Page 72 of Honk if You Love Real Men (Tempting SEALs 1)

“No. But I’m going to get splinters in my knees if I keep this up.”

“We can’t have that. Wrap your legs around me.”

Mac swung his feet toward the hot tub steps, grabbed the bag of condoms and walked up and out, his good arm supporting Win’s soft ass.

She sighed contentedly, snuggled down into the crook of his neck and kissed him there. They made it into the house and up the staircase, Win squeezing him with her inner muscles all the while, making him see spots. Mac lowered her down on the guest bed, one of those high four-poster things that made it possible to fuck from a standing position. She stretched her arms up over her head and gave him a lazy, mischievous smile.

It was the strangest moment for Mac—a rush of animal need and sweet tenderness that left him a little off balance. He had to stop a moment and just look at her. So lovely. So female. So Willing. He studied how her pussy lips stretched to accommodate him, and it was a shockingly carnal image. Too good. Too damn good. And he wanted to fuck the breath from her and protect her forever all in the same instant. It was an unexpected combination. He couldn’t stay still another second.

Mac placed his palms on the front of her hips, spread his fingers over her taut, pale belly and entered her over and over, his mind homing in on the only thing that mattered—his cock in her pussy, her moans of pleasure, his building release.

Mac brought her feet to his shoulders, yelping when her heel came down on his scar.

“I’m so sorry!” Win tried to escape his grasp but he shook his head and held her steady.

“I’m fine, baby. I’ve got this all under control.” Mac moved her foot so that it was against his neck and away from his wound, and smiled down at her. “So you like having that pussy mused, Win?”

She cried out.

He lifted Win’s bottom off the bed and held her close to his body, loving the way her head lolled and her curls fell in a dark mess around her face, how her breasts moved with each of his thrusts. Without warning, she opened her eyes and her gaze landed right on his. There was a flash of sadness and wonder in those baby blues, then she came—so hard—and his world was narrowed to the feel of her inner walls milking him, squeezing him, as she screamed out his name.

“Vincent!”

“Oh, sweet Win. Give it to me.”

She screamed some more, returned her gaze to his, and smiled in wonder as he continued to ravage her with his cock. That smile of hers—so open and sweet in the middle of such intense sex—sent him right to the edge. Then he went over, hanging in the thin air of deep, dark oblivion, and Win was whispering to him . . . whispering words that clung to the corners of his about-to-explode brain . . . “Fuck me, Mac!”

He’d definitely heard the c at the end of that name. He was almost sure of it. And he detonated, fell on top of Win, and gasped for breath.

It was far from Zen and Mac promised himself he’d make it up to her, but there was another concern that had to be dealt with immediately. Someone was licking his left ankle.

Even in her blissed-out, boneless state of awe, Win sensed something was wrong with Vincent, and she stroked his back. “Is it your shoulder?”

“It’s my ankle, baby.”

“You got shot in your ankle too?”

She felt the deep rumble of Vincent’s laugh move through her own body. He kissed her cheek softly. “No, but Fifi is going to town on it as we speak.”

“What?” Win pushed up and Vincent slid off her and onto the bed and Win saw the little poodle staring up at her with desperation.

“The name’s Lulu, and I think I forgot to let her out today.” Win was then hit with a horrible realization. “My God, I think I forgot to feed her, too.”

She jumped off the bed, opened a drawer and grabbed the first thing she found to cover her top—a cherry red cashmere cardigan she buttoned twice between chest and belly button. Her jeans were still in the wash and her hiking shorts were on the deck, so she grabbed a pair of cotton pajama bottoms decorated with a scattering of little pink, high-heeled kitten slippers, which she tied at the drawstring waist.

“Is that what they’re wearing in Manhattan this season?” Vincent pushed up on his elbows and smiled at her, and Win stopped in her tracks. In all her thirty-three years on the planet, the only place she’d ever seen a man that beautiful was in her imagination. Vincent MacBeth was all hard flesh and long bone and warm skin, covered in patches of dark, dark hair. His muscles rippled when he moved. He was as graceful as he was big. And his smile was broad and disarming and went all the way up into those

wily brown eyes.

“Actually, it’s what I’m wearing to walk the dog. I doubt I’ll run into any beautiful people in the backyard.” She picked up Lulu and rubbed the poodle’s head. “Sorry about that, girlfriend,” she whispered.

As she headed for the door, Vincent said, “Come back to me, Win.”

She spun around. The change in his tone of voice startled her. He sat just as he had, propped up, sprawled out and gloriously naked, but his smile had become tender.

“I will.” She tipped her head to the side and smiled at him. “Want anything while I’m downstairs?”

“Much more Miss Mackland is all I need.”

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