Clearing my throat, I slide one hand down her bare arm. “You healed fine and you don’t have to worry about that. Don’t think of it anymore. You did start a new life today,” I say. “Our life.”
“I didn’t read the letters,” she admits, watching my hand. I stop at her elbow, and wait. “Well, I read the first one and assumed the rest would be of the same, and I couldn’t be persuaded out of feeling sorry for myself. I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m glad you waited for me.”
As if I had any option. “I visited the hospital every single day you were there. I brought coffees to the ladies at the front desk and they gave me your updates.”
“Doesn’t that go against some privacy law?” she says, quirking one brow. “I knew it. They never told me, and that’s probably why. They were afraid I’d get them fired.”
“Why did you keep me away? Even if you were upset, I still can’t understand why you wouldn’t see me at least once to speak your peace,” I say. “I thought you’d written me off for life.” And it hurt more than a million Stella breakups.
Her eyes turn down in the corner. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. After such a stupid decision. You pride yourself on perfection, and look at me. I’m such a mess.” She shrugs. “I didn’t think you cared, either. With how fast you took off.”
I shake my head. “I make mistakes every fucking day. A mistake is what lead me here to Bronze Bay. To you,” I explain. “I get to have this perfect life that I didn’t even know existed because I got my buddy shot.” I cringe, but at least I’m able to talk about it now. “That was a mess, Caroline. Not an accident.”
“And now I know you obviously did care. The whole time,” she replies, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe it.”
“You would have known sooner had you read all the letters,” I say, smiling. She throws one naked leg over my midsection and I hold my breath and watch her cautiously. Her lithe body appearing from under the bed sheets. Those three freckles on her mid-section callingmyname.
I take a few deep breaths to control my fucking libido as her wet pussy presses against my lower abs. I have on a pair of boxer briefs and they might as well be our chastity belt, because they are the only safe guard we’re using to keep my dick out of her vagina. “If I read those letters maybe we wouldn’t be here today,” she says. Caroline leans over, and her long, wavy hair hits my shoulders and shrouds our kiss. My thumbs hold her hip bones and my pinky fingers rest on the top swell of her ass. She teases with her tongue as she circles her hips. I flex my abs, mostly because my whole body is tense, but also because she’s working her clit against me and I want her to come—to see her face as she takes her pleasure. The kiss deepens and I open my eyes to watch.
Her face transforms, and although she keeps her mouth against mine, she’s panting. These tiny, moan inducing breaths as she presses against me harder. In response, I stop breathing and listen. Her wetness sliding against my stomach, her breathing inside my mouth, the faint sounds of the party out on the lawn. I watch her face as her eyelashes flutter, and her tongue slides across her bottom lip. She grimaces, and then she comes, her mouth opening and her features softening. The squeezing of her orgasm can be felt, and for a moment, I close my eyes and imagine what it will feel like to be inside her while she comes. That first time. And every time after.
Caroline presses her wet lips against mine in a smile. “I’m going to like having you around all the time,” she says, breathing hard. “You’re like my playground.”
Oh, this woman. What she does to me with mere words. I turn my head away from her and make a groan that ends in a laugh. “You know just what to say, Caroline May.”
“You made a rhyme,” she replies. After a beat or two, she lays her head on my chest. “I can’t wait to marry you.”
“So you can have the full Monty slide instead of my abs seesaw?” I tease. Taking her face in my hands, I stare into her deep blue eyes. “I can’t wait to make you my wife and keep you forever.”
Her smile in reply is so big and beautiful that I melt a little. Caroline tucks herself back beside me and asks me a million questions about the time she spent away. We talk about the Inn and work, she asks me about the guys and future plans for missions. I tell her what I can. Then we talk about the wedding logistics and we agree, in unison, that it should be an intimate affair on the water and as soon as humanly possible.
After that’s out of the way, we delve into the harder topics. The ones that have to be broached. She’s pulling her dress over her head. “Where will we live?” she asks, looking out of the window and then back to me.
I swallow, and raise one brow. “Where do you want to live?”
She paces to the window. “Here, probably.”
Narrowing my eyes, I approach her from behind and pull her against the bulge in my shorts. “You love the hangar,” I say, nuzzling into her ear. “Why don’t you want to live there?”
She clears her throat and answers without missing a beat. “I’m not sure I’ll fly again. I can still run the airport, though. I can help here, too. I can tend at the bar or run things downstairs. That will take up my time.”
Avoidance. I know this tactic all too well. One of my buddies didn’t deploy for a few years after his buddy got killed on a mission. He was right beside him and there was nothing he could do to save his life. He blamed himself and spiraled for a long time. His story is told as a SEAL history lesson in the Teams now. “You have to get back up,” I tell her. I didn’t realize she hadn’t flown since the accident. “As soon as possible.” My mind starts concocting a plan—one she won’t be able to refuse.
Caroline shakes her head. “I think that was just a part of my life, a hobby, Tahoe.” She turns to face me, her arms draped on my shoulders. “Some things you’re meant to do for a period of time and others are lifers. Maybe flying wasn’t supposed to be forever for me.” Her eyes gloss over.
Kissing the top of her head, I pull her close. “I get it. I do. But you have to fly again. At least once, and then you can decide if you’re a lifer or not. Okay?”
She cries a little and I know she’s thinking about the accident, her lack of control over the one thing she’s always controlled. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m not good at it.”
I push her away so I can look at her face. “You aren’t good at it,” I exclaim.
Her brows draw together and she tilts her head.
“Because you’re amazing at it. Perfect at it, even.”
“Stop it,” she replies. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
Shaking my head I say, “I’m not. Plus, I need you to fly us to New York for our bachelor party.”
