SEAL's Virgin: A Bad Boy Military Romance

by Juliana Conners

  Memories of the great night I’d shared with Wesley rush through my head, but there’s no time to dwell on them because I need to think of a way for us to get out of this predicament.

  Of course my dad has to go and throw a kink into things between Wesley and me, just when they were starting to seem perfect.

  Last night I got so caught up in the bliss of being with Wesley that I forgot that we can’t really have a relationship. In my fantasy, we could really be together. But now reality is smacking me as hard in the face as Taylor is knocking on my door.

  Chapter 12 – Wesley

  Holy shit.

  I jump up, in a panic, and grab my shoes. I start frantically pulling them up, as sweat runs down my forehead.

  “If your dad finds me in bed with his daughter, I’ll probably never see the light of day ever again,” I say to Chelsea.

  It’s easy to act tough to Coach Thompson on the field, when it’s just about winning or losing a football game and I know I’m in the right. But being caught red-handed with his daughter in a very compromising position— even though we didn’t go all the way, or anything close— is an entirely different matter.

  Even if I didn’t have the past that I have, and even if he hadn’t made a deal to help me out— for which his very own job could be on the line— he’d have every reason to beat me to a pulp and, worse, kick me off the team I just started to play for.

  Sleeping with his fucking daughter is enough of a reason, even without all the additional reasons.

  I know I’ve gotten very, very out of bounds. I just never thought Coach Thompson would find out so soon.

  “Go to the attic,” Chelsea says, in a take charge kind of voice that I have to admit I like. Even in this panicky situation, she finds a way to turn me on. “He’ll probably look through all the rooms of the house to see who’s here. It’s the only place that’s safe.”

  “Okay,” I say, heading for the door of the bedroom before I realize I don’t know where I’m going. “Where is it?”

  She leads me out to the hallway and points to a small door in the ceiling with a skinny rope hanging from it. I pull it down and climb up the narrow ladder towards the dark, cobwebbed space above it.

  “The light is on your right as soon as you’re up there,” Chelsea says. “I’ll come let you know when he’s gone. Good luck.”

  I reach down to give her a kiss, and she stands on tip toe to make it possible.

  “Last night was hot,” I whisper into her ear.

  She visibly shivers, and grabs my hand.

  “Yes it was,” she agrees. “See you soon.”

  For her, I don’t even mind having to hide in the attic like a damn middle schooler caught sneaking into my girlfriend’s house. Chelsea can’t help that her dad is so strict, and it’s kind of cute, I guess. She’s never even been with a guy so his strict parenting style must have worked. And I can’t wait to be her first.

  I entertain myself with fantasies about Chelsea as I wait, hiding, in the attic. I loved rubbing her pussy last night until I made her come. I know she was turned on and wants to go further with me, and I’m willing to be patient because…

  …Because she’s fucking hot, I tell myself, not wanting to explore any possible further truths.

  I’m not really falling for her, I assure myself. She’s just like all the other chicks I’ve been with. I’ve always been able to get any fucking girl I want, and she’s no exception.

  Except she is, something deep within me says.

  It’s a voice I’m not used to hearing, and I want to shut it up. I think about taking off Chelsea’s skirt and turning her around. I convince myself I just need to take her hard and from behind, and then she won’t be such a teasing, constant presence taking up all the space in my head.

  Finally, I hear the door to the attic open and Chelsea’s voice saying, “You can come down now, Wesley.”

  She’s laughing, and as I descend the small staircase I notice that Taylor is with her, too.

  “That was a close call,” Chelsea says, “but luckily Taylor took the fall for us.”

  “You’d better be glad I was here,” Taylor says, making tsking sounds with her tongue. “Last night I made sure to make everyone leave. I had a feeling your dad was going to pull this. He’s very suspicious of you guys.”

  She shakes her head at me. I want to believe she’s trying to appear disapproving even though she’s secretly happy for Chelsea. But it’s hard for me to get a good read on Taylor.

  “The only one left was Christian,” she says.

  “Oh shit, what happened to him?” I ask, having forgotten all about my new friend.

  “I made up a story that we’d had the party because I’m interested in him, and that he was the only guy we’d invited.”

  “Did your dad actually buy that?” I ask Chelsea, dubious.

  She shrugs and laughs. “My dad is willfully naïve. He believes what he wants to believe.”

  “Was he mad at Christian?” I ask her.

  Now it’s Taylor’s turn to shrug.

  “He told me I’m being a bad influence, and he’s disappointed in me. He said Christian had better leave right away, because he had been very explicit that none of his players were supposed to be here, and he didn’t want him at his lake house. Christian took off in a hurry.”

  “But was it all a lie?” Chelsea asks, in a teasing voice. “Or did you and Christian actually…”

  “No way! No,” Taylor says quickly. “I would never. There’s just something strange about that guy.”

  She squishes up her nose in disgust, but then she goes back to laughing.

  “But that was the funny thing. That we didn’t even do anything. I just showed him around to give you two some privacy and then I ditched him for beer pong and much hotter guys. He slept in the spare bedroom! But I had to act like we were charlatans, to save Chelsea’s hide. And Coach Thompson believed it.”

  “Awww, what a good best friend,” Chelsea says, petting Taylor’s hair.

  “Do you think it’ll affect things on the field?” I ask Chelsea.

  She shrugs again.

  “He said he’ll deal with him during practice, so I guess that means it’s nothing too serious. I mean, I guess he won’t be kicked off the team or anything.”

  Taylor laughs.

  “He doesn’t care what the teammates do with me,” she says. “He’d only freak out if his little girl was being taken advantage of.”

  “Yep, I guess that’s what I’m doing,” I say, nibbling on Chelsea’s neck. “Taking advantage of his poor, sweet, innocent little girl.”

  “She doesn’t like it at all,” Chelsea agrees.

  “You guys are so gross,” Taylor says. “I’m going into town to get supplies.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, a thought suddenly striking me. “If Christian already left, how am I going to get home?”

  “Guess you’ll have to stay here with us for the rest of the weekend,” Chelsea says, with a big grin on her face.

  Taylor makes a face. “You guys are going to make me throw up. And Chelsea, that is not happening.”

  She looks at Chelsea with pleading, pouty eyes.

  “We could always invite Christian back, so you don’t have to be the third wheel,” Chelsea says, with a laugh.

  “Very funny.”

  She sighs.

  “Seriously, you guys,” Taylor continues. “I just did you both a solid, and got both Christian and me in trouble with your dad when we didn’t actually do anything wrong. I mean, sure, he’d said not to invite any players to the party, but that was hardly because of me. So don’t just get all mushy on me and make me the odd woman out. This is supposed to be my weekend to relax with my BFF. I might as well go home if it’s going to be you two making out all the time, and me loafing around on my own.”

  “That’s not how it’s going to be,” Chelsea reassures her. “Stop pouting. We’ll find a way for Wesley to get home.”

  “All righ
t,” Taylor says, apparently satisfied that Chelsea is choosing her over me. “I’ll let you have a little more one on one time while I go get some grub. And then I’ll drive Wesley home. So then Chelsea can stay here and work on the routine for the State competition.”

  “Oh yeah,” Chelsea says. “I have to come up with a great routine that will win us the upcoming competition.”

  She looks at me.

  “That was part of this weekend’s plans… before you crashed them.”

  “So sorry,” I tell her, with a wink.

  But I’m really not, and she knows it.

  To Taylor, I say, “That’s very nice of you. I certainly don’t mean to intrude on the BFF weekend. It just so happens that my ride left without me. And thank you for taking the fall for us. We really appreciate it.”

  “Oh my god,” Taylor groans. “You’re already using ‘we-speak,’ as if you’re a couple.”

  “Whatever,” Chelsea says, but I can see that she’s trying hard not to smile. “Get out of here before you die of secondhand mushiness.”

  Once Taylor is gone, Chelsea looks at me and says, “I guess we only have an hour or so left together this weekend. What do you want to do?”

  I know what she’s expecting me to say.

  And I know how much I want to say it.

  Sex, sex, and more sex.

  But I surprise myself, and her, by suggesting something completely different.

  “Do you know how to fish?” I ask her, purposefully raising my eyebrows at her mysteriously.

  “Um, do I!” she responds, waving a hand at all the fishing décor. “I’m only the daughter of the guy who fancies himself to be almost as good of a fisherman as he is a football coach. He’s only taught me how to fish since I was— I don’t know— two or so years old.”

  “I figured,” I laugh. “And that’s what inspired my question. But I just wanted to confirm.”

  “Why?” she asks, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Do you not know how to fish?”

  “I’m a big city boy,” I say, with a shrug. “I’ve never really had the opportunity.”

  “Oh my god,” she practically squeals, and I have to admit it’s super cute. “I’ve got to teach you how to fish.”

  “If you insist,” I say, with a grin.

  What the hell has gotten into me? I wonder.

  The old me would have wanted nothing more than the opportunity to shack up for a quickie before being forcibly driven home by my latest flame’s cock-blocking best friend. But I’m at ease here, sincerely wanting to learn to how to fish.

  I think it’s sexy that Chelsea knows how. It sets her apart from all the other girls I’ve been with.

  And I don’t even care that she wants to spend the rest of the weekend with Taylor. I’m just grateful that I was able to spend part of it with her.

  What kind of a fucking wuss have I turned into?

  Chapter 13 – Wesley

  I help Chelsea gather some gear from the garage and then we walk over to the pier.

  “Okay, what great fishing lessons do you have to share with me?” I ask her. I look down at our small stack of supplies. “I’m not sure we’re even going to be able to catch much, when this is all we have.”

  “Well, for one thing,” Chelsea says, her cute dimple appearing in her cheek when she smiles, “When it comes to gear, you want to keep things really simple. All you need is a pole— it can be cane like these, or fiberglass or graphite. It’ll cost you a whole ten bucks at a bait shop or discount store. So don’t go trying to be some big spender.”

  “The way you say graphite is so sexy,” I joke, but really, I’m turned on, and I want her to keep talking about how to fish.

  Luckily, she does.

  “You’ll also want to buy a small spool of monofilament fishing line.”

  “Mono-fill-a-ment…”

  “Yes. Monofilament. You want six or eight pound test for fresh water, or ten or twelve pound test for salt water. You’ll need a couple of plastic bobbers, some BB-size split shot sinkers, and some hooks. They can be size two for small bait, or up to size 3/0 for bigger bait. A small tackle box with divided trays and a carrying handle, like this right here—” she says, patting the tackle box we’d brought along with us from the lake house— “will do just fine.”

  “I see,” I say, in a way that begs her to tell me more.

  I won’t remember any of these things. But I like to hear her talk about them.

  “You need bait,” she continues, to my great delight. She seems to know that I enjoy hearing all the many details she knows about how to fish. “You can buy minnows, night crawlers, redworms and rickets at a bait shop. We’ve got some redworms right here. You can carry your bait in a small plastic bucket.”

  She pats the one we brought.

  “But it’s more fun to catch your own. You can get minnows out of any creek by using a dip net. You can look under stream rocks for crayfish. You can find redworms and crickets under logs and leaf litter.”

  “That’s so hot,” I can’t help but tell her.

  As if encouraged, she continues. “Other baits work, too. Saltwater fish love shrimp, whether they’re dead or alive. Trout will bite kernel corn and cheese. Catfish will eat pieces of ivory soap!”

  “No kidding!” I say, and laugh.

  “Yeah, I know,” she says. “Crazy. Okay, so here we are with our equipment and bait already, and we’re about to start fishing. To do that, you just cut off a length of line about a foot longer than the length of your fishing pole.”

  She does that, and then I follow.

  “Now you want to wrap an end around the tip of your pole and make sure to tie it tightly.”

  I watch her exert her strength in doing so, making a mental note of how cute she looks, and then I follow suit.

  “Now, you match your hook to your bait. In our case, it’s a size 3/0 for long worms. If you were hooking a small shrimp, then it would be size 1/0.”

  “Oh I see,” I say, as if I have any idea what she’s talking about.

  “Tie the hood to the opposite end of the line using a knot that won’t slip. This one is called the Palomar knot.”

  She ties a fancy knot that I hope I can mimic.

  “No, Silly,” she tells me, laughing at my feeble attempts. “You need to make sure to wet all knots before pulling tight. Bad knots lose good fish!”

  “Bad knots lose good fish,” I repeat.

  “Exactly. Good job,” she says, as I finally tie the knot correctly.

  I feel like an unsuccessful boy scout, even though that’s never even been my thing. I’m only getting so into this fishing thing because she is, and it’s so much fun.

  “Now we’re ready for the fishing hole,” she continues. “For us, it’s this lake, since there’s no ocean anywhere around. If we lived near the coast, we could of course catch all kinds of saltwater fish around piers and large rocks close to the shore. But if we were even more inland, a pond would be our best bet, since most are loaded with bluegills and bass.”

  “Would be nice to live close to the ocean,” I interject, and she looks at me wistfully and then says, “I agree.”

  “We can try bobber-fishing,” she says, after letting a few seconds pass. “After baiting your hook, you want to attach the bobber above your line. It can be two feet for starters, and longer if the bait needs to go deeper.”

  We attach the bopper, and then she says, “Now just extend the pole over the water and lower it until the bobber floats on the water.”

  She casts her pole, and I cast mine. But mine looks a lot clumsier than hers.

  “Keep the pole horizontal, silly,” she says, laughing that contagious laugh that I can’t help but join in on. “Hold it steady.”

  “Okay, okay, yes ma’am,” I say, and steady my pole.

  We look at each other, and after a while, I say, “So now what?”

  “Now we wait,” she says, with a self-satisfied grin on her face. “We wait for the fish to bite. F
ishing takes patience.”

  “Okay,” I tell her.

  But patience has never been my fucking strong suit.

  Take fishing, for example. I’m enjoying it. But I also can’t wait to jump Chelsea’s bones.

  Chapter 14 – Wesley

  After a few minutes of my pole being in the water without any fish biting, I say, “Nothing’s happening.”

  “It’s fine,” she says. “Keep being patient. It’s common for fish to take several minutes to find your baited hook.”

  While I’m staring at my bobber and starting to get bored, it starts jumping and shaking.

  “Well look at that!” I exclaim.

  And suddenly I’m very excited.

  “Shhhh,” she says. “A fish is nibbling your bait!”

  She’s whispering.

  “You don’t want to scare the other fish away. So don’t get too excited and loud. But when the bobber goes completely under the surface, set the hook by quickly raising your pole. There you go. Just like that. Now point your pole straight up in the air, so that the fish swings to you.”

  “Oh my god, here it is!” I say, in a loud whisper, trying to remind myself to keep it down.

  I raise the pole and she says, “Be sure to handle it with care.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Will it bite me?”

  “Nah. Most of the fish that come to the shore don’t have sharp teeth,” she explains. “But many have spiny fins. Grab the fish gently but firmly behind its head.”

  I do so, feeling the slimy, slick texture of the fish’s body. She rifles through the tackle box in the meantime.

  “Here you go,” she says, handing me some pliers. “Use these needle-nose pliers to remove the hook.”

  I look down at the fish and say, “Poor little fellow.”

  “That’s a pretty fish,” Chelsea replies. “Good job. And don’t worry, new research says that fish can’t feel pain.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They don’t have the necessary brain power. Their wriggling around is just an unconscious reaction to a threat.”