Twenty Times Tempted: A Sexy Contemporary Romance Collection

by Petrova, Em

  He remained fully on his guard. The more he concentrated on possible threats, the less he could be distracted by the man twenty feet behind him.

  Wilkes took what he hoped appeared to be a disinterested glance at Balkhi. The Afghan was doing well. Really well. Except for the fact he was unarmed and had a beard, he looked just like another member of the unit. He moved like them, paid attention to what was happening around them, didn’t take unnecessary risks. He hadn’t heard the man translate a single word yet, but he already knew he was going to be good. Balkhi was no doubt the sort of person that excelled at everything he did—he’d make a spectacular doctor. One Wilkes would happily trust with his life.

  Raking his gaze over the rest of his men to check everything was in order, Wilkes then shifted his attention back to what was in front of him. Which was a whole lot of nothing, really. Just buildings, sand, and locals going about their everyday business; fetching, carrying, working, talking. Living.

  A sense of satisfaction rolled through Wilkes. It was good to see the people like this. Great, actually. He was sure that, like him, they hadn’t completely let their guards down, hadn’t completely forgotten that there were people out there who wanted war and didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire. But they were much more relaxed than the last time he’d been here, and appeared to actually be living, rather than just existing. It was great to have been a part of that, despite the controversy that had surrounded the coalition forces’ presence in the country in the first place.

  Allowing a smile onto his face, Wilkes followed his point man toward the school. Things were already looking good, but there were few things better for morale than to see little kids safe, happy, and getting an education they’d have had no chance of receiving a few years previously.

  Heading down the narrow, dusty streets, Wilkes’ memory helped him to find the building he was looking for with no trouble at all.

  As he crossed the threshold into the shady building, Wilkes was painfully aware of the terp’s proximity. The sides of their hands brushed as they walked, and Wilkes subtly increased his speed so he was a step ahead. Touching wasn’t going to help him kick his libido into touch.

  Pausing outside the classroom, Wilkes knocked on the doorframe—the door wasn’t closed, presumably to let air flow through the building. The teacher turned to them, then smiled and gestured them in. Wilkes handed his rifle and helmet off to one of the men. Balkhi removed his own helmet and gave it to the same soldier.

  “Salaam,” Wilkes said to the teacher, then repeated the greeting more loudly, addressing the eager faces that were turned toward him and Balkhi. Eyes glinted, and high-pitched voices began to chatter excitedly.

  “Salaam,” the Afghan man said, not bothering to quieten the children down.

  Wilkes spoke to the teacher, and Balkhi automatically began to translate. He didn’t think Balkhi was talking particularly fast, but he still couldn’t understand much of what was being said, although he’d tried his best over his past few tours to pick up more than the basics. Probably the issue was that because the men were conversing with each other, rather than Wilkes, they were speaking in a more natural rhythm. Not as fast as normal, though, he could tell, but that was for Balkhi’s benefit—Afghanistan was a country of varying languages and many dialects, so just because two men were from the same country, it didn’t mean they could necessarily understand each other.

  It was a huge reminder to Wilkes what an admirable job the interpreters actually did. Many people probably thought it was a cushy job—simply translating between two languages that they understood. But it was so much more than that—it was done at speed, sometimes under pressurised conditions, and when you threw in the variety of Afghan dialects and the words and phrases from both languages that were difficult to translate… it wasn’t easy at all. Not by a long shot. He knew from previous terps he’d worked with that one of their worst nightmares was being given a phrase that was difficult to translate and getting it wrong. Since then, he always made the effort to ensure he asked the right questions to translate, and made his words as simple as possible.

  At the moment, they were engaging in general chat, but it was a good way of figuring out how he and Balkhi worked together, before any more important conversations with the locals took place.

  So far the information he was relaying back to Wilkes was positive. The teacher corroborated what he’d already been told—that things were quiet, and had been for some time. The local atmosphere was upbeat, people were happy. Wilkes was glad his instincts and intel had been correct.

  After a little more polite chat with the teacher, Wilkes thanked him. Moving farther into the classroom, he introduced himself to the children and made some very basic small talk with them before deciding he and Balkhi should take their leave and let the teacher get on with his job. The children were growing increasingly excited, bordering on rowdy, and Wilkes felt a little bad for interrupting their lesson. He just hoped the man could get them back under control without too much trouble. The education they were receiving had been hard fought for, and he hoped that one day they’d understand just how lucky they were to get it.

  Chapter Six

  After leaving the school, the section continued patrolling the village, chatting to a farmer, a village elder and even a couple of policemen. They all reported the same peace, and with each subsequent conversation, Wilkes felt happier.

  On returning to the camp, however, things took a turn for the worse. As they drew closer to the HESCO-surrounded compound, they saw a couple of soldiers and a local standing a distance from the gate.

  Picking up his pace, Wilkes gestured Balkhi to his side when they reached the group and it became apparent that the soldiers were struggling to gain control of the situation. The Afghan man was in the middle of a full-on rant, and it didn’t look as though he’d be finishing any time soon. His anger and passion would have been difficult enough to deal with if they had understood a word he was saying, but given he was raving in Pashto, the soldiers didn’t have a hope.

  “Do you think you can calm him down, mate?” Wilkes said to Balkhi. “What I need is for you to calm him down, get him to agree to being searched, then he can come inside the camp and you and I will take him somewhere quiet for a civilised chat. It doesn’t look good, him ranting and raving out here. It’s not helping him, either. I want to be able to help the guy.”

  His eyes glinting with approval, Balkhi gave a quick nod, and approached the man. The sun had continued its relentless march across the sky since they’d left the base that morning, and it now hung high above them, beating down ferociously. Lifting his helmet, Wilkes wiped sweat off his face, and noticed his men doing the same thing.

  “Lads, go on inside. We’ll be all right here. I’m sure he’s harmless enough.”

  The two men hesitated, but Wilkes waved them on. “Go on. He’s just a farmer, I’m sure. If he was a suicide bomber, he’d have blown himself up by now, just to get out of this bloody heat.”

  Reluctantly, they headed back to the base and trooped through the gate. That left Wilkes, Balkhi and the Afghan man. Apparently, Balkhi had already taken the wind out of his sails somewhat. The speed and volume of the man’s ranting had decreased drastically, and his body language was relaxing. It was clear to Wilkes he was just an angry man, not a threat.

  Wilkes watched Balkhi for a couple of moments longer, not wanting to approach the local too early and set him off again. Clipping his rifle to his body armour, he moved up next to Balkhi and waited for the two men to fall silent before greeting the man. Pleased to receive a positive response, Wilkes turned to the terp. “Is he going to flip out if I search him?”

  The two countrymen exchanged a few words, then the visitor inclined his head at Wilkes, who searched him thoroughly and found nothing. Thanking the man, he stepped back.

  “So what’s going on?”

  Balkhi’s expression was strained. “It’s not good news, boss. This man is a livestock farmer from north
of here, and he says several of his goats have been killed by roadside bombs.”

  Wilkes suppressed a groan. While a forgotten roadside bomb, in a way, was not as bad as an insurgent with a gun or a suicide vest, obviously it was still terrible. Any unsuspecting road user could have been blown to pieces. Dead goats were an improvement on dead people, but there was no way he was going to say that to the farmer whose very livelihood was at risk.

  “Shit. Okay. Let’s bring him in and discuss what to do next.”

  Following that particular nightmare, Wilkes had several other tasks to attend to before he could even think about calling it a day—not to mention grabbing a couple of meals, too. So it was with great relief that he headed for his tent later that day.

  Stripping down to his boxers, he put his clothes on the canvas shelves hanging from the tent frame, grabbed his book and settled onto his bed.

  After getting to the bottom of the page no less than five times, Wilkes admitted defeat. He’d looked at the letters and the words, but hadn’t taken a single one of them in. Throwing the book down, he tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the canvas ceiling. He was bone tired, but knew he wouldn’t sleep just yet—he was still too keyed up.

  Letting his mind drift, he hoped that allowing his brain to alight on whatever was bothering him would help him to sort it out, or at least give it some thought time so he could then move on and get some shut-eye.

  Unfortunately, and yet predictably, Wilkes’ brain settled on Balkhi. He tutted, frustrated at his own stupidity. How in god’s name was thinking about his interpreter going to help him sleep? The hard yet not too bulky body, soulful eyes, quick wit and sexy smile were going to have the exact opposite effect, plus causing many other problems besides.

  And yet, as Wilkes tried to relive the highly irritating conversation he’d had with Major Hunter earlier, after the dead goat incident, he couldn’t hold on to it. His mind continued pulling back toward Rustam Balkhi and his many merits.

  If he’d had a wall, Wilkes would have punched it. This was beyond ridiculous. Crushing on his interpreter had so many items in the “cons” box that even the dimmest soldier in the platoon wouldn’t consider it. But his brain, or at the very least his libido, just couldn’t let go.

  Sighing, Wilkes then gritted his teeth. “Fine. Have it your fucking way. Knock yourself out.”

  Closing his eyes, he forced himself to relax and let his brain do what it wanted. Naturally, it veered straight back to Balkhi. Balkhi as Wilkes had first met him, in dish-dash and flip-flops. Balkhi in British Army uniform and sturdy boots. Finally, Balkhi in nothing but a smile, his long, lean body hard and tempting. His dark skin shone in the light, shifting over muscles and sinews as Balkhi waited for Wilkes to make a move.

  “Touch your cock,” Wilkes said in his fantasy, while in real life his hand tugged down his boxer shorts and released his own. “Touch it for me. Stroke it. Squeeze it.” Each sentence mirrored his own actions, and within seconds his shaft was as hard as fantasy-Balkhi’s, which was now tipped with pre-cum.

  Balkhi did as he was asked, his long fingers wrapping firmly around his dick, shifting up and down. The skin around his knuckles paled slightly as he obeyed the last command—squeeze it. His pupils were so large that his eyes looked almost black, and his bottom lip jutted out temptingly as he panted. Wilkes wanted to nip it between his teeth, make Balkhi gasp with the sharp bolt of pain, then pull the plump flesh into his mouth and suck it all better.

  Remembering it was all in his head and that he could do whatever the hell he damn well wanted, Wilkes acted on his impulse. Balkhi tasted and felt as good as he looked, and Wilkes pumped his cock harder and faster, wishing he didn’t have to keep quiet. Not that anyone would do anything if they noticed what sounded like come-noises emanating from the boss’ tent, but no doubt he’d have the piss taken out of him at some point for being heard tossing off. And, knowing his luck, they’d bring it up in front of Balkhi, and then Wilkes would die of embarrassment on the spot.

  Dropping to his knees, Wilkes hurriedly shoved Balkhi’s hand away from his shaft and took a moment to study it. Just like the man it belonged to, it was not too big, not too small, and yet far from average. Circumcised, the head was fully visible; nothing was hidden beneath folds of skin. Reaching out, Wilkes wrapped his fingers around it, unable to stop the grin that spread across his face as it hardened further beneath his touch.

  Shifting a little to get the perfect grip, Wilkes then began to masturbate Balkhi, in long, steady strokes, squeezing just a little harder as he got to the base, releasing the tension as his hand travelled up the length. Then he reversed the technique, playing around to see what Balkhi liked best, what made him gasp, what made him moan. Everything seemed to have the desired effect, so Wilkes picked up speed and grew rougher with his strokes, delighted when more clear liquid beaded at the dark purple head.

  Unable to resist, he stuck out his tongue and tasted it. A hiss escaped from between Balkhi’s teeth. Wilkes did it again, and again, poking his tongue deep into the slit, pulling out more of the salty liquid and drinking it down eagerly. God, he wanted to make him come in his mouth, make his cock throb between his lips and his balls empty their load down his throat.

  Making sure his mouth was plenty wet, Wilkes licked his lips then sunk them onto Balkhi’s cock. It tasted good, so fucking good. Clean, musky, salty. Masculine. Wilkes had barely started and already he was hooked. Concentrating on the head for a while, he got it soaked with saliva, letting it dribble down the shaft and onto his fingers. Then he used his hand to pump the base while his lips, teeth and tongue teased the tip, gradually working down and down until he needed to move his hand out of the way. Continuing on, Wilkes pulled in a deep breath through his nostrils, willing himself to relax as the head of Balkhi’s cock flirted with his gag reflex. Pushing through the initial discomfort, he swallowed, taking it in, gratified to hear Balkhi’s yelp, and feel desperate fingers grip his scalp.

  Fuck, he felt powerful and vulnerable all at once, and it was perfect. Utterly perfect. Working his throat around Balkhi’s cock, he hoped it would be enough to make him come. His hands now free, he reached down and began teasing Balkhi’s balls, rolling them gently in the soft sac, tugging, squeezing lightly. A strangled sound came from above, and Wilkes smiled in his head.

  Releasing Balkhi’s balls, he crept a finger behind them, pressing on that smooth patch of skin there, before venturing farther, teasing the crinkled skin of his arsehole.

  That was enough—just the suggestion was enough to send Balkhi over the edge, and with a grunt and a moan, his cock exploded.

  Wilkes pulled back slightly, allowing the salty fluid to gush out over his tongue, before he swallowed it down.

  Back on his camp bed in his grotty tent in the desert, Wilkes pressed his lips together to keep quiet as his own orgasm hit, spurting out over his fingers and his stomach, pleasure overwhelming as his mind was overtaken with erotic images of his Afghan interpreter.

  Chapter Seven

  Life for Hugh Wilkes had been quiet for the past few weeks—well, as quiet as it got when a bloke was on tour in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan, anyway. After the drama with the goat farmer, which had been resolved by communicating with HQ and having them send a team up there to check for more IEDs, things had settled right down again. He’d gone out most days with a section, visiting the school, the mosque, the police station, and so far there’d been nothing to report.

  Visitors to the camp had been very few—the local politician, come to report some rumours he’d heard, which turned out to be nothing, and the goat farmer, come to thank them for sending a bomb disposal team out.

  When he wasn’t busy, Wilkes was making himself busy. The incident with fantasy-Balkhi had shaken him badly. He’d crossed a line, albeit one that nobody else knew about, and he was determined never to let it happen again. So he kept the interpreter at arm’s length, remaining polite but professional, but not spending any more time
with him than was necessary. It was tough, as it often meant keeping himself to himself and disappearing off to his tent when he was due some downtime, instead of chilling out with the rest of the platoon like he normally would have done.

  He spent time reading, sending letters and emails back home, and exercising.

  Nobody had commented on his odd behaviour, which Wilkes was supremely grateful for. He didn’t really want to come up with some bullshit excuse about why he was avoiding the closest-to-socialisation time they ever got out there. Especially since he wasn’t a good liar, either, and they’d soon work out something was wrong. Although they wouldn’t guess, not in a million years, what the problem was. Balkhi himself had no idea how Wilkes felt about him, so everyone else was totally in the dark.

  To an extent, Wilkes’ new attitude was helping him. He’d distanced himself from the issue, and although he couldn’t really use the phrase “out of sight, out of mind,” it was easier to start moving on now he’d drawn a line under his idiotic and inappropriate behaviour. Soon, he was sure, he’d forget all about his crush.

  “Come on, ladies!” he yelled, chivvying the group on for no other reason than he felt like it. They were on their way to a shura—a meeting with a tribal elder—but they had plenty of time before they needed to be there. Wilkes had deliberately left early so they could scope out the area surrounding the compound where they’d have their meeting and get some men up on the rooftops.

  The section picked up speed as Wilkes did, the occasional mutters about the heat reaching his ears. He knew they were just letting off a bit of steam, so he was happy to ignore it.

  Soon, they entered the village and made for the tribal elder’s compound, one of the largest in the vicinity. Life appeared to be carrying on as normal—exactly the way it had been since their platoon had arrived in the country, and before. It didn’t stop Wilkes from keeping a close eye on everything—looking for faces that lingered too long, for people paying too much attention to the soldiers, for anyone loitering in the shadows. Anything that looked threatening, or out of place.