Down and Dirty

by Sandra Hill

  He bit his bottom lip to keep from making a derogatory remark.

  “You are not aware of this fact—not that you would care—but my father wants me wed to one of his evil toads, or dead. I have been hiding in a nunnery for more than a year. There is no reason for me to go back.”

  Britta? In a nunnery? He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from saying something he for damn sure shouldn’t.

  Suddenly, her face brightened as something seemed to occur to her. “Didst say that Hilda is in this land?”

  He nodded. “She and Max are married. In fact, they have a son named Styrr, named for her father. He’s a little over one year old.”

  “That is wonderful. See. One more reason why I should stay.”

  “I could take you to her. She runs a kind of women’s shelter.”

  “So you can dump your responsibility for me on Hilda? I do not think so.”

  “Britta, you have no clue what torture you’re going to have to endure to get your body in shape.” Although, truthfully, I like your body just the way it is. “And I’m going to be one of the task masters wielding that whip.” Whips? Hmmm. “Do you think you can take orders from me?” I can think of a few that might be fun.

  That last question seemed to give her pause. The stubborn wench! “Orders regarding military matters?”

  Well… “Of course.”

  “Yea, I can.”

  “So be it.” He threw his hands up in the air with resignation. It’s your funeral, honey. “Here’s your first order. Come over here and give me a kiss.”

  She laughed. “Still trying to seduce me, lout?”

  “Oh, yeah!” He backed her up against the wall and nuzzled her neck.

  She tried to twist away.

  Which gave him better access to her neck. He gave the inner whorls of her ear a quick lick.

  She gasped.

  “I’ve missed you,” Zach said.

  “Liar.”

  “I wish.”

  “You wish, why?”

  “I don’t want to miss you. I have enough problems in my life right now without falling in love.”

  That one knocked her speechless.

  It knocked him speechless, too.

  Which gave him the opportunity to swoop in and lay his lips on hers. And, man, she was so sweet. Just like he remembered.

  With a moan, she opened her lips to his kiss, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting her.

  Suddenly, she went stiff as, uh, let’s say, his you-know-what and shoved him in the chest. “You tricked me,” she accused.

  “I did?”

  “Yea, you did,” she said, glancing down to see her nipples sticking out of her T-shirt like pointy sentinels. Quickly, she glanced up at him to see if he noticed her condition.

  He did. Hell, his you-know-what was also sticking out like a sentinel of a different sort.

  “You use your charms—tempting words and wicked fingers—to bestir wicked yearnings in me. But you will not succeed. I would fain stay here than return to my other life, and it has naught to do with you.”

  Zach liked the fact that she considered his words tempting and his fingers wicked. And he really liked those wicked yearnings he was stirring up. Good signs, both, in his opinion.

  As she opened the door, about to storm off, presumably back to the grinder, he called out to her, “Just for the record, Britta, I kissed you for one reason, and one reason only.”

  She paused, turning back to look at him. Her brown eyes were huge. Her full lips were rose red from his kisses.

  “Because I wanted to,” he told her. “And I’ll probably do it again. And again. And again. And—”

  She was gone, but his words echoed after her. Heaven was just a few smooth moves away, he promised himself. Just a few tastes of his well-honed seduction techniques, and she would be his. It was arrogant of him to be so self-confident, but he had years of success with women under his belt…so to speak.

  Just then, his cell phone rang. He flipped the lid on the second ring, still smiling about Britta, when he noted his home phone number on caller ID. His smile disappeared.

  “Pretty Boy, you will not believe what your kid did now. You know that stash of condoms you used to have in your bedside table?” It was Omar, who must have been back from the hospital, helping Madrene, bless the man.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Let’s just say, a few of your neighbors are about to have heart attacks because of the water balloons pelting their windows.”

  Forget heaven. It was more likely that hell was just a few steps away.

  I know how to make you feel better, baby…

  It was the end of the day…well, end of the afternoon, though it felt like the longest day of Zach’s life.

  He’d already showered and changed, prepared to go home for the day. There would be another team of instructors taking over the evening run on the beach for the WEALS class.

  But then he noticed Britta standing on the grinder. All alone.

  Even though he’d advised the stubborn woman to ring out, over and over and over, he had to concede that this first day of exercise had to be even worse for Britta, who was not only in a strange place but in a different frickin’ time. Today’s evolutions hadn’t been as difficult as first day for first-phase BUD/S, but they’d been damn grueling. A lot of men broke under less.

  And much of the pain had been delivered by him, a regular Marquis de SEAL.

  The other women and some of the instructors had left for the chow hall across the Strand highway. He’d thought Britta went with them. Apparently not.

  She was leaning against a device made of logs that SEALs had long ago aptly dubbed the Dirty Name. Perspiration covered her from her scalp, which had to feel itchy, to her toes, which probably pinched by now in her nasty boondockers. She pretended to be relaxing but probably couldn’t move. If experience proved true, every muscle, bone, and sinew in her body ached, even her eyeballs.

  “Are you all right?”

  Britta did not even open her eyes. “Nay, lackwit, I am not all right. Didst come to gloat?”

  He thought about telling her that the correct way to address an officer was “No, Lieutenant Floyd, sir,” but only for a second. “C’mon.” He tried to take her hand.

  She shoved his hand away with her fist.

  Beware of women with fire in their eyes. “A fist? You going to punch me, or something?”

  “If I unclench my fingers, I might collapse.”

  Oh. “You can’t stay here, sweetheart.”

  “Why not?” She must be tired if she didn’t argue with him about not being his sweetheart.

  “Because you’ll be performance dropped in a flash if the commander or F.U. sees your condition. Unless you want to go ring out?” And be my babysitter. He added that last hopefully, to himself.

  She opened her eyes and looked as if she actually would like to punch him. “I will not quit, Zack-hairy. And if anyone dares attempt to drop me, they will find just how hard I can drop them.” Then she seemed to notice something about his appearance. “Why is your hair wet? And your clothing clean? You even smell good…like mint, whilst I smell like a randy goat.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You have bathed,” she accused him as if he’d committed some heinous crime.

  He laughed.

  Now her fists resembled claws.

  He made sure he wasn’t within clawing distance. “Okay, if you’re not going to quit, how about a shower? A nice hot shower should make you feel better.”

  She sighed. “I know what a shower is. There were several in that amazing bathing room in the women’s sleeping chambers. We were shown around after the noon meal. I would love a shower.”

  When she did not move, Zach raised his eyebrows at her.

  “I cannot move,” she admitted. “My knees and elbows have locked.”

  “Oh, baby.”

  “Why dost thou refer to me as baby? I am no baby.”

  “It’s an endearment, like darlin
g, or sweetheart, or hot stuff.”

  “That is ridiculous.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I am not hot.”

  Wanna bet? While she was pondering how ridiculous he was, he put his right arm around her waist and arranged her left arm over his shoulder so that her body weight was leaning on him.

  “Whaaaat?” she screeched trying to escape his hold.

  “I’d pick you up and carry you, but someone in the command center might notice. Then both our asses would be in a sling.”

  “I have not the strength to fight you now or ask how two of our arses could be put in a sling, but this is all your fault.”

  “You said that before. How do you figure?”

  “When I stood on that cliff with Sister Margaret, drinking her famous mead—”

  “Margaret’s mead.” He hooted with laughter.

  She flashed him a scowl of annoyance for his interruption. “—I intended only to fake my death, not to swish through time. Not that I believe I have actually time-traveled.”

  “So how is this my fault?”

  “I was content with my life afore you meddled.”

  “Meddled?”

  “Yea, you came sniffing at my woman’s fleece with sweet words and stolen kisses, tempting me.”

  His grin was full-blown now. “My nose was nowhere near your…woman’s fleece. Believe me, I would have remembered that. And, oh, baby, did you say I tempted you? Whooee!”

  “Have a caution, rogue. Continue to make mock of me, and you may find my boot planted betwixt your thighs.”

  He glanced down at his crotch. “I love it when you talk sexy to me.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Back to that temptation business…?”

  “You started a fire in my loins…”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. First woman’s fleece, and now there was a fire, and I didn’t know about it.”

  “The fire did not ignite till you were gone.”

  “Isn’t that always the case?”

  “After you, your comrades-in-arms, and Hilda left The Sanctuary, I was no longer satisfied with life there. I made the mistake of trying to live a normal life outside the walls.”

  While she talked, he led her, limping, toward the building on the other side of the grinder. It was closer than taking her to the women’s quarters or the chow hall. “This is the strength training and rehab facility,” he explained, turning the knob, then kicking the door open before easing her inside and propping her against the wall. “Get lost, Peterson,” he ordered the young newbie SEAL who was lifting free weights.

  Surprised, Peterson dropped the weights to the padded floor and said, “Yes, Lieutenant Floyd, sir,” before scurrying away.

  Zach locked the door after him, then turned to her. “We only have an hour at most before someone comes banging on that door. Can you take your clothes off yourself, or should I do it for you?” Please, God, let one good thing happen today.

  “Huh?” Britta would have stiffened with outrage at his suggestion if she weren’t already stiff as a pole. “Do not dare.”

  He grinned. “Sweetheart, there’s one thing you will learn here, if nothing else. Never, never, dare a Navy SEAL.” With those words, he picked her up, carried her over his shoulder into the large communal shower room where a half dozen showerheads stuck out from the tiled walls. Before she could squirm out of his embrace, he turned on one of the faucets. With the water pelting her face and body—his body, as well, for that matter—he made quick work of removing her shirt and shorts, leaving her in standard-issue Navy female underwear: cotton bra and panties. Most women eventually used their own undergarments, but Britta wouldn’t know that. And, yes, he knew what Navy women wore under their uniforms, thank you very much.

  A niggling voice in the back of his brain—the one he usually ignored—warned that removing a trainee’s clothing was treading a fine line between being helpful and sexual harassment.

  He stepped back out of the range of the shower spray, watching with fascination as Britta’s underwear turned transparent under the water. It would probably be polite of him to look away, to not gawk at her practically nude body. Good thing he’d lost his politeness gene. Polite people missed the best opportunities. “Beautiful,” he murmured, “abso-fucking-lutely beautiful.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked, eyes closed.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Britta was tall, probably six feet to his six foot three. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body, except maybe those full, pink-tipped breasts, which begged to be licked, or her high, curved butt, which also begged to be licked, but she was not model thin. No, her shoulders were wide, and muscles delineated her arms and abdomen, belly and thighs.

  At any other time, Britta probably would have been uncomfortable—or spitting mad—under his scrutiny, with him kneeling on the tiles, removing her boots and socks, with his face practically touching never-never land. But the hot water, while soothing her sore body, was distracting her, as well.

  “Someday you’re going to look at me like that,” Zach said, handing her a bar of soap.

  Peeping at him through wet lashes, she asked, “How?”

  “Like you’re having an orgasm.”

  “Orgy-as-him?”

  “Never mind. Want me to help lather you up?”

  “Are you daft? Nay. Go away.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Stop ogling me.”

  “Not a chance.” He was leaning against the tile wall, watching her. Her underwear was plastered to her magnificent body, and he felt his blood thicken and pool in his groin with delicious torture. His balls were heavy and begging to burst.

  Coming out of her trance, Britta loosened her braid, then ran her fingers through her blonde hair. Finally, she seemed to notice his scrutiny and gave him back an equal examination, her brown eyes widening at the bulge in his shorts.

  He shrugged. “Can’t help it, baby. You are one hot mama.”

  “Crude troll!”

  When she was sufficiently clean, Zach turned off the faucet and picked her up again. This time she’d gotten her energy back and struggled hard, still to no avail.

  “Keep squirming, honey. You’re making my hard-on very happy.”

  She stopped immediately. Hard-on must be one of those universal language things.

  Carrying her into the next room, he stepped up to a large tub filled with gurgling water. “The whirlpool is going to feel too hot at first, but it’s the best thing for those sore muscles.” When he eased her into what must seem like boiling water, she tried to rise, sputtering her indignation, but then she relaxed when she realized that the water was actually soothing. In fact, she murmured, “Heavenly!”

  Soon he returned with a clean T-shirt, shorts, and socks, similar to what she’d had on before. She made him turn around while she put them on. Once she was dressed again, he took her by the hand. “I’ll walk you to the chow hall.”

  When he unlocked and opened the door, they both got a big surprise.

  Standing there, arms folded over his chest, was Commander MacLean sporting the world’s biggest frowny face.

  “Lieutenant Floyd, they oughta gold-plate that dick of yours and put it on display at Ripley’s. You surely have a death wish. And you, Ms. Asado, surely you can’t think that the way through WEALS is paved by this guy’s overused cock.”

  Zach was about to object to MacLean’s crudity, not to mention his mistaken notion that they’d been doing the deed.

  Britta gasped. “You missay…I take exception to…,” she began.

  But MacLean put up a halting hand at both of their sputtered protests and said, “Since you two are so fond of each other, maybe you’d both like to work out together tomorrow. Let’s say, oh four hundred for surf appreciation.”

  “Surf appreciation” was a SEAL exercise meant to be hated, not appreciated. It involved the icy waters of the Pacific Ocean, where victims were required to sit, arms locked, in water up to their shoulders as waves cras
hed over them. It usually only lasted six minutes, but it felt like six hours. Occasionally they were ordered to run into the waves, then run back to shore where push-ups in shallow water were de rigueur. Each time the body lowered, the person would be covered with water.

  “And Ms. Asado,” MacLean added, stepping around them and walking into the room, then returning with Britta’s bra and panties dangling from each forefinger, “could these be yours?”

  Britta glared at Zach.

  MacLean glared at Zach.

  Zach was in deep shit, even deeper than before, and now he’d dragged Britta down there with him.

  Could life get any better than this?

  MEMO

  From: Captain Lenore Feldman

  To: Commander Ian MacLean

  Subject: WEALS

  Discourage flirting. Article 83b.

  Chapter 4

  Beer: A clueless man’s answer to any of life’s problems…

  Zach was sitting at a table, sipping suds, in the Wet and Wild, an off-base bar that catered to SEALs and other Navy personnel.

  It was early, so the usual nighttime crowd wasn’t around. No band. No sprinklers at the entrance to wet the female T-shirts. No horny men, well not too horny yet. And no wild women. Mostly old or married fuddy-duddies on their way home. Like him. Except he was only thirty-two, and he sure as hell wasn’t married.

  He checked his watch for the fifth time since they’d arrived. It was only five thirty, but he needed to relieve Madrene pretty soon or Lean Mean would be after his butt. He wasn’t worried about any immediate danger to Madrene or Sammy. Hell, his town house had been made more secure than a virgin with a chastity belt, and more help was on the way. Nah, it was his kid who worried him. The boy had more than earned the nickname Sammy the Snot after only two weeks in this country, and he was probably revving up his engines to pull more mischief on him the minute he got home. He had news for the brat. He was in a foul mood. One false move, and he was wrapping him in duct tape, especially his mouth.

  His buddies, Cage, Sly, and Jacob Alvarez “JAM” Mendozo were sipping suds, too, and grinning at him. Geek, their resident genius on the team, was on base trying to teach some four-star generals how to use a computer. Omar was at home nursing a bruised shin, on top of his prior bruised hamstring. Slick was in a Malibu court trying to fight his ex-wife’s latest effort to empty his bank account. Max was on liberty for two weeks while his wife Hilda opened her new women’s shelter up near Hog Heaven, a motorcyclists’ trailer park, of all things.