Issued (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 1)

by Paris Wynters

  And I don’t want to walk back down that road again.

  Bear wiggles his fingers, and Marge shoves a crumbled wad of cash into his hand, lips tight and eyes dark with frustration. The woman is not a fan of losing, and she and Bear bet money on everything, including whether Leslie’s next “accident” at preschool will be a number one or a number two. The loser will have to leave work to bring the kid an extra set of clothes. Usually, their bets are funny. Not so much when I’m the topic of conversation and suddenly feeling like a poorly performing racehorse.

  “Look,” Marge says, her voice stern. “You’re falling for her, and she’s clearly falling for you. The sooner you accept it, the easier things will be. And from what I’ve seen so far, Taya’s more than capable of being a military wife.”

  “I’m not . . . there’s no . . . she’s falling for me?” I can’t stop the next words from spilling out of my mouth, even though I know they confirm every suspicion Bear and Marge have. “How do you . . . did she say something?”

  Marge shakes her head, and Bear sucks air through his teeth, his face a mask of pity. I hate these games, but can’t help but play. “Taya doesn’t truly understand what being married to a SEAL encompasses. I’ve been stuck home so far. What happens when she learns what life would really be like? I’m not quitting, not for her.”

  “Jim, I don’t think she’d ever ask you to quit.” Marge’s eyes and smile soften abruptly as I visibly scramble. I’ve seen her calm Leslie with the same expression. It works all too well. “It’s okay to love someone, Jim. Nobody survives for long on a diet of one-night stands.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s worse.” Bear sighs and walks forward to place his hands on my shoulders. “You wrap it, you tap it, and you get the hell on out. It was fine when we were nineteen or twenty, but you’re too old for that shit now. You were too old ten years ago. You’ve always wanted to settle down, and for a while, Raychel was it for you.” Bear’s hands tighten when I try to pull away at the sound of my ex’s name. “You gotta move on, man. Not every woman you meet is going to be a Raychel. This one happens to be a Taya, and the woman is tough. She reminds me of Marge. Look, I know you’re not cool with being single for the rest of your life. We both know what dying lonely looks like, and I don’t want that for you. So, find your balls and get your shit together before the year is up and you lose her for good.”

  As far as conversations about love and women go, it’s the best I’ve heard since my old man and ‘the talk,’ a conversation consisting of him tossing a Playboy magazine and roll of thin toilet paper through a crack in my bedroom door and whispering, ‘good luck.’ When Dad wasn’t berating my mother or drinking himself under a table, he was giving me twisted advice on what it meant to be a man. Women are naturally liars. They can’t help it. Their weakness is what eventually defiled the Garden. For a man who often indulged in rage, gluttony, and a host of other sins, Dad had been painfully religious.

  Bear and Marge are the ones who taught me what it means to treat another person with dignity and respect. Hell, word count alone means Bear has officially given me the best relationship advice I’ve ever had. I guess that’s what best friends are for.

  “We’re both rooting for you, Jim,” Marge says, grabbing a bottle of Clorox and a set of dish rags. “Now, I’m going to need the two of you to clean my kitchen before the rest of the guests come in.”

  “You left her unsupervised. You do it.”

  Marge’s smile has a bit of bite to it, and against my better judgment, I take the rag when she offers it to me. “Can’t,” she says cheerily, likely because Bear has already started wiping down counters. “What’s a party without its hostess? Let me know when you’re done.”

  I nod and, all peaches-and-cream now, Marge saunters back outside.

  “Marge ever think about signing up? I bet she’d give Redding a run for his money.”

  I shudder at the thought of Marge backed by the power and influence of the United States Navy. Bear grunts, but doesn’t disagree, which speaks volumes all on its own.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Taya

  Tonight was hell. Someone messed up reservations and it was as if everyone in Virginia Beach decided to come to Shaken & Stirred. Then Jim wasn’t answering his phone and after waiting for forty-five minutes for him to pick me up I decided to order an Uber. An uneasy sensation prickles along the back of my neck. It’s not like Jim to forget to come pick me up. I blow out a breath and shake my head. Listen to me, sounding exactly like a fretting wife. I’m being silly. He must have gotten stuck at work. Yeah, I’m a little disappointed, because I enjoy our conversations on the ride home. We almost always get into a good-natured argument over comic books or video games, basically because I have superior taste. At least I got some burgers and fries to bring home for dinner.

  The road passes by in a blur, the streetlights winking from the corner of my eye. My heart drops at the thought of spending hours in bed, staring at the ceiling thanks to the anxiety that eats at me as I eagerly await the arrival of the DVD. Inara suggested dosing up on melatonin, but there hasn’t been time to go to the pharmacy with Jim insisting on driving me everywhere. I don’t want to admit to my sleepless nights to him because he’ll want me to tell him why.

  I sag back into the seat. More than anything, I wish I could share my past with him. But I can’t risk putting him in that position. Jim is unflinchingly honest. If I tell him about my family’s involvement with Santoro, he’ll feel compelled to report it to his C.O., which would put our entire marriage at risk. Plus, I know Jim better now. I know he’d want to protect me, and I won’t be the reason he gets hurt. Not after I’m the reason Santoro found out about my father in the first place. I didn’t know Marco was working with Santoro, and obviously my father didn’t either, or else he would’ve warned me. But the more my father worked the case, the more I got concerned and I would share those concerns with Marco. What a fool I was.

  My chin dips to my chest. I close my eyes, while my lungs fill with lead. I’d been so naïve. So open. So trusting. All of the things that had led to my dad getting killed.

  When I open my eyes, a new resolve burns inside me. Until I have all the information, I’m keeping my lips sealed. Whatever it takes to help Jim get what he needs.

  Even if what he needs is to ditch me when our year is up.

  The Uber driver takes the final turn onto our street and I shift the brown bag in my lap. A tight fist constricts around my heart when the cobalt-blue house comes into view with Jim’s truck parked in the driveway. My fingers grip the brown paper bag. Why hadn’t he picked up the phone when I called?

  Oh my God, what if the DVD came in? What if he opened it?

  When the driver pulls up to the curb, I jump out of the car and race into the house. None of the lights are on and I make my way into the kitchen where a dark shape leans against the far end of the island. I scream, stumbling back against the half-wall. My elbow strikes the corner, and I open my mouth in a gasp with no sound.

  Jim straightens to his full height, a luminance from the window at his back. Light reflects off the bottle of bourbon he’s clutching. A knot forms in my gut, and I lick dry lips with a suddenly dry tongue. Something’s wrong.

  “Jim, are you okay?” I place the burgers and fries on the counter and walk over to the edge of the island where he’s standing in his boxers, and place the palm of my good hand on the center of his shirtless back.

  He slams the bottle down on the corner of the granite countertop and points at me. “You gonna tell me what really happened to your arm?”

  My breath seizes. Is he drunk? That’s not like Jim. Also, how stupid could I be for thinking he would buy such a weak excuse? But it was the best I could think of and after years of my stepmother torturing me over search and rescue, I just really haven’t wanted to listen to what he has to say, especially since I broke my arm. “I told you already.”

  “Not good enough, Taya.” He snort
s, bitterness radiating from him like heat, then takes a step backward to move away from me and stumbles. His hand grabs on to the back of a barstool to steady himself.

  Something isn’t right. “Jim, come on, let’s go to bed.” I step closer and lay my hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t need your help. Stop treating me like I’m fucking broken.” He turns, grabs the bourbon bottle, and throws it. The glass bottle crashes against the backsplash above the sink, exploding into dozens of shards that rain down onto dirty dishes. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. Not once since I’ve been here have there ever been dishes in the sink.

  I jump back, my nerves firing like lightning bolts and Pop Rocks. Jim’s eyes are like daggers in the darkness of the kitchen, dangerous and glinting. Or—are they wet? He shifts his head just enough for the light to illuminate tears sitting above his lower lids, threatening to overflow.

  I reach for his face and stroke gently along his jaw. Nothing more than the softest of caresses, and his anger dissipates, a mass exodus, leaving him deflated and rounding the mountain of his shoulders.

  My heart stalls.

  “Jim?” I stroke his face again and again, fascinated by the stubble and the way it drags across my palm.

  His body presses tightly against mine, encasing me in his warmth. He leans forward until our foreheads touch. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. He’s a ship without a harbor, and I hold him steady when the tears break free and stain my face as well as his. He’s always been a rock, something to lean against that never breaks down. For the first time, I’m seeing just how deep his cracks run.

  I lay a hand against his breastbone and stay with him in silence, not pressing him but offering my support. I need to show him that I can be his rock too.

  Jim walks forward, backing me up toward the sink. “I’ve known Lux since we were fifteen years old. I kept his ass alive in Afghanistan, put my job on the line to save his neck, only to find out an hour ago that he got taken out by an IED. Ain’t that some shit? Asshole wanted to stay back instead of coming home with the rest of us to spite me.” He throws back his head and laughs, but it reminds me of broken glass. Painful and jagged, like the pieces that I know are broken inside of him. Just like the pieces that are broken inside of me.

  His pain brings tears to my own eyes and this time, the urge to hold him is too strong to resist. I cradle his head into my neck and press my cheek tightly against his, while my other arm wraps around his waist and pulls him close. He goes rigid at first but then, with a shudder, relaxes into me. His strong arms pulse against my back. The wetness from his tears makes the knot in my throat grow bigger, but I can’t. I can’t lose it. Not when he needs me.

  So I stroke his hair and remain silent while he shudders in my arms. How long has it been since someone held him like this and comforted him for once? I’m betting way too long, but I’m determined to change that.

  He swallows and looks me in the eyes again. He’s a lost little boy, and all I want to do is help him find his way. “Do you think I could have saved him? If I were there, do you think I could have saved him?”

  “I don’t know.” The words come out scratchy and my voice cracks. If Jim had been there and he had saved his friend, would it be Bear knocking on my door this time to tell me my husband wasn’t coming home? I push the question from my mind. Jim needs me. He’s hurting.

  His gaze traces my lips, and for a breathless moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then, he whirls away, presenting me with his broad back. His posture is rigid as he swipes at his eyes, probably embarrassed by his tears.

  He needs something. A distraction. I clench my jaw as I brace my hand on the counter and take a deep breath. I’d rather allow him to ridicule me like my stepmother used to than allow him to suffer. “I’m a search and rescue volunteer. That’s how I broke my arm.”

  Jim straightens to his full height. Then, slowly, he turns to face me. And waits.

  “We were training. The rigging snapped, and I fell.” Shame twists my stomach into knots as I wait for the laughter to come. But there’s only silence where the mockery should have been. I shift, biting my lip.

  “You should have told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The lack of accusation in his voice, or mockery, or anything negative at all unleashes a torrent of warmth through my veins. Suddenly, all I can think about is how close he’s standing. How great he smells. How much I want his mouth on me. Anywhere. Everywhere.

  “Can we talk about that later?”

  He nods and reaches out, his hand hovering just above the side of my face. I lick my dry lips. He tracks the motion with his eyes. A current crackles between us, filling my body with a desperate need. That almost touch is a plea, a question, a silent testament to the need reflected in his eyes.

  I lean in and kiss him. He tastes of salt and grief.

  He opens his lips to my explorations, and I wrap my arm around the back of his neck, drawing him close while he devours my mouth in a clash of tongue and teeth. Every suckle and every swallowed groan leaves me hungry for more. I’ve craved his touch, his mouth, his hands ever since our drunken soiree, and when he bites my lower lip, the explosion of hunger is a result of weeks of wanting.

  His erection is thick and heavy against my hip, and I step back long enough to reach for it. I massage his massive length through his boxers, arching back against the counter so I can stare at his face while I touch him. His teeth clench, the muscles in his jaw bulging.

  I drop to my knees, sliding his boxers down as I go. I admire him for a moment, proud and throbbing, before I open my mouth and take him inside.

  His hand fists in my hair, and the other slaps against the stainless-steel door of the refrigerator for balance. I swallow as much of him as I can take, lathering him with my tongue until he’s slick against my lips and hand. My fingers wrap around his base while my tongue traces the veins dancing along the underside of his shaft. I bob my head downward while the circle of my fingers rises up to meet my lips. I move faster and faster, pushing farther until the head of his dick brushes the back of my throat. I hold him there, lips, tongue, mouth and throat all wrapping around him until he convulses against me. I hold him within the wet cavern of my mouth until my throat threatens to reject him.

  His shaft glistens, and even in my hand, it exudes power and purpose. I drag my tongue across the head, playing with the slit at the top with the tip of my tongue until he gifts me with a salty droplet of precum. My groan matches his when I swallow it. I want him inside of me. I want to touch my own aching slit, but I only have one hand at my disposal, and I need it to hold his dick steady while I bathe it with attention.

  The taste of his skin tightens things low in my body, and my mouth waters. His fingers are lost in my hair, his body shuddering and shaking above me. I feel powerful, and I grip his ass, urging him to thrust into my mouth while I writhe before him, hungry for contact of my own.

  My hand cups his balls briefly before traveling beyond them. I love playing with a man’s prostate. It makes them come so much harder. One partner described it as a deeper kind of release, and that’s what I want for Jim tonight. I want the pleasure to take control and overpower everything, even the grief. I want it not just for him, but for myself.

  When my wet fingers tease his ass, he stops thrusting. My nails trail along his muscular cheeks, and I suck him deeper. He resumes thrusting, and I explore him again. When just the tip of my finger enters him, I pull free and duck my head, lapping his shaft and balls.

  “Taya. Oh, fuck.”

  He stumbles a little. When I suckle at the delicate skin of his sac, a fine tremor works along his body. I wrap my mouth around his balls and paint them with my tongue. His legs shake, and he rests his forearm against the ledge of the granite for balance.

  I duck lower and let the tip of my tongue lap at the tight rose between his ass cheeks, my neck arching with the need to reach. My finger moves in small circles while I work him with my tongue. A deep, rumbling, growl o
f pleasure explodes from his chest, but the sound breaks the spell, and he pulls me to my feet. His chest rises and falls as if he’s been running and he looks . . . scared.

  I relax in his grip, allowing emotion to guide my lips to his chest. I kiss him above the heart and rest there until its wild beat morphs from a hummingbird midflight to that of a butterfly. His shoulders relax, and with my chin resting against his breastbone, I look up at him through my lashes. “I’m sorry. I was moving too fast.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I—” Jim blows out a breath and tries again. “I like it.” He trembles with the admission, his eyes wide and vulnerable, as if he expects my ridicule.

  Instead, arousal hits me like a one-two punch, and I don’t fight it, allowing it to transform my face, so he can see that the need in me matches the need in him. “You can trust me.”

  He studies me for what feels like an eternity, but in the end, he nods. The motion is almost imperceptible.

  I place my hand against his chest and circle him, pressing a kiss against his shoulder, his arm, the center of his back. His tattoo is a tapestry of color up close, and I spend several moments tracing the graceful black outlines with my tongue. He holds onto my wrist as if he needs the lifeline. I kiss down his spine and over the globes of his ass while my hand trails down his chest and back to his wet cock. I grip it, and in an expulsion of air, he lets my wrist go so I can stroke him while I bite and lick my way closer and closer to his tight entrance. With a cry sounding like defeat, he drops to his knees. My good hand strokes him while I use my casted arm to gently urge him to bend at the waist. When he’s finally on his hands and knees before me, I bury my face in the muscled sea of flesh and lap him like a cat with a bowl of cream.

  “Oh. Fucking. God.” He pumps hard into my fist.

  I bathe him with my tongue, teasing the entrance with small, eager licks. He pumps, hard and erratic. I increase the pressure of my tongue and circle the tight entrance.