Free Heavy Issues by Elle Aycart

want to keep your head attached to your body, you’ll stay away from her. Feel me?” Cole said almost in a snarl.
    Max just grinned. Before he could say anything else, several girls came and hauled him off to dance. He went more than willingly.
    “Calm down, girls. There’s enough for everyone,” Christy heard him say. He was a shameless flirt through and through. And he had the pinup-calendar looks to pull it off.
    After a couple of hours a firework exploded, signaling the beginning of the show. “Come here, Christy.”
    That deep stare and his low, raspy voice transformed his simple command into something wicked and sinful that had her nipples throbbing and heat pulling in between her legs.
    “What?”
    “Come here,” he repeated, not moving a muscle, that obey-or-else tone in his voice making her shiver.
    She looked at him. Man, he was big. In another league completely from the unthreatening types she’d dated.
    As if pulled by his force field, she leaned toward him, and he lifted her to sit between his legs. Before she had time to complain, he had her half lying on him.
    “You’ll see the fireworks better from here.”
    Oh God. He’d been watching her all through the picnic, touching her too, but just light brushes. This was now full contact, back to chest, while his hard, muscular thighs were around her.
    He reached for her hand, and she jumped. “Easy, honey,” he whispered on her ear. Jesus, the guy smelled good. Like the outdoors and sun and man. Sexy man. Hard, arrogant, sexy man.
    He turned her right hand palm up and caressed her inner wrist, grazing his thumb over her tattoo. She’d caught him several times looking at it, but he’d never asked about it, which suited her fine. She never discussed her tattoo.
    “ Numquam Satis ,” he said, tracing the letters. “Never Enough.”
    She looked at him, surprised. “You know Latin?”
    He shrugged. “Not really, just the basics. It wasn’t a language the marines insisted upon much. Farsi and Afghani, yes; Latin, no.”
    A jarhead, didn't it figure. “So, the marines.”
    “Yep, three tours.”
    Oh hell. “Three tours? That’s what, twenty years?”
    “Twelve,” he said absentmindedly while caressing her inner wrist some more, then slowly moving up, pulling at her long sleeve. Before she could ask any more, he continued, “Are you into tattoos? Am I going to find more ink while undressing you?”
    She was going to tell him that the chances of him getting to undress her were slimmer than slim, but she recognized it for the big fat lie it was. Besides, she was too out of breath for words. Instead she just shook her head. More tattoos? Was he joking? She’d been in enough excruciating pain getting those two words—she’d even considered calling it quits at Numquam.
    “Does your tattoo have a special meaning?” he asked.
    Christy shrugged. “It’s a reminder.”
    “A reminder?”
    “So that I don’t forget.”
    “Forget what?”
    “That I need reminding.”
    A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “That’s circular thinking, babe.”
    Sure it was. “What about you? Any tattoos? A Semper Fi on your ass, maybe?”
    He snorted. “No, sorry to disappoint you. My brother James has already cornered the market on tattoos. Besides, I’d have better places to put the marines’ motto than on my ass. I’m old-fashioned: no tattoos, no piercings, no earrings. A man should look like a man, not a Christmas tree.”
    Christy laughed softly. Yep, that sounded just like Cole. If Max was the pinup-calendar hottie with the Hollywood looks, and James was the tattooed, tough-assed bad boy, then Cole was the highly opinionated, no-nonsense soldier. Piercings? Tattoos? Studs? Ha! The man didn’t use any cologne, for crying out loud.
    For a while they silently watched the fireworks. Christy was horribly aware of him behind her, of his muscular chest glued to her back, of his heat surrounding her, of a hard something pressing at her lower back. The