Page 7 of Resurgent
Chapter Two
Liam
“Liam. What are you doing? Anyone could see us!”
Brown eyes in a heart-shaped face look up at me, long-lashed and dark with lust, but with a hint of worry in them. Soft, naked breasts press against my chest as I hold Charlotte against me. Her bare legs are wrapped around my waist, and I support her with my hands under the most delectable ass God ever made as I carry her over to one of the private cabanas on the dark, empty beach and lay her down on the chaise.
“That’s part of the fun. Don’t worry. I’ve got you, baby.” Her lips were made for kissing. I bend my head so I can taste that lush mouth one more time. She sighs—a tiny huff of pleasure that has my cock lurching—as she opens her mouth to me, kissing me back like her life depends on it.
“We should go back to the condo.” Her whispered protest doesn’t carry much weight since her hands are insistently pulling me toward her.
“I don’t want to wait another minute. No one will see us. Besides, I want to make you come under the stars before I sink my cock into your wet heat for the first time.”
“Oh my God. You’re a dirty talker.” Her voice is low and seductive.
I nip her jaw lightly and she shudders deliciously. “I’m dirty at everything sweetheart. You might as well know what you’re getting yourself into.”
With a sexy as hell chuckle, she turns away from me. “Thanks for the heads up. I should definitely rethink this and give it a little more serious consideration.”
Her back is to me now, her head propped up on her hand, and she looks like some sort of goddess with the moonlight silhouetting her body. I smooth my hand over the curvy outline of her body—down her rib cage to the indentation of her waist, then over her gorgeous ass, squeezing it before giving it a little smack. Her surprised grunt and little wiggle of pleasure turns me on more than I expected.
I sigh with exaggeration. “Then I guess I’ll have to burn the image of your body bathed in moonlight into my memory to file away under the best thing that could have been,” I say. My God she’s gorgeous. No shit. Her body is a work of art.
“If I were blind, I would be a sculptor and carve this very curve at the small of your back where your ass starts.”
I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until she laughs softly and turns back toward me. “Okay. I’m in. You’re a sweet talker as well as a dirty talker.”
“You didn’t seriously think I was going to let you chicken out, did you?” I tweak her nipple, and she arches up to me. I lower my head to kiss her again as my hand travels down her body, sliding under the waistband of her bikini bottom. Her mound is bare, and when I slip my fingers between her folds, she’s wet and warm.
“I’m just not used to—Oh God.” She jolts, her fingernails digging into my bicep as I lightly rub her nub of pleasure, gauging how sensitive it is. Fuck, she’s responsive. Once she lets go of that control she holds on to so tightly, I bet Charlotte is a wild woman.
“Shh. Let go and enjoy. My job is to have control. Yours is to lose it.”
…
Barely awake, I reach for her soft body, but my hands encounter nothing but cool, empty sheets. I sit up, my dick so hard, it could be classified as a military weapon. It was just a dream. Again.What the fuck?I’ve dreamed of Charlotte almost nightly since I woke up in a hospital in India six weeks ago with nothing but the clothes on my back and my cell phone—dreams so real, I can smell her jasmine scent and hear her little moans of pleasure. Dreams that never fail to leave me with a raging boner. But there’s no way I could know the things I’ve dreamed about. For starters, she’s my little sister’s best friend, so while she’s beautiful as hell and we’ve always enjoyed flirtatious banter, she’s off limits. I don’t have room in my life for a girlfriend, and Kenzie would kill me if I randomly hooked up with her best friend. Besides, Charlotte and I have never even spent any time alone together. Kenzie or Gemma, the third musketeer in their trio, is always there.
Unless…
CouldI have fucked Charlotte? I mull over the possibility as I grab a T-shirt and pull it over my head. I have no memory of the months leading up to the accident that landed me in Punjab. At first I couldn’t remember anything, including my last name or my cell phone password. Eventually most of my memories returned, but there’s a two-month period that I don’t remember at all. So itisconceivable…
Nah! I immediately dismiss the possibility. Not Charlotte. Responsible and restrained, she’s way too prim and proper and has too much self-control for a one-night stand with a Navy SEAL, especially one like me who would demand her acquiescence in bed. More likely that my brain is juxtaposing events and people in an attempt to fill in the holes in my memory caused by whatever put me in a coma. Although itwouldbe cool if whatever happened to me gave me the ability to experience sex with any woman I see. I grin at the thought. That just might make the memory loss worth it.
My smile fades. Nothing would make my memory loss worth it, as it’s most likely going to be my downfall. Besides, I couldn’t have hooked up with Charlotte in those months before I was supposedly killed in an explosion in Pakistan. According to the news stories, I was busy smuggling guns out of Iraq and selling them to La Frontera, the biggest drug cartel in Mexico.
At first, I was outraged by the claims. I wouldneverdo that. I’m a Navy SEAL. Protecting my country is more than just a job, it’s my heart, my calling.
But my iPhone proved otherwise once I remembered the password. The indisputable evidence it contained confirmed everything I’d read. Photos of crates of machine guns, some of them bearing the Iraqi army stamp. An email I sent to Noah Payne, a former Navy SEAL who went rogue and now works for La Frontera, setting up a meeting point. And the piece of paper tucked behind my phone case with the name of a bank in the Cayman Islands with an account number under it. It turned out to be mine, and it had half a million dollars in it. It was the last bit of proof I needed to confirm I did what the news articles say I did. I haven’t touched it. I don’t want dirty money. I just want to know why.
Preoccupied with the unanswered questions that have plagued me for the last month and a half, I push the last traces of my dream about Charlotte out of my head as I pull on the loose-fitting pants Dr. Singh—the doctor who saved my life and then opened his home to me while I recovered—loaned me. I have more serious things to worry about than whether I had a one-night stand with my sister’s best friend.
“Liam, Liam. Can I run with you this morning?” I look up and smile at Anil, Dr. Singh’s vibrant and outgoing youngest son. The doctor’s entire family has made me feel welcome and at ease from the moment I arrived, from his down-to-earth wife, whose delicious cooking put twenty pounds back on me, to his sons, and most especially, the doctor himself. When the hospital could no longer keep a mysterious American with no money, he gave me a place to stay—not knowing who I was or whether I would ever be able to repay him—to allow me time to fully recover physically and hopefully regain my memory.
He doesn’t know I’m a SEAL, or anything about me other than the fact I was left at his hospital in a coma with gunshot wounds and burns. Yet somehow, we’ve become friends. I’ve tried to earn my keep, but I can never repay him for his kindness. He brushes it off when I try to thank him, saying it’s part of his religion to help the weak and needy. It used to bother me that he considered me either, but it also spurred me to work hard at increasing my strength and stamina and get back on my game.
One day, once I’ve sorted out the shit in my life and I’m back on my feet, I will somehow find a way thank him. Right now, no one knows that I’m alive. I have to figure out why I sold the guns and try to make this right before I’m discovered. Dr. Singh said in a few more weeks, he’ll feel good about releasing me. If my memory hasn’t returned by then, it’s not going to.
I turn my attention back to his son. “Sure,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair. I’ll have to cut my usual five miles down to one to accommodate my seven-year-old running partner, but I don’t mind. I enjoy his company. “Give me fifteen minutes, okay?”
