Authors: Samantha Cayto
Tags: #Erotic Romance
Jonesin’ For Action
SEALs On Fire Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Jonesin’ For Action
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Samantha Cayto
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Cover Art by
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First Scarlet Rose Edition, January 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-782-3
Published in the United States of America
The author of this work of fiction
acknowledges the following copyright:
Stayin’ Alive, BMG Music Publishing
To my father and my uncles who served their country with honor and without question.
Being a Navy SEAL meant being part of a team and not having to go it alone. You always had guys guarding your back, keeping you safe while you did the same for them. Your teammates were there for you whenever you needed them. They would catch you if you fell and shove you back up again. They’d push you to move forward when you thought you’d reached your limit. You could count on them, always.
The teams had been there for him for the last several years, but Aidan Jones wasn’t a SEAL anymore, not in the way that counted for him. He was washed up and anchored stateside. And although his former teammates would be there for him if he asked, he had cut them loose for this mission. He had to do this last one all on his own.
The bar was just like any other in Key West on a Saturday night. He hadn’t picked it for any reason other than it was the first one in his path after the guys had dropped him off. They all had different plans for the evening anyway. He knew they were waiting for a call to go wheels up. Soon they’d be in the thick of things while he went back to base and picked up the remains of his career. He tried not to be jealous, an almost impossible feat, so he didn’t beat himself up too much when he failed. He knew, too, that the guys would have changed their plans to back him up in his efforts this evening if he had asked them. He hadn’t. God, how pathetic would that have been, asking them to hold his hand as he tried to pick up a woman?
They had already done more than he could have asked by including him in their R&R for the weekend and helping him practice water skiing. It had been a rush to be out on the water this afternoon, staying up, most of the time, as the boat pulled him around the coast. It was the one non-essential task he had relearned since his last mission. He still wasn’t as good as he had once been. Ice’s woman, Syn, had beat his ass a few weeks ago in their recurring competition. Still, getting back on the water had been just the boost his ego needed after weeks of painful rehab filled with failure and baby steps toward getting used to the new him. With his ex-teammates around him, he hadn’t felt as self-conscious as he had expected displaying his body for the world to see. Sure, there had been some stares, there would always be stares, but it hadn’t diminished his joy over his achievement.
Tonight would be different, though. It was already different. A few people glanced at him and then away in discomfort and embarrassment. He had expected it given that he had worn shorts instead of jeans. It was important to him not to hide his body, not tonight. If he was going to find a willing woman, he for damn sure was going to advertise what she was getting. The last thing he needed was to send some woman screaming from the bedroom when he took his pants off. Worse, infinitely worse, was to get a pity fuck. It had been many months of deployment, one misplaced step, and weeks in the hospital and rehab, since he last got laid. Learning how to walk and water ski again had been important milestones. Taking a woman to bed was the Holy Grail of his recovery.
Ignoring the furtive glances from strangers, he walked over to the bar and eased himself onto a stool. He’d done some scoping out already and knew there were a few prospects in the place. His prosthetic leg might be on display, but so was the rest of his body, and he had what women wanted.
Along with the shorts, he had worn a T-shirt that fit his upper body tight enough to show off his pecs and biceps. His hair was cropped short, and his face clean-shaven now that he wasn’t going into the hills of Afghanistan. His friends had ragged him about being a pretty boy. That hadn’t changed, and women had always flocked to him. The question for the night was whether women would still be attracted to his good looks and physique enough to get over the revulsion of fucking a guy with one leg. Okay, one and a half legs. They had amputated his left leg right above the knee while he was still in Afghanistan.
He knew they had tried to save the leg and that his friends had felt particularly bad they hadn’t been able to do more for him in the field. Fate was a stone-cold bitch when she allowed the team’s corpsman to step on the IED. But being one meant he also knew there was nothing anyone could have done to cause a different outcome. He was God damn lucky not to have lost more—more leg, both legs, his junk, his life. Compared to some of the guys in rehab with him, he had nothing to complain about. Still, the looks of pity, the winces, the whispers got to him. He needed to nut up, though. This was his new normal, and no woman was going to be interested in him if she sensed his unease.
A little Dutch courage in the form of a beer might help. He scoped out the area behind the bar to catch the attention of one of the bartenders. He spotted the one he wanted immediately. Not just the bartender he wanted, but the woman he wanted, too. She was small. Even with the raised floor behind the bar, she had to reach up on her toes to pluck a bottle from the shelf. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and there were odd looking bows littered throughout the mane. Her elfin face lit up with a smile when one of the customers said something. There was an Asian look to her face, the upturn of her eyes and the height of her cheekbones. Small, pert breasts spilled over the low neckline of her fitted T-shirt. Her body was slim, but with a hint of curves. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
Aidan’s cock stiffened as he watched her twirl about, pouring beers, mixing drinks, and chatting with the cluster of guys at the other end of the bar. Okay, the votes were in. His body wanted the bartender. The question was, should he saunter down the bar to join the pack drooling over her or could he entice her down to his end?
“What can I get you?”
Aidan shifted his gaze to the bartender standing in front of him. Young, bleach-blond hair, with a face that some guys would kill for. Unfortunately, the bartender was also a guy. With a slight grimace, Aidan answered, “No offense, but do you think I could give my order to her?” He pointed toward the woman.
The bartender laughed. “This is what I get for working in a straight bar. No problem, man.”
Aidan watched the man approach the woman and whisper in her ear. She glanced down to where he was sitting and gave him a smile and a nod. Just that much hardened his cock to full mast. He tried not to squirm as he returned the look. A minute later, she walked up to where he was sitting. She placed her hands on the bar and leaned toward him with a mega-watt smile.
“What can I get you? And,” she raised her eyebrows at him sternly, “keep it clean, sailor.”
Aidan grinned. “How’d you know I’m in the Navy?”
“I’ve been working down here long enough to recognize the look.” Her gaze swept over the visible part of him. Appreciation showed in her eyes, and his body temperature rose a few degrees.
He coughed slightly in embarrassment. He was used to women showing their attraction, but this woman’s blatant perusal threw him. Or maybe he was vulnerable because he wasn’t sure he had a shot with her, not these days. “How about your house special?”
Pushing away from the bar, she gave him a nod. “I can do that. Frosted glass and a lime wedge?”
She gave him a saucy smile and twirled away to fill his order. His attention focused on her pert little ass. He tried not to stare too blatantly. She was Asian, too. He was sure of it now that he had seen her up close. There was no hint of the South in her accent, nor the North, as far as he could tell. California maybe. She was younger than he, perhaps early twenties. He appreciated how she hadn’t taken immediate offense to the automatic honorific he had used. Lots of women stiffened up and proclaimed they weren’t old enough to be a ma’am. Really, it only meant that they were adult women, and in his world, ma’am and sir were the natural endings to practically every sentence when speaking to someone in authority.
And this woman definitely ruled her domain. The other two bartenders, both male, treated her with obvious respect. He could see it in their movements around her and the looks they gave her. They liked her, too, as did the customers. He realized the obviousness of it when he saw the bows in her hair were money. Apparently, customers tied bills around locks of her hair. It was the only explanation as she couldn’t have done it herself. His fingers twitched as he imagined running them through her shiny strands of ebony hair. He pointed to the bows when she placed his drink in front of him.
“Do guys do that every night?” he asked before taking a slug of beer. The cold brew slid down his dry throat and helped to settle his nerves the moment it hit his stomach.
She shook her head, and the money bows crinkled. “Yeah. One regular started it about a year ago when I first got here and now it’s kind of a thing.” She shook her head again and rolled her eyes. “It’s silly, I know, and depending on the customer, a little creepy. But tips help pay the bills, so…” She shrugged.
Aidan took another hit of his beer and smiled. “I bet it’s a great way to tell when to cut them off, too. As a sobriety test, tying bills around locks of hair must beat out walking a straight line.”
She giggled, and perfect white teeth flashed between her plump, pink lips. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. A good point. So,” she asked, arms folded on the bar, leaning into him, “would you like a menu? We have some great bar food. The slider combo is awesome. Add some sweet potato fries and you’ve got a perfect meal to go with that beer.”
He hadn’t planned on eating, having grabbed something already at the house where he and his buddies were staying. He didn’t care that she was trying to up-sell him because it meant he could stay put longer without drinking too much. If he were clever enough, he could learn when she got off work and make a date for later. “Sounds good.”
She smiled at him again, and the punch to his gut forced air between his lips. He covered by slamming more beer back.
“Great. I’ll place the order. Want another round,” she added with a nod to his almost empty glass.
“Sure.” As he watched her wiggle her cute little ass encased in tiny shorts, he vowed to slow down and nurse the next beer.
Marissa smiled and laughed at something a customer said, although she had no idea what it was. Her mind was on the guy at the other end of the bar, the hot sailor with the boyish smile. She had noticed him the moment he entered and realized he was the guy she had seen earlier waterskiing on one leg. Holy crap that had been impressive.
Given that her shift was about to start, she hadn’t been able wait around to see him when he came off the water. Magically, here he was. He was more impressive up close, totally jacked and gorgeous. How much could nature endow one person with? The fact that he had lost half a leg didn’t detract one bit from his appeal, not as far as she was concerned. She admired how he didn’t try to hide it, either.
Damn, her shift didn’t end for hours. Some college girl was going to scoop him up before she had the chance. There was only so much drink and food she could ply him with to keep his perfect ass sitting on a barstool, too. If the women trolling the place tonight were stupid enough to ignore him, he would leave and head for another bar. If she had half a brain—and her dissertation professor assured her she had enough for two people—she’d let him know she was interested. Maybe he’d be willing to stick around or come back. Picking up customers was not her style, but this guy was the exception to every rule she knew.