At Your Command. Julie Miller

      ZACHARIAH KNEW HIS MAMA WOULD have had his hide if she’d been there to see him in action that morning.

      As he followed the enticing bounce of Becky’s bottom to her car, he had only one thing on his mind. And it wasn’t the apology he needed to make.

      He’d like to think he had a fever—or blame it on eighteen months of celibacy or on the memorial service he’d attended two days ago at the base. But something wasn’t right in his head. From the moment he’d spotted Becky’s deep blue eyes, he’d been drawn to her like a moth to a back porch light. If he could just get to her, get a hold of her—get inside her—then everything would feel right again.

      The crap that had been plaguing him since that last mission into Al-Bazan would fade away. He could replay the awful way he’d reacted to those two kids—acting like the enemy instead of a colleague to their daddy. Maybe he could get a laugh out of them instead of instilling in them the urge to run away. He’d be able to stand back for a moment and figure out why he’d snapped at Becky for calling him on his behavior, and why he’d held something back from his best friend, Travis McCormick.

      He was happy to be stateside. Happy to see Travis back on the job and looking as fit and fine as ever. Happy to find his woman—his new wife—waiting for him now that he was officially off duty.

      But from the moment Becky had launched herself into his arms and her sweet, full lips had softened beneath his, Zachariah had been waging a war inside himself. Fighting to control a battle between a shameless hard-on and the seething emotions that itched at him like intel of an ambush. He knew all hell was gonna break loose—he just didn’t know when or where it would happen. And he wasn’t sure he could control the situation.

      He hadn’t controlled a damn thing in Al-Bazan.

      Shit. Zachariah crushed the strap of his duffel bag in his fist and slammed the door on the memories that tried to escape. He blinked himself out of that desert hellhole with the dead bodies and acrid smoke, and concentrated every bit of his considerable will on counting the number of metal buttons running down the side of Becky’s blue-jean skirt. He hoped to hell that thing had a zipper on it.

      He desperately needed to recapture the normalcy of his life here in the States. And normal with Becky meant something blessedly physical. The lacy V-neck blouse she wore, which covered up enough to look classy and ladylike while still clinging in all the right spots to remind him of the size and weight and beauty of her breasts, didn’t help. Neither did the deep rose of her painted toenails or the alabaster skin showing beneath the hem of her skirt.

      He was horny. He was simmering. He was full of a need that went beyond basic sex and had him ready to bust out of his skin.

      Yet he had to make nice. He had to be civilized. After all, he was stateside. He was off duty. He was home.

      But Zachariah didn’t want to reminisce or discuss new job opportunities or listen to small talk.

      He wanted Becky.

      Now.

      If he could just recapture the mindless perfection of that week they’d spent together in D.C., he could get this fever out of his system. He could feel like himself again. He could cope.

      “This is it. Shall we?” With a sweeping flair as stylish as any game-show model’s, Becky pointed to a silver, late-model Nissan sedan. She pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. “You can put your bag in the back.”

      She opened the trunk and Zachariah dropped his duffel inside, inhaling a whiff of her warm, exotic perfume as he bent beside her. The remembered scent filled his head and his fantasies, and he scooped her up into his arms as he turned back around.

      “I missed you, darlin’.” He’d kissed off all her lipstick earlier, but her nude pink lips seemed to beckon him all the more. “I can’t wait until we’re alone together.”

      Her mouth was soft and hot and eager beneath the claim of his lips. Becky wound her arms around his neck and pulled herself into his kiss. Her lips parted. Her tongue danced against his. Breasts pillowed against the ache in his chest, her nipples beaded, branding him.

      Humming her needy sound, which was as potent as a caress, she hooked her tongue around his and pulled it into her mouth. Aw, geez. Zachariah’s body lurched in response, mimicking the same push-pull gesture. With one arm still anchored around her waist, he slid his hand down over the curve of her butt and boosted her up, aligning their bodies together like snug puzzle pieces. Her skirt inched higher as he found naked skin and dragged his palm over the back of her velvety thigh.

      Zachariah’s blood was humming right along with her seductive moans. This was the way it had been between them in D.C. The way it should be between them. Just them. Just this.

      But with a breathless laugh, Becky pulled her fingers from his hair and slipped them between their lips. “We’re not exactly alone yet. People are watching.”

      “They’re jealous.” Though a weak voice inside his head backed her up with the message that this was neither the time nor the place to relieve their sexual frustration, his body wasn’t listening. He kissed her fingertips, working his way back to her mouth. “Tell ’em to get their own girl. You’re taken.”

      With a laugh that jiggled against his chest, she pushed his chin up into the air. “Not yet, I’m not. But I trust you’ll see to that later?”

      She was killin’ him with her lush body and naughty double entendres. But he discovered he still knew how to laugh as he lowered her back to the ground, testing that suddenly shaky will of his by enduring the friction of her soft curves along his harder planes. Once she was standing on her own again, he adjusted her skirt to a more modest level and tried to breathe some sanity back into his brain. He touched his forehead to hers, grinning at the stain of passion he’d stamped onto her swollen lips. “Have I told you how happy I am to see you?”

      The blue-eyed temptress palmed the hardest part of him through his pants. “I know how happy you are to see me, big guy.”

      Zachariah jerked in her grip, squeezed his eyes shut and silently begged for strength.

      “Beckster…” he warned. Audience or not, if she didn’t move her hand, he was going to finish what they’d started. Here. Now.

      Becky released him and stepped back, holding her hands out to either side as if she were surrendering to his plea. But that clever, daring look in her eyes told him she was taking charge rather than giving in. “Get in. You can nap while I drive since I can’t guarantee how much sleep you’ll be getting once we reach our destination.”

      “A woman after my own heart.” He leaned down to kiss her again, but Becky was made of stronger stuff and his lips skidded over her cheek as she dodged his mouth and nudged him toward the side of the car.

      “Get in.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” After closing the trunk, Zachariah climbed down into the passenger seat. Even sliding the seat all the way back, he had to fold himself in like a pretzel and lean against the door to keep his shoulder from bumping into hers. He barely had room to spread his legs far enough apart to give his woody a chance to relax. He removed his cap, but still had little clearance between his crewcut and the roof. “Oh, man. Why don’t you just put me in a sardine can?”

      He hadn’t known how small a sporty little Nissan could be. Definitely no room for playing in here. The cramped space should be incentive enough for him to be a good boy and mind his manners a little while longer.

      “I won’t ask if you’re comfy,” she apologized, backing out and pulling into traffic. “But I do promise it’ll be a short drive.”

      Short was a relative term that had more to do with time than distance. The way Becky Owens—make that Becky Clark, he amended—put the pedal to the metal, she should be driving at Daytona instead of zipping along the highway that connected the Marine base in Quantico to the outskirts of Washington, D.C.