by Cat Johnson
Can you make it stop working again?
There was a long pause after she hit send where there weren’t even any of the telltale bubbles that told her he was typing a reply.
Finally, a text came through.
Give me a minute.
She smiled. Victory!
He hadn’t even fought with her. Not today on camera. Not tonight when she’d not so subtly hinted she wanted a repeat of last night.
It had to be the sex. Two people—even two people who couldn’t be more different and didn’t agree on anything—couldn’t be intimate and not get closer.
Her door swung open and Clay barreled in like a freight train. He didn’t stop until he was hauling her off the bed by one arm and she was standing next to the bed.
He yanked her shorts down her legs, straightened and tugged her tank top over her head.
Fisting her hair he crushed his mouth against hers, plunging his tongue between her lips.
Caveman to the bone.
If he didn’t stray from what she suspected was his usual sexual routine, she’d be on her back on the bed with him on top of her in seconds. She wasn’t complaining. He was generous in the orgasm department, but for once it would be nice to feel as if she had some control over what happened between them.
He might be bigger, but she bet she could regain control.
Reaching between them, she slipped her hand into his shorts. The tip of his arousal was right there, barely contained below the waistband. He hissed in a breath through his nose as she delivered a stroke up and down the steely length.
She broke the kiss and turned, pushing him back onto the mattress like he usually did to her.
His lips quirked up in a smile. “What are you doing?”
“Taking control.”
Clay’s eyebrow rose. “Oh really. And what are you planning on doing with it after you take it?”
She hadn’t thought that far ahead, but that was fine. She was good at improvising. “You’ll see.”
“All right.” He leaned back on his elbows and waited, watching her.
This was clearly a case of be careful what you wished for because beneath his scrutiny as he waited with expectation she suddenly felt shy.
She had control of the situation, but what was she going to do with it?
There was one thing she always regretted. That while Clay was on top of her, she could never get a really good look at him.
At least not at all of him while he was naked. She wanted to study his tattoos. Run her hand and mouth over his muscles. Take her time and enjoy the man with a body the likes of which she’d only ever seen online or in the movies. Never up close and in person, never mind being able to touch and taste.
Pulling his T-shirt over his head, she tossed it onto the floor with hers and then moved in for the shorts. She was naked. It was only fair he should be too.
Once he was, she reached for the wall switch. The overhead lights blared to life, making Clay frown. He looked at her questioningly.
“I want to see.”
He let out a short laugh. “Okay.”
Starting at his feet, she moved up his legs, running her fingers over the fine hairs. She stopped at a tattoo on his leg.
Leaning on one elbow she traced it with a fingertip. “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” he asked.
“This tattoo of frog bones.”
“It’s exactly that. Frog bones.”
She frowned. “You’re weird.”
“And you’re too close to my cock to not do something about it.” He glanced at his hard length, bouncing against his stomach, and then pointedly back at her mouth, before he raised his gaze to her eyes.
She’d had every intention of doing what he’d hinted at even before he’d not so delicately suggested it. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to torture him first. “I haven’t finished looking at all your many tattoos yet.”
Tasha glanced down and ran her fingers over the U.S. Navy one with the anchor on his forearm before she moved up to the one of a cross with a name and date.
“They’ll still be there later.” He reached out and laid his big hand on the back of her head, nudging her gently downward.
There was still the tattoo of a pin-up girl sitting inside a martini glass she had yet to inspect, but obviously that would have to wait.
Somehow he was still in control, in spite of her efforts. But there was one sure way she knew to bring a man to his knees. She leaned low and teased him with her tongue.
She tasted his tip before she slid her mouth down over his length.
He drew in a shaky breath and blew it out on a soft curse as he dropped his hand away from her. It landed on the mattress where he fisted a handful of the sheet.
She reached down and palmed his balls with one hand while stroking him with her other hand and mouth. He threw his head back against her pillow and let out a groan.
Who was in control now? As she felt his stomach heave and his legs tremble she knew the answer to that question. It might not last for long but for right now, it was all her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When the cell vibrated at dawn on Clay’s bedside table he pried open one tired eyelid.
What the hell? Tasha couldn’t be booty-texting him again. He’d just left her bed a few hours ago. He hadn’t even logged in five hours sleep yet.
He reached for the cell to shut this shit down. Sex was great, but a man needed some sleep sometimes. Especially a man forced to renovate a house on a crazy timeline while on camera.
The name on the display had him sighing. Only a SEAL would think texting at zero-five-hundred was okay. And normally it would have been.
A month ago, Clay would have been out for a run or at least up having coffee by sunrise. But nothing in his life was normal right now.
Hoping nothing was wrong, he opened the text and read it.
How’s that jammer working out for you?
Clay could hear the laughter behind the words of Asher’s text . . . and he didn’t like it. He tapped in a reply.
Don’t know. Haven’t used it.
The response came fast and in all caps.
BULL SHIT YOU DIDN’T!!!
It was too early for this shit. Clay flopped back against his pillow and flung his forearm across his eyes. The phone still in his hand vibrated with a call.
With a sigh, Clay opened his eyes and swiped to connect. “Yeah?”
“No details for your old teammate? Come on, Dirtman. I deserve something.”
“Oh, really. And why do you deserve something?”
“Because I’m wheels-up in an hour. You know this life, man. There’s no guarantee I’ll be back.”
Clay widened his eyes. “You sick mother fucker. You did not just say that to me.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Playing the death card just days after Randy’s annual memorial was low. Fucking Asher knew exactly how to play him and dammit it was working.
He groaned. “Fine. Yes, dickhead. I used it.”
“Oh my God. Do tell. I want details.”
“Well, you can’t have them.” Clay glanced at the camera in the corner of his room. It was back up and running and recording audio along with video, so there’d be no spilling of secrets here and now—not that he’d have given Asher any details at any time.
“Come on,” Asher prodded.
Letting out a huge breath of frustration, Clay flung back the covers and planted his two bare feet on the bare wood floors. He might as well get up. He was awake now.
Asher continued, “You can’t hide her away now that I’ve met her. She’s even cuter in person than online.”
“So? This is California. Cute girls are everywhere.” Clay made his way to the bathroom. The one place he could speak in moderate privacy. Besides, he had to take a piss.
“And yet you never moved in to live with any of them. In fact, you’ve managed to not have a serious, long term girlfriend for all the many years I�
��ve known you.”
“We’re not living together. It’s just for the show,” he hissed it low as he cradled the cell on his shoulder and aimed for the bowl. “And as for a relationship, you know the life we live. There was no room for serious relationships.”
“Ah, but see, there’s one problem with that. You’re no longer in the teams. You’re out of excuses, my friend.”
Clay scowled. He didn’t need the reminder. Retirement had been the biggest change of his life. But as for the other thing Asher had said, that he was out of excuses, that was bullshit. He hadn’t even come close to exhausting his reasons as to why he and Tasha would never work.
He knew the list by heart. In the bedroom, they might mesh for an hour at a time. But the rest of the time, and in the running pros versus cons list in his head, the two of them just didn’t work.
It was simple. This relationship was fueled by sex. Once he was away from whatever pheromones she was emitting like some sort of frigging siren’s call he’d be fine.
Unfortunately, now that Asher had grabbed on to the subject, he wasn’t likely to let it go. He’d go on teasing Clay long after they’d wrapped up this production and he and Tasha had both moved on with their lives.
Clay ignored the pressure in his chest at the thought that day was rapidly approaching and said, “What are you bored? Why are you so interested in my life? They not keeping you busy there?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Asher replied.
“Then don’t be an ass,” Clay countered, trying to figure out how to get his friend off the subject of Tasha—or at least off the phone.
Before he figured that out, Asher said, “Shit. Gotta go.”
Clay knew what that meant. There was no more joking between them as he said, “Okay. Be safe. Love ya’, brother.”
“Right back at ya’. And I expect you’ll have something to report by the time I get back.”
Clay just shook his head. They didn’t have the time to argue more on this subject. “See you on the flip side.”
“You got it.” The call went dead as Asher disconnected, leaving Clay standing in the bathroom with his cell in hand.
He fought a turmoil of emotions, torn between disappointment that he was now an outsider after being on the inside for twenty years, and relief that while the team was kitting up to fly God only knew where, the only thing he had to do today was drive to Home Depot and work on his beach house.
And once the house was done, then what?
Running on the beach, catching a few waves, sipping a cold brew while grilling a burger—it had all seemed like retirement paradise. But was it going to be enough?
He was barely forty. God willing he had another forty good years left. Were his short term plans going to satisfy him for the long haul?
Clay had a feeling he knew the answer, but he didn’t like it.
He glanced at the time on his cell. It was too late to go back to sleep and too early to start work, but it was a perfect time for a sunrise run on the beach.
Hopefully it would clear his head.
Who knew? Maybe he’d have some sort of endorphin-induced epiphany about what to do with the rest of his life. Stranger things had happened.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Where’s Clay?” Maria asked as she plopped down in a folding chair and her assistant scurried to set the to-go coffee cup in front of her.
Tasha took a sip of hot coffee from her own ceramic mug. She’d decided to make herself at home, even if it were for only a short time, so she’d grabbed her coffee maker and her favorite mug when she’d snuck to her condo the other day.
She’d brewed a pot this morning and had noticed the aroma hadn’t lured Clay out of his room. He wasn’t one to sleep in, so she’d gotten worried and checked his room. The bed was made and he was nowhere to be found. But his running shoes were missing from where they lived just inside the back door.
“I’m not certain, but I think he’s out for a run,” Tasha answered. She glanced at the time on her cell. “It’s still early. Hopefully, he’s back soon.”
Maria nodded. “I guess staying in that kind of shape takes work.” She grinned at Tasha, who really couldn’t argue since she’d been up close and personal with Clay’s amazingly hard body just hours ago.
She made a non-committal sound of agreement and took another sip of coffee, hoping the evidence that she’d just been picturing Clay naked in her bed wasn’t showing on her face.
“So I had editing put together a promo trailer.”
Tasha nodded. “The one that’s on the show’s social media pages.”
“No, actually, a new one. I sent it to the network and they’ve been airing it on cable.”
They had no cable hookup—and no television—in the house, not that she’d have had time to watch between the renovations and sex with Clay anyway.
She cleared her throat and dragged her mind off that. “Really. Wow. I’d love to see it.”
“I’ll email you a link to the file. It’s being received really well. Even better than Joanne had hoped and trust me she had some high expectations.”
A smiling director and a happy executive producer was a very good thing. Tasha decided to take advantage of it. “Since the show’s getting a lot of good buzz already, have you started thinking about season two?”
“We can’t invest in another property until we see some ratings and get a commitment from the network so we know there will be a season two, but yeah, we’ve been talking about it at the head office.”
“Oh? Any plans you can share?” Tasha asked.
Maria drew in a breath. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you. They’re planning on playing up the couple aspect again, since it’s proving so popular, so with a new project there will also be a new team of co-hosts for the second season.”
Feeling a little sick to her stomach, she said, “But Clay and I aren’t a couple.”
Tasha tried to read the meaning behind Maria’s shrug. Did it mean Maria didn’t believe her denial, or that it didn’t matter either way because Clay had made it clear this season was a one shot deal?
That gave Tasha an idea. “What if I got Clay to agree to do another season? With me, on a new project.”
“Do you think you could convince him to do that?” Maria asked.
“Possibly. I mean he’s retired now from the Navy. What else does he have to do?”
Why wouldn’t he want to do it? He’d get paid. And he have the time once this house was finished. She might have to get creative in the bedroom to make him see the light, but that could be fun . . . for both of them.
Tasha glanced up to see Maria nodding.
“That’s right. He is a veteran, isn’t he? We should probably play up that aspect more.” Maria scribbled something in her notebook before, finally, she looked back to Tasha. “All right. I’ll present the idea to Joanne and see what her thoughts are on it. In the meantime, you feel out Clay and see if he’s onboard.”
“See if I’m onboard for what?” Clay’s booming voice brought Tasha’s attention around to where his bulk filled the back door that he’d apparently slipped through while she’d been occupied with the conversation.
She needed time to ease him into the idea, so Tasha scrambled to come up with something to say besides the truth. “For shopping for the furniture for the house together on camera.”
She saw Maria smirk at her outright lie before she glanced back to Clay, who was frowning.
With a scowl, he said, “I’m taking a shower.”
“But what do you think about my idea?” she called after him as he walked away. She really did want to take the cameras to a furniture store before the end of production.
Without turning around, he said, “I’ll think about it.”
That was better than a no. Satisfied, Tasha leaned back in her chair and reached for her mug.
Maria let out a laugh. “I’m starting to think you might actually be able to convince him to do another season.”
> Tasha hoped so. Her career could depend on it . . . and after the past couple of nights they’d spent together, the idea of keeping Clay close for another season definitely had its appeal.
TWENTY-NINE
Reclining in Tasha’s bed for the third night in a row, Clay watched her trace the outline of the cross on his arm with one fingertip. It was the tattoo he’d gotten the day after Randy’s funeral. “You’re so enthralled with my tattoos, why don’t you get one of your own?”
She shrugged and glanced up. “I guess I don’t feel like I’ve got something important enough to immortalize, like you do.”
Her gaze dropped to the name and date before she drew in a breath and slid down his body. He never objected to her moving her mouth closer to his cock, but that wasn’t where she was aiming. Instead she was heading down the bed to take a closer look at his bone frog.
“They don’t all have to represent something important. This one was just something I liked.” He pointed to the Sailor Jerry design on his chest—a girl in a martini glass.
Although that one actually did have a deeper meaning too, he supposed. The guys on the team called him Dirty Martini—shortened to Dirtman most of the time—because that’s what he ordered when he was in the mood to really drink.
“The frog one’s got numbers underneath it. What do they mean?” Tasha was back on the subject of the one tattoo he wished she’d ignore.
He’d avoided telling her the real meaning of the tat before. Tonight, avoidance seemed too close to lying and, like it or not, after spending three nights in a row in her bed—and inside her—he couldn’t lie.
“That’s the number of my BUD/S class.”
Her head whipped up. “Your what?”
“Every Navy SEAL class is given a number.”
It was a vain hope that he’d be able to distract her with facts. It was clear she was less interested in military trivia and more concerned with why he’d never disclosed what he’d really done while in the military.
“What? You never told me you were a SEAL.”
“You never asked.”
“And Randy? And Asher? Them too?”
He tipped his head.