Hero to Obey: Twenty-two Naughty Military Romance Stories

by Selena Kitt

  Heather ignored the beer and shouted to her companion. "This is, like, the Superman of barbacks," she said. "All you have to do is, like, think about something, and he's right there with it."

  Heather's companion extended his hand. "I'm Bruce, Heather's husband." He used one hand to shield his mouth from Heather's view. "She's lit."

  He and Bruce shared a laugh.

  "What is funny?" Heather's words ran together. "I'm not drunk." She pointed at the beer. "And so what? You're the one who gave me beer for my birthday."

  "It's not just for—"

  "You know what I really want for my birthday, Noah?"

  He and Bruce exchanged a nervous glance. "What?" Noah asked.

  "I want…" She tottered toward him on her heels and crashed into his shoulder, and his face grew warm. Behind her, Bruce shook his head indulgently. "I want you to stay here. You don't want to go to Florida, Noah. Florida's full of geezers. You should stay here and be the Superman of barbacks."

  Bruce tugged his wife off Noah's shoulder. "Okay. Let's go back over here." He began to walk Heather to a table of bikers. "Nice to meet you," he called over his shoulder.

  Noah waved and looked around for somewhere to put the beer. He turned toward the back hallway just as Gigi appeared there. A black dress wrapped around her lush curves, and bright red lipstick glistened on her gorgeous mouth. She'd let her hair down, too. Waves of dark curls cascaded onto her shoulders.

  They stared at each other, as if they'd been caught in some wrongful act. This was how work had been since the day he'd been late and behaved like such an ass. She'd been civil and professional with him, but she'd basically written him off. She hadn't spent more than a couple of minutes in any room with him.

  Well, hell. He needed this beer to go somewhere.

  She sidestepped out of the hallway as he approached.

  "Is there ice in the back?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Yeah, there should still be ice in the big tubs."

  Quiet descended between them. He hated this, but he couldn't say he deserved any better.

  "Okay, thanks." He slipped past her into the hallway. Beyond the screen door, he found the two metal tubs half full of ice and busied himself dropping beer cans into it. He considered taking one for himself. That might make his next task more bearable.

  * * *

  Gigi summoned all the willpower she had not to turn all the way around and watch Noah go down the hall to the parking lot. As much as his body was made for worn T-shirts and those beat-down cargo pants, his simple white shirt and jeans made him look even hotter. Something about the long sleeves showed off the size of his shoulders. The collar made her want to reach in and stroke the hollow of his throat. And those dark jeans did amazing things for that firm, perfect ass of his.

  She hadn't been sure he would come. She knew Heather had asked him personally. They'd worked side by side so much this summer, and he'd made her life so much easier with his tireless work ethic. But as it had gotten later, she'd thought he'd decided to stay home, rather than endure another evening avoiding her.

  Since their argument, he'd been his usual hardworking self, hustling glasses and kegs back and forth as if nothing had changed. Which made sense. Nothing had changed. He'd said so himself.

  The only thing they'd lost was the closeness that had begun to bloom between them. She still had the world's most effective barback. But he would never be more than that to her again.

  She'd closed that door for good.

  What am I to you?

  She couldn't give him a real answer then. She only knew he was coming at her too hard, demanding something from her that she couldn't give him. And he'd been wrong to do that. They both knew it.

  But as the long, sterile days slid by, she'd done nothing to correct the impression she'd left him with.

  She'd pushed him away to protect herself, and kept him at arm's length.

  The Allman Brothers gave way to Eric Clapton. The first few chords of 'Wonderful Tonight' cleared a space in the center of her bar, and couples drifted into it to dance. Heather pulled poor, sober Bruce to the dance floor. A painful lump rose in Gigi's throat, and the air grew too warm, too close.

  She double-timed it down the hallway and up the stairs to the patio. Grill smoke drifted up to her, along with the laughter and chatter of partygoers in the gravel lot. The lights still didn't work up here—she hadn't found the nerve to ask Noah to fix them—and she took shelter in the dark.

  In a week, he'd be gone. In a week, she could start trying to forget him.

  She pressed her hand to her chest, as if she could push this rising tide of sadness back down inside her.

  "Boss?"

  Gigi whipped around to face the edge of the patio and collect herself. By the time the wooden boards began to creak under Noah's weight, she trusted herself to speak.

  "You find the ice okay?"

  "Yeah." He came closer, moving out of the shadows. "Yeah, I found it."

  "Good." She turned back toward him, keeping her distance. "I know Heather's glad you came."

  For just an instant, his mouth twitched. "I think she's glad to see everybody right now."

  Gigi chuckled. She rested her hip on the table. Below them, the Clapton ballad was coming to an end.

  "You need something, Monroe?"

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, boss." He sighed. "I need to go to Florida a little early. I'm going to start down tomorrow morning."

  Her mouth went slack, and her defenses shuddered before the tears she'd tried to swallow. "Tomorrow?"

  "Yeah. It's just a few days early. I could use the extra time to get settled before the job starts."

  "Oh." Could he see her face? Would he know that her lip was trembling? She sucked in a breath to ground herself. "Okay. I'll go ahead and write you your last check, then."

  She folded her arms around her stomach and tried to go past him to the stairs. He slid toward her as she approached, blocking her way.

  She looked over his leg to the floor. "What's the matter?"

  "Gigi, I have to know. Do you actually want me to leave?"

  In the bar, an Otis Redding song opened with the slow swing of horns, and when she turned to face Noah, she felt something inside her crumble.

  "Does that matter? You've always been clear about Florida, right?" She sighed, hating the quavering sound of her breath. "I asked you to stay twice, and you said no twice."

  He reached for her slowly, as if afraid that she'd slap him or run down the stairs. She wanted to turn into the warmth of his palm. But if he was leaving now, she'd be better off just to let him go.

  Wouldn't she?

  "You haven't asked me to stay in a long time," he whispered. "You're usually real clear about what you want. But do you want me to leave?"

  "The payroll," she said. "In the off-season, it won't support a barback."

  He shook his head. "I'm not worried about the payroll, boss."

  "This place is deader than dead in the winter," she whispered.

  Something in his expression softened. "I don't care, boss."

  "You might be better off in Florida. With something steady."

  "I might make more money," he said. "I might have work all year long. But you won't be there."

  "Isn't that what you want?" She bit her lip.

  "God, no. But I don't want what we're doing now, avoiding each other and walking on eggshells. If my staying here is the cause of that, I'll leave. If you want me to leave, I will leave."

  Far from them, a chorus of people sang along with Otis Redding.

  "I don't want you to leave."

  The smile that rose on his face warmed her skin. "You gonna ask me, boss?"

  She laughed and gingerly rubbed her eyes. "Would you stay here? With me? Please?"

  He reached for her, and she stepped into his embrace. Her impractical shoes brought her nose to nose with him. His big hand spread across the small of her back, pulling her close until their lips met. She went s
till in his arms. It was enough, for now, to share the space with him, to count each slow, careful breath.

  Finally, he lifted his mouth away from hers. "I've wanted to stay for a long time. I just needed to hear it from you."

  "So what does that make you now?" She looked up at him. "You know. What are we to each other?"

  "I don't think anything's changed there, boss." He kissed her forehead and held her tight. "I'm whatever you tell me, for as long as you tell me."

  Feeling very secure in his arms, she closed her eyes.

  "That works for me, Monroe. That works for me."

  The End

  Alexa Day

  Born in Brooklyn and raised in the New South, Alexa Day has been a voracious reader and a writer for most of her life. A former bartender, one-time newspaper reporter, and an ex-belly dance instructor, she loves stories with just a touch of the inappropriate and heroines who are anything but innocent. She discovered romance novels during a dark time in her life (law school) and started writing romances that feature bold heroines who find relationships full of adventure, excitement, and spectacular sex on their own terms. Her literary mission is to stimulate the intellect and libido of her readers. She lives in central Virginia with three cats.

  Visit her website here:

  www.alexajday.com

  Visit her blog here:

  www.ladysmut.com

  Don’t miss this exciting title by Alexa Day!

  “Three, After Midnight,” in Mysteries of the Macabre, from Edward Allen Publishing

  With One Hand Behind My Back

  By

  Cerise Noble

  Dedicated to:

  Cruithne – You believed in me, even when I didn't, and better, gave me the tools to make your belief come true. Without your love, I would be lost.

  Acknowledgments:

  Without all of you, this story would not be what it is, and I can only hope I've done at least a little bit of justice to the story of a woman and her Marine.

  My sister the Angel, and her Marine JW.

  My dear friend Misty, and her Army Soldier AJ

  My brave Marine and Air Force soldier Joselin, and her love Lisa

  My master motorcycle rider Ally

  I love you all.

  Chapter One: Age 17

  Irene kicked a rock by the side of the gravel road. The heat lay heavily on her skin—humid and thick. She fanned her tank shirt against her chest and wiped the sweat off her palms on the sides of her jean shorts. Just a few more minutes. And then I'll go back and tell Pop the customer isn't showing up. Julia was off at college. Henry was in the shop with Pop. Franklin was probably off in the woods somewhere, shirking whatever work Mom had set him to. And Tanya was in the kitchen with Mom. Which left just Irene to greet customers at the point where the gravel driveway met the gravel road and if you didn't know you would probably miss the turn off and get lost wandering around the countryside for a long while.

  She started back. If a man says he's going to be here at 11, he should be here at 11. Not… she glanced at her watch… not 11:33. She heard the car turn off the small paved road and onto the gravel road, but she was already walking back to the house. It drove slowly; looking, she was sure. Too late. She didn't turn around when she heard it stop.

  "Hey!" She ignored the male voices. "Hey! Is this where Tony Whiley's garage is? The motorcycle guy?" She continued to walk away. There was the sound of a car door, and then crunching footsteps. "Hey, miss, excuse me, please?"

  She turned around, blonde braid flying, hands on her hips. "Tony's busy. He had a customer at 11 o'clock." She glanced at her watch. For a moment the man was confused, then he realized what she meant.

  "I'm sorry." He looked sheepish, embarrassed and not a little frustrated. "I'm sorry. My ride…" He gestured towards the green car sitting at the end of the driveway. "I'm sorry to keep Tony waiting. Can I speak to him for a minute, please?"

  Irene eyed him. He was tall and broad, but she was tall too, so her head came up to his nose. His hair was dark, and his skin was tanned. He looked like he worked outdoors, and often.

  "I'll ask. But he doesn't like it when people are late when they make appointments." Pop doesn't mind as much as I do, though. "Come on." She turned and he followed her. After a moment she felt a totally different kind of heat creep up her spine; her jeans were short, and tight, and she wondered if he was looking. She glanced back, quickly. Caught him. It made her belly tense and her heart speed up when she saw the flush on his cheeks. He swallowed, but didn't say a word.

  She turned back to the garage, leading the man the long way around, past the row of berry bushes that screened that path from the house. She didn't ask herself why she did it. Either way, the man didn't take her up on the blatant offer.

  Chagrin burning her chest, she stepped past the final bush into the open track. "Pop! Your customer's here. Late! You still want to see him?"

  Her father stepped out from the garage. Shirtless, wearing cutoff shorts, his full beard practically blended in with the hair on his sunburned chest. "Wha'd'ya want, boy?"

  "A motorcycle. Sir. I was told you fix them up. Sell them."

  The older man stood there, wiping oily hands on a rag. There was a motorcycle in parts beside him, and a few more up on blocks. All around there were boxes of parts and tools. He glanced up at the brilliant sun in the shiny blue sky.

  "You have a license?"

  "I have my permit. Sir."

  "You ever ridden?"

  "No, sir."

  Tony turned back to the motorcycle he was working on.

  "Sir?"

  "Git lost."

  "But… I have cash, sir. I have a ride home, sir. I'm not going to try to drive it now."

  "Don't matter. Git out of here. I won't sell no motorcycle to a beginner."

  The young man frowned, stubborn. "Why not?"

  The older man put down his rag and stood up. Irene snorted and backed up when Tony passed her on his way to stand nose to nose with the young man.

  "I used ta sell motorcycles to anyone who could afford them. Ya know what happened? I sold one to a boy—about yer age, boy—and you know what he did? He rode it home. Except you know where home is, son? On the way from here to there, he relocated. Inta the afterlife. You get my meanin', boy?"

  The young man swallowed hard but didn't back down, and the surprise in Irene's eyes slid down to her belly to play with the heat there. "I told you. I'm not driving it home."

  "Don' matter. Not sellin'."

  "I was told your bikes were the best, sir. And when I choose to spend my money, I choose to spend it on the best, sir. Now you can sell it to me today, and I'll learn on my own. Or you can sell it to me and I'll stop by every week for you to teach me how to ride it. I'll pay for the lessons. And then you can rest assured…"

  Tony held up a hand, and the young man's words died in his mouth.

  "First off, what makes you think I have time to teach sum boy how to ride? Second, I don't have to sell you jack shit, so if you don't like my terms you can get the hell off my property. Third—"

  Henry interrupted. "I'll teach him." Tony glared at his eldest son. Henry gestured at the young man. "Drew was in the class ahead of me in school. He's pretty good at hands on stuff like this. We had woodshop together. I think he'll be fine. If he promises to keep the bike here until you say he's a good enough rider."

  Pop turned his glare back to Drew. Irene watched Drew's face. Determination, relief. If he's only a year older than Henry, he's only one or two years older than me. She bit down on the inside of her mouth to hide a smile. And he'll be here every week. Maybe for the whole summer.

  Chapter Two: 18

  They had walked half a mile through the trees from his motorcycle—the one he bought by the end of summer—when she finally spoke something other than fevered endearments. The words burst out of her.

  "Drew! You can't! You can't, you can't, you can't! Goddammit, Drew, don't I mean anything to you?" The dry leaves crunched
between her fingers, an expression of her distress.

  "Irene." He held her face in his hands—his strong, calloused, beautiful hands, and she felt her tears slip over them. "Irene. You knew that was the plan. You knew I was going to join the Marines. You knew. It doesn't change anything. I love you. You're mine."

  "But Drew…" She closed her eyes, fighting the terror that wanted to eat her heart, the yawning cavern in the pit of her stomach. "Drew." She tightened her fingers on his hands. The reminder that he was going to the Processing Station the next morning—the Processing Station!—had dashed ice water on her arousal. "You can't. What if you die? I can't. I can't bear it, Drew, I need you."

  He kissed her roughly, nipping her lips and forcing them open with his tongue. She continued to cry, but he pressed her back onto the blanket. It was lumpy, their spot on the hill, but it was their spot and so she loved it despite the lumpiness. He pressed her down, covering her body with his own, and gradually her tears slowed and her tongue played with his. Her dress lay abandoned on a corner of the blanket, and her panties had disappeared somewhere on the path up the hill. Too dark to worry about now. I'll find them tomorrow.

  Her hands left his to slide down his body and tug the hem of his shirt up. He let her, pleased with her renewed heat. She ran her hands down his back again, trying to lose herself in the taste of his skin. Sweaty, sweet. His hair smelled so good; like hay, like green tobacco. Don't think about tomorrow. She let her tongue follow the cords of his neck down to the hollow of his collarbone, and he tightened his fingers in her hair.

  "I need you too, apple cheeks."

  She blushed and slapped his shoulder. "Don't call me that."

  "Why not?" He used his grip on her hair to tip her head to the side so he could whisper in her ear. "It's appropriate, apple cheeks. Not only do you blush so pretty, your cute ass looks just like a shiny red apple when I'm finished spanking it."