hardening erection. Stroking, guiding.
Hell. As soon as she was barefoot, he not only grabbed his hand back, he put a safe couple feet between them. The woman was potent.
“You’re not taking yours off?” she asked.
“Nope.” To end the discussion, he strode onto the beach, his tennis shoes sinking, sand filtering into his socks. Didn’t matter. He had the feeling he’d do better to keep every article of clothing intact.
Although he didn’t have Cade’s track record and fancy-faced looks, he’d had his fair share of women hitting on him. Hitting back always depended on three things.
Timing. Was he fresh off a mission and in need of shedding some pent-up energy, or about to embark on a mission, which would provide him with an inarguable exit strategy?
Spark. A lot of guys he’d served with banged anything that moved. For the notch, for the cheap thrill, to stroke their ego. Whatever. Blake didn’t want notches, thrills or strokes when he got naked with a woman. What he did want was spark. Heat. Something wild and intense, like the rest of his life.
But the most important return-hit factor was the commitment perspective. Years of SEAL training had sharpened his instincts to a razor’s edge, and years of avoiding commitment had honed his ability to discern a woman’s intentions—even if she didn’t realize them herself.
Timing and spark didn’t mean jack if the woman’s perspective was skewed toward long term.
The redhead smiled. A slow, wicked curve of her lips. It didn’t matter that the look wasn’t aimed at him. Blake’s muscles still bunched, his senses sprang to full alert and his dick hardened. Yeah. There was plenty of spark. It was the timing, and the scary depths of her perception, that worried him.
“I’ve missed the beach,” Alexia said after a few minutes of silent strolling along the water’s edge.
“Where’ve you been?”
“New York.” She gave him a saucy look, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Can’t you tell from my accent?”
Before training for the SEALs, Blake had served as a cryptologic technician. In civilian terms, a linguist. He spoke fluent Spanish, Russian, Arabic and Persian. And once in a while, pretty decent English.
“I meet a lot of people from a lot of places,” he told her. “Most are easy to place by their accents. You don’t have one, though.”
“Seriously? I don’t have any accent?”
He grinned at her affronted tone.
“I’m an expert,” he assured her. “Take it from me, you’re accent free.”
Then, maybe because he was starting to relax for the first time since watching Phil’s helmet blown to smithereens, he decided to show off a little.
“Bet you moved around a lot as a kid. Not just the U.S. Your tones are too rounded to be purely American. Europe. Maybe Asia?”
She stood rock still, music from the party ahead filling the air with a Motown beat, her hands fisted on her hips, and gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Did Michael track you down and say something this afternoon?”
Blake laughed. There wasn’t a whole lot to do for entertainment on a ship in the middle of the ocean, so he’d built a rep guessing where the guys were from. Name that accent in ten words or less, Phil had called it.
His laughter faded. The memory didn’t hurt as much, though. Maybe it was the dark. Or the company.
“Your brother didn’t spill any secrets,” he assured her. “I told you, I’m good at accents.”
“You really are clever.” She laughed, the sound as alluring and mysterious as the ocean itself. “I’ll bet it’s a handy skill. Does your job involve languages?”
“Yep.” But he didn’t want to talk about his job. He wanted to escape it right now. He watched her dip her feet in the surf, kicking up droplets and catching them in her fingers. What’d it feel like to be that free? That comfortable with yourself, with life. “What about you? You a psychologist or something?”
“Like I said. Clever,” she complimented as they reached the edges of the party. People milled about, dancing in the light of tiki torches, diving fully clothed—and in a couple cases totally unclothed—into the night surf. “I have a minor in psychology, actually. But I don’t practice.”
“What do you do?”
“Until recently, I worked at a private New York lab as an acoustical physicist.”
“Seriously?” he asked, throwing her word back at her.
A science geek? With a minor in psychology? Blake fingered his keys again, figuring he could make it up the beach to his truck in about six seconds flat.
“Yes, seriously,” she chided with a laugh. “I specialize in psychoacoustics.”
What was that? Crazy talk?
He shifted on the balls of his feet, gauging the sand’s inertia effect on his escape.
“And psychoacoustics is…?” he asked tentatively.
“The technical definition is the study of sound perception, measuring the psychological and physiological response to sounds.”
“So you do research?”
“Research, development,” she agreed with a shrug before giving him an arch look. “My current research is focused on correcting and enhancing sexual health through subliminal messaging, neurolinguistic programming and brain-wave technology.”
Intrigued, a little confused and, since she’d mentioned sex, totally open to being turned on, Blake settled his weight again, raised one brow and invited, “Tell me more.”
From the amused look she gave him, it was clear she knew which part he wanted to hear more about.
“If done right, subliminal messaging offers an opportunity to bypass the brain’s critical factor and speak directly with the subconscious. This is where the changes happen. Not just changes like smoking cessation or breaking a sugar addiction. But true physical changes. When trauma or conditioning are too strong for someone to overcome, the best way to make changes is on a subconscious level. This could be a powerful tool in helping abuse victims overcome blocks, in making inroads to libido dysfunction, healing emotional confidence.”
Between the animation in her voice and the way she was practically glowing with excitement, it was clear this was a woman who got passionate about her work. He gave her a questioning look. “So you’re talking about using sound to do the work of a psychologist?”
“Sure. It’s a little deeper than that, and should actually be done in concert with psychotherapy instead of replacing it, but you have the general idea of it right.”
Blake was all for a little mood music while doing the deed, but this was wild. Then again, he was getting pretty turned on just listening to her talk, that husky voice so passionate and excited—even if it was about her job rather than something more personal, like his body.
“How’d you go from acoustical physics to sexual health?” he wondered.
“While getting my psych degree, I interned at a clinic that helped abuse victims. It was heartbreaking,” she said quietly, staring out at the water. “Years, lifetimes were impacted by a single event, and no matter how much these people wanted to overcome that, or how much we tried to help them, there were things that the mind just wouldn’t let them get past.”
Blake didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His own mind was taking its oft-hourly trip back to the mission, to his last sight of Phil. She was right. Some things, they just didn’t go away.
“I’m boring you, aren’t I?” she asked, giving him a rueful look, the moonlight glistening off her downturned lips.