"Hold on a minute, and I'll go
over with you."

"That's not necessary."

"Yes it is. I want to make
sure no one's there to surprise you." He didn't say Butch's name, but she'd
know who he meant. "Just wait. I've got to hit the head." He raced
down the hall to the bathroom.

When he returned to the living room
she was gone. "Damn." But she was just outside on the porch waiting
for him. He smiled, gestured toward the street and they walked across to her
house.

"Let me check inside first."
Leaving her on the porch, he investigated every room then called her in. He
pointed to the jimmied back door. "I'll get a new lock and fix that while
you're at work."