Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (14 page)

“You don’t talk.” She elbows me hard and interrupting my thoughts.

“What am I supposed to say?”

She shrugs. “Whatever you’re feeling. Anything that pops into your head. Tell me a joke or about the cute panda video you watched on the Internet instead of picking up your place.”

“You really want to know what I’m watching on the Internet? Because I’ve got one word for you: capybara.”

She makes a face. “At least it wasn’t
internet porn
.”

“That’s two words. Maybe I should cut you off.”

Marlee stares down at her margarita as if it’s sprouted spiders. “Drink this for me,” she hisses.

Wait. What?

“I can’t drink if I’m pregnant. What if my period was a false alert? What if I’m actually pregnant right now?”

If I want to eat strawberries, I’ll eat strawberries. Not this pureed slushie thing. Still, I take the glass—and immediately look around for a place to dispose of the contents.

Suddenly my heart is pounding in my ears. “Did you pee on the stick?”

She has her period. Is this an immaculate conception? Fuck, but I should have paid more attention in health class.

“No.” She bites her lip. “But I could be. We’ve been having unprotected sex and sometimes women get their periods even when they’re pregnant. I should stop drinking just in case.”

I take one for the team and knock back her drink. Jesus. The teeth that don’t freeze on the spot curl up and die from the sheer sugar content.

“Problem solved,” I whisper roughly and she smiles.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

I’m a fixer. Break it, and I stick it back together. Moving parts, mechanical pieces—life’s one big fucking jigsaw puzzle and I make the edges match. Machines are predictable, reassuring in the way Tab A fits into Slot B. There’s only one right way, one easy fit—until the whole assembly breaks and then you go MacGyver on its ass. Nothing’s insurmountable with a roll of duct tape. Marlee, however, has to be the exception to my rules. She makes no fucking sense.

“Dance with me?” She ignores my silence and bellows the words to be heard over the driving beat.

I lean over and whisper the words right against her ear, drinking in her shiver. “Not a fucking chance, sweetheart.”

She laughs and bounces away to join the mass of writhing, seething, gyrating bodies packed in the square of beach doubling as a dance floor. Pretty sure most of those people should consider dance lessons. The guy nearest me flexes his knees up and down, his feet firmly fixed to the sand as he waves his arms over his head with a singular lack of dignity. He says something to Marlee as she bounds by. She waves at him but keeps on going.

Marlee dancing is a sight. I don’t dance—never have, never will. One of my deepest, darkest secrets is the tap-dancing lessons my mother dragged me to when I was six. I was the worst dancer ever, and not just because I didn’t want to be in Mrs. Bolivar’s classroom wearing tights and shiny black shoes.

Marlee wouldn’t have a career on any stage but a strip club’s. She’s off the beat. She throws her arms up and around like she’s imitating an out-of-control windmill, and her fellow dancers are forced to move out of her way more than once. But Christ, she’s alive. You can’t not watch her. Her smile lights up her face, her eyes glowing. Her curls go left, right, up, and down. Her tits do too, bouncing and shaking with each move she makes.

Don’t get me wrong—watching her is better than TV, but I never know what she’s gonna do next. She’s like the ball in one of those crazy pinball games they stick in pizza parlors to suck all of your quarters out of your pocket. She bounces here, she bounces there, and mentally I’m always one step behind her.

This feels like the first time I HALO-jumped. I’m fucking falling, falling hard, and the air’s too thin to breathe so it’s a fight to not pass out and hit the ground. You have to trust your training and your gear.

When she drops back into her seat, I’m the one who’s breathless.

She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Vann?”

“Yeah?”

She leans in and whispers the next words against my ear. “My period finished this morning. You’re good to go, sailor.”

We barely make it inside. Right now, any place works for me. The beach, up against a palm tree (which is probably too rough to actually be fun), in the bed of my truck? Yes, yes, and now fucking please. The bed works for me too. I shove the door to my place open, walk her through, and slam that fucker closed. Flip the lock, too.

Her gaze skates over the mostly empty living room, a smile curving her pretty mouth. I know what she’s going to say. I’m minimalist. Not big on furniture. Too lazy or too something to go pick out furniture like an adult. A couple of paddles and a pair of fins lean against the wall; my running shoes are lined up by the door.

“You—” She gets one word out before I scoop her up and get her back to the wall, arms stretched over her head.

“Am fucking crazy for you,” I growl.

“The feeling’s mutual,” she whispers, her fingers curling around mine. She hooks a leg around mine, rocking up against me. Trying to touch me.

I can help her with that.

She moans as I run my mouth over her cheek, licking and tasting and sucking. She’s like the best kind of candy, a sensual rush that makes me want more.

“Can we move on to the
fucking
part of
fucking crazy
?” she asks, and those dirty words coming out of that sweet mouth undo me, especially since the last part ends in a whimper.

“Anything you want,” I tell her, and those three words are a promise. Whatever she likes, I’ll give it to her.

Brown eyes look into mine. Her gaze is slightly unfocused, her breath coming faster. “Then do me now, Vann.” She tugs at her hands. “Or maybe you need some encouragement. Maybe you’re the one who should come first.”

Holy. Shit.
Yeah.
No. Ladies first.

But she tugs hard, popping her wrists out of my hold. Not like I want to hang on and hurt her, so I let go. She drops to her knees in front of me, her sundress billowing out around her, and her fingers find the front of my jeans. I shouldn’t let her do this, but my willpower vanishes with each button. One. Two… By four, I’m already panting. By five, I’m totally exposed.

She cups me with her hands, drawing me out with a greedy sigh that just makes my dick harder.

“Think I can make you beg?” She rubs her fingertips over my head and down, playing me like I’m some kind of goddamned flute. I feel each light strike of her fingertips, each soft caress. Fuck.
Me
. Her eyes meet mine as she lifts her hand to her mouth and licks her palm. Wraps her slick skin around me and squeezes. Tightens. Yanks every fucking sensation straight from my balls to my head.

“Marlee…” I bark her name, desperate for control. Possibly, I
am
begging. Not that I’m admitting to it, but she’s so close, her breath teasing me, her fingers working some kind of wicked, sexy,
Marlee
magic.

And then her mouth is on my dick, thinking’s impossible, and her lips close around me. I fuck her pretty, pretty mouth, driving my dick in deep. Pulling back and ramming in again. She feels so goddamned perfect—wet heat and sweet, seductive suction. She lets me take her mouth, following my lead and my pace, sucking me harder, stroking her tongue over me as I move harder, deeper, trying to put this piece of myself in as far as I can.

Those are my fingers twisting in her hair, holding her in place so I can drill all the way to her throat and possibly further too. As if there’d be room for my dick in her heart. I’m the boy toy, the baby-maker, the friend with benefits. Her heart’s off-limits.

Her hands grip my ass, shoving my jeans further south, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere. She’s got me by the balls and I’m loving it. I fuck her mouth, feeling every inch of her giving, tasting,
taking
. She whimpers when I pull back, almost popping free of her sexy lips, and then groans when I drive back in.

I’m fucking coming.

I try to channel unsexy thoughts to hold back my orgasm, but it’s like trying to stop the water from pouring through Hoover Dam with duct tape and a couple of wine corks. It’s so not happening. All I can do is tear myself away before I come down her throat, in her mouth, on her.

Christ, I’d like to do that.

Instead, I rip her panties off. Hope they’re not her favorites, because now they’re my new favorite souvenir.

“My turn,” I growl and lift her. Her back slaps against the wall, her head falling back. I part her with my thumbs, dragging through her soft, swollen flesh until she moans.

“Yes?” She needs to tell me this is okay.

“Give it to me,” she whispers, yanking my head toward her.

I know I should tell her how much I enjoy her company. Let her know that what’s between us isn’t just sex. But… I’m not good with words. I’m way, way better with my hands—so I’m letting my fingers (and my tongue and all the more talented parts of me like my dick) do the talking for me.

I bring her down on my dick, and I give her exactly what she’s asked for.

“H
ow fast does it go?”

“No faster than you want it to.”

“I’ll fall off.”

“Not if you hold on tight. Just spread your legs and ride it like a cowgirl. You can pretend it’s me.”

Marlee blushes, which is so goddamned cute. She’s also hesitating. I reach down and scoop her up, depositing her on my lap.
Hello, happy place.

Three days after our Tiki Hut not-a-date-but-we-fucked-like-crazy night, I finally convince Marlee that it’s time to confront her fear of speed and driving head-on. Or in my lap. I’m not above working the situation to my advantage, which is why we’re currently bobbing up and down in the water on a jetski. It’s not the most PC activity out there, but I love ripping across the ocean—and it’s also a great excuse to hold a nearly-naked Marlee. She’s rocking a particularly awesome bikini today. The top is pink and there are ruffles on her tits.

“You gotta answer a question for me.” I stroke my knuckles over the soft curve popping out of the little fabric triangle. Not like I can see all that much because of the bright orange life jacket, but I’ll take every inch of Marlee I can reach. I bet her tits will be spectacular when she’s pregnant.

She swats my hand. “We’re in public.”

I make a show of looking around me. We’re at the dock in front of Search and SEALs. Since Ro and Vann are out and about doing their own things, we’ve got the place to ourselves. Our only company is a bunch of palm trees, a couple of seabirds overhead, and probably a million goddamned fish in the water around us—but people are in short supply. It’s my kind of place.

“You told me we couldn’t have sex today,” I point out. “So this is just a practical use of our time.”

Since Marlee doesn’t have so much as a learner’s permit and I’m particularly fond of my truck, we’re starting small. It’s not the same as driving a car, and the ocean’s nothing like a nice, smooth straightaway, but it’s a starting point. Kinda like doing practice jumps at base camp before you go flying out of the ass of a transport aircraft for a twenty thousand-foot free fall.

She’s still stuck on my no-sex comment, however. “We’re supposed to take every other day off.”

“Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes. This baby-making business is like trying to assemble a BBQ without the instruction manual—it’s got a thousand fucking pieces and half of them look the same but clearly aren’t interchangeable. Lay it all out nice and slow and I’ll eventually find the pattern. Everything’s gonna fit by the time I’m done. “Which is why we had to find something else to do today—like teach you how to drive.”

“I have two legs,” she argues. “And a bike. And the number of a taxi service in town. There’s a bus, too.”

“And those are all good options,” I say agreeably. “Until Mini-Us runs out of diapers at two in the morning or you’re carting a load of baby shit around. You ever see someone trying to wrestle a stroller onto a bus?”

“They have those buses for the disabled that kneel down or have lifts.”

I shrug. “And sometimes crap breaks and then where will you be? You gotta be able to get around on your own, so consider this Vann’s Workshop in Fear Reduction.”