Teasing Her Seal (Uniformly Hot!)

by Anne Marsh

  * * *

  “GRAY,” HE GROWLED. Since Laney Parker’s sweet little butt had intersected with his current mission, exchanging names seemed harmless. Plus, he was fairly certain that a real masseuse would have introduced himself or been labeled with one of those name-tag thingies. His three-day crash course in massage techniques clearly hadn’t prepared him as well as he’d thought.

  Around her, however, he didn’t feel professional. Instead, he’d had a knee-jerk reaction to seeing her spread out and waiting for him. And that was before she’d instinctively followed his orders. How far would she let him push her? She wasn’t the kind of woman he usually went out with, but there was something about her... Raw. Vulnerable. Those were two words that came to mind, although they didn’t begin to describe her. She’d looked stiff and uncomfortable, sitting up on the massage table, until he’d ordered her to lie down. She’d liked the orders. Liked being told what to do, being able to shut off the commentary undoubtedly running through her head, and that was just fine with him. He could think of all sorts of orders he’d like to give her. She was unexpected and hot as hell, a delicious bonus he hadn’t anticipated finding here on the island.

  She also wasn’t giving in easily. She’d make him work for her submission. He knew it instinctively.

  “Gray, we’re going to need to work on your inter-personal skills.” She paused and then reached up to remove the cloth he’d slapped over her eyes.

  “Leave it.” He shouldn’t have given her the command, should have let this scenario play out according to her rules, but he’d gotten a good look at her face when he’d confiscated her phone. Her eyes were dark blue, framed by long lashes. She had brown hair and fair skin, with no hint of a tan, so either she was a recent arrival on the island, or she was an overachiever in the sunscreen department. She’d pulled her hair up in a sleek ponytail that made him want to wrap the glossy rope of hair around his hand, hold her in place for his kiss. His touch. The arch of her brows and her stubborn jawline promised she didn’t take orders from just anyone, so the question was: Could he make her want it? She shifted uneasily, the ponytail sliding over a bare shoulder, teasing the freckle in the vulnerable hollow. Her eyes were authoritative and cool for someone who was waiting around naked.

  “Stay down. I’m not done with you.” He pressed his hand against her bare shoulder, encouraging her to roll over. Such a simple touch, his hand against her skin, but she didn’t shrug him away or tell him to go to hell.

  Instead, she flattened her palms against the white sheet. She had strong, capable hands, the nails neat and short. She’d eschewed polish, but a pale band of skin circled the ring finger of her left hand. She’d worn a ring until recently.

  “You haven’t started. You’re late. And I’m not feeling relaxed.”

  He could hear her mentally ticking off the reasons he’d failed her. It should have pissed him off but instead, her words were a challenge he wanted to rise to. It might be his first day on the job, but failure was never an option.

  The orders to infiltrate Fantasy Island and lay the groundwork for a takedown operation had been straightforward. SEAL Team Sigma operated off the books. Gray had two weeks to get his team on the ground and canvass the island before Diego Marcos touched down. Marcos was unethical, ruthless and moving more product through Central America than coca. The man shipped weapons with his drugs, and his arms pipeline threatened the political stability of the region. Uncle Sam had more than a few questions to ask Marcos, and SEAL Team Sigma had been assigned the task of bringing the man in.

  Alive.

  Sometimes the job description sucked. It would have been simpler and safer to take the man down when he landed. A well-placed sniper. A mined road. Hell, a midnight meet and greet in the man’s room. Any of those three options worked for Gray. Instead, he got a hostile extraction. Intercept Marcos and move him to US custody. Although selected resort staff was in on the mission, the island’s vacationing civvies needed to remain oblivious to what was about to go down—and that meant not blowing his cover. He was the masseuse. She was the client. End of story. So what if civilian life, five-star living and gorgeous, classy women were foreign territory?

  “Massage time.” The words came out more growl than not, so he added client banter to his growing list of skills to hone. Damn it. He needed to do some recon stat.

  She tapped her fingers on the sheet, waiting for something. Damn. Possibly...an apology? Because he didn’t apologize any more than he retreated. He was a take it or leave it man. She thought she was in charge right now. Unfortunately, she was partially right.

  “You start by introducing yourself,” she instructed. “And then you greet me by name and go over the paperwork I filled out so we can discuss any sensitivities or pain points I may have.”

  It was cute, the way she tried to put him in his place. But he’d been broken and rebuilt by SEAL instructors during BUD/S training, three of the most grueling and physically challenging weeks of his life. The thirty minutes she’d scheduled with him was nothing in comparison.

  “Gray. Laney. And you checked no boxes.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her delectable mouth, and he wanted to lift the cloth off her eyes himself. See if the smile lit up her eyes like it did the rest of her face.

  “Good job.” She doled out the praise as if he were a toddler or a trainee. Boot camp and his military instructors hadn’t bothered with the carrot. They’d been all stick.

  And then she gave in and rolled over, presenting him with her back. She was all tangled up in her sheet, the wrapping dipping perilously low on her butt. She had a fantastic butt. He could see the soft indentations at the base of her spine. The urge to smile came out of nowhere, as did the sudden need to trace those delicate spots with his fingers.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  In what universe had Uncle Sam and his superior officers believed a team of SEALs could go undercover as resort staff? From the other side of the pool, safely positioned inside the towel hut, Levi flashed him a thumbs-up. Right. The bastard had slapped him on the back and announced, “Bring her some towels, man, and give her a massage.”

  She turned her head. “Clock is ticking. Chop chop.”

  Did she have some place to be? Apparently so, because she held out her hand. “Give me back my phone.”

  “The phone’s in time-out.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think them over.

  She snorted. “Are you new?”

  “You could say that.”

  She nodded and then opened her mouth and proceeded to give him an unending stream of instructions. “I’ve indicated a preference for essential oils on my spa form. Medium pressure, but I usually have discomfort in my upper back that could benefit from deep tissue work. Start with the deltoids. Then the trapezius. If you can work my trigger points, I’d appreciate it. I can show you.”

  She twisted around, her fingers pressing against her back. The sheet slipped. “Lie down.”

  He resisted the urge to smack her butt. She was as tough as any drill sergeant he’d met at BUD/S but more than twice as pretty. She had that working in her favor. Levi laughed silently from across the pool, and Gray flashed him the bird, grabbing a glass flask of oil from the cart beside the bed. Cardamom and jasmine oil, per Her Royal Highness’s orders. He poured it into his hand, warming the slick stream.

  “I’ll show you.” She twisted on the bed again.

  “Down,” he gritted out. Were ropes allowed in commercial massages? A gag seemed like a useful option, as well. Before she could squirm away from him, he spread the oil over her shoulders. She had the palest skin, dotted with freckles but no swimsuit lines. He reminded himself that skin was just skin. It covered bones and muscles. He’d never thought about it before, but damn, she felt special.

  The instant connection he felt when he touched her was unexpected. She sucked in a breath as if she maybe felt it, too. At least he’d shut her up for the moment. Yeah. He was a horny bast
ard, because he immediately started thinking about other ways to make her hold still. Make her come.

  He drew his hands down her back in sweeping strokes, working out the visible tension in her neck and shoulders. He was no expert, but her back was a mess of knots. What the hell had she been doing? She was a woman on a tropical island. She was supposed to relax. He rubbed his thumbs in small circles, working out a particularly hard knot.

  She whimpered, a breathy bedroom sound he’d bet she didn’t know she was making. Better yet, she’d finally stopped issuing directions. He didn’t dare imagine whether she’d stripped off completely beneath the towel or if she had on just a pair of panties because he was already hard. He’d gone undercover in the worst biker bars in California, fought hard, ridden fast. A massage should have been easy, but he’d never been so hot for a woman before.

  She turned her head and muttered something. He didn’t give a damn what it was.

  He pressed his finger against her lips. “Not one word.”

  “Or...?” Sweet challenge filled her voice and, yeah, he wanted to show her. Instead, he worked his way down the straight line of her spine, headed for her ass.

  “I have my ways.” He sounded like a bad villain. He might as well have rolled over and showed his belly, because she ignored his answer and started talking again, directing him from one muscle group to the other so matter-of-factly that she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. Laney Parker was definitely a woman who was used to being in control. He recognized her need because he felt the same way. But one of them had to give and it sure wasn’t going to be him.

  “We need to be clear on one thing.” He leaned forward, so his mouth was level with her ear. “I’m in charge.”

  * * *

  GRAY HAD MAGIC HANDS. Laney should have gone for sixty or even the full ninety minutes instead of the paltry thirty minutes she’d ponied up for. He was that good.

  “You’re tight here.” He pressed a particularly tense spot on her back, and she stopped caring that she was stretched out, bare-ass naked and vulnerable. God, he was good.

  “Trigger point.” Not, apparently, that she needed to tell him. The man knew what he was doing.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Trauma surgeon.” Was that sultry whisper her voice? Because, if so, Gray was definitely a miracle worker. She felt herself melting under his touch and, wow, how long had it been since she’d done that?

  He found and pressed against another knot. “So I should call you Dr. Parker.”

  He moved around to the front of the massage bed. The bed had one of those circle doughnut things that she’d always thought were awkward. She opened her eyes as Gray’s feet moved into view. She’d never had a foot fetish before, but he was barefoot, and his feet were sun-bronzed and strong-looking. Those few inches of bare skin made her want to see more. She’d bet the rest of him was every bit as spectacular.

  It was probably bad she found his feet sexy. He was just doing a job.

  Really, really well.

  He gently pulled her ponytail free before running his hands through her hair, pressing his fingertips against her scalp. Maybe she’d been a cat in a former life, because she’d always loved having her hair played with. For long minutes, Gray rubbed small sensual circles against her scalp. She bit back a moan. Just lie here. Keep still. She probably wasn’t supposed to arch off the table, screaming more, more, more. Although she could. She definitely could.

  He moved closer, his thighs brushing against the bed. If she lifted her head, the situation could get awkward fast. Thinking about that made her stiffen up again, but then he cupped the back of her neck, pressing and rotating. And oh, sweet baby Jesus, she could feel the tension melting away. The small tugs on her hair sent a prickle of excitement through her entire body.

  “Should I call you Doctor?” he prompted.

  “Laney is just fine.” The words rushed out on a sigh.

  She stared at his feet again, trying to regain her equilibrium. He’d made her drool, damn it.

  “Holding still isn’t so bad?” He followed up the wicked amusement in his voice with another sensual tug on her hair.

  She didn’t know him. She’d never been the kind of woman who had casual sex. Because that was a personal choice she’d made, she reminded herself. Lovemaking was about as intimate as it got, and she’d never fantasized about letting a stranger touch her.

  Before now, the traitorous voice in her head said, because evidently she was seriously considering taking her sex life in a whole new direction. Gray’s direction. The purpose of coming to Fantasy Island had been to take charge of her life. To be someone different, even if the change was only temporary. She wanted to be fun and flirtatious and, yes, just a little wild. In a few more days, she’d go back to being Laney Parker, MD, but on this island she could be someone else. The kind of woman who made her fantasies a reality.

  * * *

  HE NEEDED TO step back. Laney was a doctor, a paying guest—and a civilian. She was undoubtedly an upright, tax-paying US citizen, and he had no business running his hands over her skin. In fact, he was fairly certain that, Hippocratic Oath or not, she was the kind of woman who’d kill him if he played games with her.

  So sue him. He liked that, too.

  Because he wasn’t playing nice, he tugged the sheet lower, exposing the dimples above the sweet curve of her butt. She hadn’t gone completely naked beneath her sheet. She’d kept her panties on, and he immediately wondered what it would take to coax her out of them, because he was a bastard and not nice. And iron-hard at just a glimpse of those white panties and the strip of pale skin above the band. He brushed a knuckle over the topmost edge. She’d be wearing something silky, he decided. Panties that were as simple and elegant as the rest of her.

  She lifted her head and he retreated a step. Not because he wanted to—he was a guy, after all, and would be more than happy to have her face pressed against his groin—but because he really wasn’t a creeper, and he didn’t want to spoil her enjoyment of the massage. Still, he was sorry he’d moved when she looked up at him, hair tumbling around her face, eyes slumberous.

  She mumbled something incoherent that ended with on the menu?

  What. The. Hell. He was a SEAL and a fighter. Bar fight, the government’s fight—as long as it involved fists and a beat down, he was all in. This menu business, however, was unfamiliar territory. He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “The menu.” He gave her words back to her as if repetition would somehow miraculously clear up his confusion. Spa menu? Room service menu? He hated being out of his element.

  She blushed, and blood surged to his dick. God. He’d have given his left nut to know what she’d been thinking. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Her phone dinged behind him on the counter where he’d tossed it, and she bolted upright. “Time’s up,” she announced, looking relieved.

  “That’s my line,” he rasped, but she hopped off the table before he could finish getting the words out. He exhaled and considered his options. He probably shouldn’t swing her to a stop, but the way she was hightailing it away from his cabana was far from flattering.

  Exercising remarkable self-control, Gray let her go, all the while mentally running through plans in his head. A quick check of the week’s schedule revealed Laney Parker had another massage scheduled for tomorrow. In fact, the concierge had been busy, because she had appointments scheduled for every day this week. He grinned. He’d bet she was the kind of woman who kept a date.

  Levi strolled over and dropped a load of fresh towels on the bed. “Do you suck that badly?”

  It was a distinct possibility. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “She’s coming back for more?” His pal looked understandably skeptical.

  He hoped so.

  “She mentioned a menu.” Maybe Levi knew something he didn’t.

  “She was hungry?” A frown creased the other man’s forehead. No hel
p there. “Or really, really desperate for something alcoholic to drink? Either way, that means you officially stink at being a masseuse.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered. “It meant something. I need to know what before she comes back tomorrow.”

  Levi shrugged. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

  That was the thing about working as a team. If he needed something, his shooters had his back, the same way he had theirs. Their briefing hadn’t mentioned menus. It had, however, emphasized that Fantasy Island was an exclusive resort that catered to couples’ sexual fantasies. On-demand sexual fantasies between consenting adults. Laney had been blushing up a storm when she’d run from the cabana. What were the odds...?

  “You think it’s something sexual?” Levi’s head had apparently gone in the same direction as Gray’s.

  “Yeah.” It made sense. “It fits.”

  “Or you’re indulging in a bout of wishful thinking.” Levi grinned and punched him in the shoulder.

  3

  GET IN.

  Take the target down.

  Get out.

  By the time Gray had crossed the island and made it to SEAL Team Sigma’s base camp, he was in control again. He’d ditched the spa uniform for his camo and retrieved his weapons from where he’d cached them. Weapons decorated him like ornaments on a Christmas tree. He had a KA-BAR knife at his waist and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine gun holstered to his thigh. The Glock resting against the base of his spine was even more welcome.

  In his clothes and his own skin, he was starting to feel like his old self again as he worked his way through the thick jungle undergrowth, concealing his trail. Calm. Detached. No emotions. Check, check and check. Those were normal operating conditions. What he felt around Laney had to be simple attraction, compounded by the fact that he hadn’t had sex in months.

  Sure, part of him was wondering when he’d see her again and if he could coax her into bed, but the rest of him was back on the job. Fantasy Island—which had to be the most ridiculous name he’d ever heard—was five miles long and two miles wide. Approximately four square miles of that space was jungle. The resort’s owners had opted to keep things in their natural state, so it was acres and acres of dense, rugged terrain. The good news was that he doubted any of the resort’s guests would penetrate farther than four or five feet inside the mess.