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And now thinking over the last few hours, P.J. figured that if there was any woman in this world who deserved a good cry, it was Juliet Jones.
The rage of the storm railed through the night relentlessly. Rain continued to fall in great sweeping gusts that battered rooftops and beat against windowpanes. The cold Atlantic slammed against the craggy cliffs of Port Harbor with herculean force. Trees fell over, power lines snapped. Streams and rivers flowed over and washed out roads. Basements flooded, cars stalled, boats were tossed about like toys.
But inside, Juliet and P.J. were warm, and dry and safe from the storm.
She had finally fallen asleep. Her head lay tight under his chin while her arms wrapped around him. Even in her slumber, Juliet seemed reluctant to let him go. After what they had just been through together, P.J. couldn’t help but feel the same way. Looking out into the still raging wind and rain, he recounted the horrific events of the past few hours and thought how easily Juliet could have died out there. What if he hadn’t been home…what if the security system had been downed by the storm, what if he had found her too late. What if …what if…what if….
Little foolP.J. admonished her silently even as he placed a small kiss on the top of Juliet’s hair. What had she been doing out in weather like this? It was obvious she had turned around or tried to. But what the hell did that mean? Had she taken a wrong turn in the rain? Or had Juliet been coming to see him and changed her mind? These questions only added to the billion he had about her. Maybe the storm had been a blessing in disguise. Even if Juliet’s car wasn’t blocking the access way, it would take P.J. at least a day to clear the road, and he couldn’t even think about that until the storm wore itself out. Maybe it would give him the time with Juliet that he needed to talk to her.
But for now, P.J. had to stand up and get his blood moving. It had been at least an hour since she had fallen asleep with her arms twisted around him. Every time P.J. tried to disentangle himself from her, Juliet tightened her grip. His shirt was soaked from her tears, he had a raging headache, and his back felt like it was on fire. P.J. needed a couple of shots of his best whiskey, and a hit of the premium weed that he kept on his nightstand. He needed to get undressed, stretch out on his bed, relax, and catch his damn breath. But every time he moved, she locked in.
So P.J. carried Juliet upstairs with him.
Juliet opened her tear swollen eyes to find herself in bed with P.J. McCabe. P.J. was on his back, his arms stretched and pretzeled under his head and his eyes closed. Juliet’s leg rested high on his thigh; her hand sat low on his belly. She was snuggled close under P.J.’s chin. The only sound in the room was the soft, rumble of his breathing. The only movement was the steady rise and fall of P.J.’s massive chest. They were both naked as the day they were born. While Juliet had the idle thought that this should probably alarm her, she was too tired, too warm, and too comfortable to care.
Juliet snuggled deeper into the crook of P.J.’s arm and tried to recount the last few hours out in the storm. Her thoughts were jumbled, some moments crystal clear, others a foggy blur. But Juliet knew one thing, she owed her life to this man. And as her eyes drifted down his body, Juliet found herself wanting to know more, much, much more, about the man lying next to her.
Stealing a glance at his face, she saw that P.J.’s eyes were still closed and except for a subtle change in his breathing, he remained perfectly still. Juliet bent her elbow, rested her head on the palm of her right hand, and studied the magnificent body that was gloriously within her reach. P.J.’s body was muscled and hard, his right nipple pierced through with a thick, sterling silver lightning bolt. The name Prosper was inked in beautifully detailed lettering in the smooth skin right over P.J.’s heart. On impulse, Juliet reached out, and with a light finger traced the ornately scripted letters.
P.J.’s right side was covered with a large Celtic cross. It reached low into his hip and ended in a Rose of Sharon. The skin underneath the bloom was puckered and concave. One of these beauties is covering up a bullet holehe had told her. As her fingers continued to trace the contours of his form, it occurred to Juliet that P.J.’s body told his story. Hard, unyielding, uncompromising, and colored with loss, faith, strength, and perseverance.
It was the body of a warrior.
As Juliet touched the steel, cold, thunderbolt that pierced the tender skin of P.J.’s nipple, she found her fingers crushed under his fist. In one quick athletic move, P.J. twisted Juliet’s body so that she lay prone beneath him. Juliet gasped with the force and weight of him. P.J. posed his arms on either side of Juliet’s head, taking some of his weight off her body and effectively caging her in.
“I thought you were asleep.” She panted out.
“I’m wide awake, Juliet.” P.J. growled low into her ear. Then he kissed Juliet in a way that made her body tingle, and her toes point and arch. P.J. brushed his thumb across the lower curve of Juliet’s breast. His hands left tender prints all over her body, while P.J. strummed Juliet like she was a priceless, finely tuned instrument. With slow, tender, torture he played her every note. Then, in a commanding and sudden move that made Juliet gasp in surprise, P.J. pulled her legs up around his waist. He entered her with one deep possessing thrust. Once he had claimed her, P.J. spent the rest of the night taking his time.
P.J. made love to Juliet for hours.
And hours.
And hours.
The power in her surrender, the sweet smell of her skin, the welcome of her hips, P.J. couldn’t get enough of Juliet. The more she gave, the more he demanded. P.J. couldn’t love her hard enough or deep enough. Each time he released his fury into Juliet’s hot, quivering body, he felt the world shatter into a million bursts of light, spin in whirls of flame, and turn into a kaleidoscope of color.
While the storm outside continued to release its relenting fury, the battle inside had already been won. With the confidence of a man born to be king, P.J. had waged a tender assault against Juliet’s defenses. With practiced hand, and clear purpose, P.J. had conquered her. He had coaxed, claimed, and bent her to his every will.
And in the end Juliet lay spent, sated, and deliciously defeated in his arms.
The moment that Juliet awoke, her senses were sieged under a tender assault. Her body felt deliciously sore and weak, her eyes blinked as the soft light flowed through the gap in the closed curtains, the smell of coffee wafted through the air. Juliet put her arms over her head and stretched her warm body as the low murmur of wakening sounds came dancing down the hallway…the soft bang of cupboards opening and closing, a chair scraping across the floor, the crackle of logs in a fire, the low sound of music. And finally, there was the dull thud of a door closing shut.
As Juliet sat up in bed, the sheet fell down around her waist; her naked body chilled by the cool air around her. She blushed furiously as memories of the night before came flashing through her mind. She looked across the room to see a man’s large flannel shirt, a pair of heavy woolen socks and a note.
She picked up the piece of paper…
Coffee’s brewing. Went to check out storm damage. Be back soon.
Storm damage.
Juliet glanced up and looked at herself now standing naked in front of the mirror.
Damagemight be the right word.
Her hair was tousled from where P.J. had buried his hands in it, her body was red and chafed in places where his light beard had grazed against her soft skin. Juliet’s breasts boasted tiny marks in light lavender hues from where P.J. had held them, squeezed them, loved them. The rosy tips of her nipples flushed to deep pink. Juliet’s eyes were sleepy, her mouth was bruised. When she moved, there was a lovely ache between her thighs.
Juliet emerged from the bedroom to find P.J. coming in from the cold.
