Matched (Navy Seals of Little Creek Book 2)

by Paris Wynters

Then she winks.

  And strolls the fuck away.

  Desire swims through my veins, but it isn’t enough. More than once, Inara’s gaze runs over me, each time bringing about another wave of heat.

  Since I suck at focusing on my current task, I throw back on my shirt and search for Bennett to find out if there is something else I can focus on. Luckily, the house next door isn’t as damaged and when asked if I’d be willing to help retile the upstairs bathroom I jump at the opportunity. The work is backbreaking but familiar, and soon my mind goes blank as muscle memory guides my hands.

  “Where’d you learn to do all that?”

  A part of me has been waiting for her to come find me, the same part that recognized her light tread as she came up the now-bare wood stairs, and the sound of her voice when she sighed on the top landing. I look over my shoulder to find her covered in a fine layer of dust. I clench my fingers to resist the urge aching inside me. I want to touch her, to lay claim to all those unexplored crevices her tank top and jeans aren’t quite hiding. Despite the dust, the clean scent of her shampoo lingers in the air and my mind wanders, and I turn away before she notices the desire in my eyes.

  “My dad.” I’m so intent on bringing myself back under control that I don’t consider the words.

  She kneels next to me and hands me a tile. “Tell me about him?”

  When I don’t respond right away, she nudges me with her shoulder. She holds another ceramic square while I measure and spread the grout. We fall into an instinctive rhythm, as if we’ve been working together our whole lives. “Come on. You know about my dad.”

  “Bennett?”

  “Well, technically, all of my stepdads helped raise me, but I’ve always been closest to Bennett. So, tell me something about your dad. You’ve met both of my parents. The least you can do is give me the intel on yours.”

  The request isn’t outrageous, so why the hell am I ready to run for the mountains? Hell, I’ve faced enemies armed with rocket launchers. Surely I can handle a little heart-to-heart about my family. I focus on the task at hand as if placing the ceramic squares just right will somehow make the words easier to speak. “My father was a contractor. He owned his own company for a while, and I worked with him after school and during the weekends.”

  “The heir to the family business.”

  The disappointing heir. “Basically.”

  “So, how’d you end up in Special Forces?”

  I shrug and it’s awkward and jerky. “The company was always his thing, not mine.” There aren’t enough mental pep talks in the world to get me to elaborate, so I don’t. “Two of my sisters took over the company.”

  Inara laughs and then pulls a face. “Mami would have killed me if I ever told her I was interested in ‘men’s work’ when I was growing up. Hell, she practically had a panic attack when she found out about search and rescue.” Her eyes are sparkling though, so it doesn’t seem like her mom’s disapproval left any lasting scars.

  My heart lurches, the pain sudden and fierce. I don’t talk about my mom. Ever. I suck in a greedy lungful of breath and hope I’m not swaying from lack of oxygen to my brain.

  “Tony?”

  Her tone is soft and I latch on to it, forcing my mind to turn away from the shadows lingering at the edge, and smile. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

  “I’m sorry?” Inara blinks and shakes her head as if I’ve just asked her what to name our firstborn. Erm, her firstborn. Who will definitely be sired by a man who isn’t me.

  At the thought of what that would entail, a low growl rumbles up my throat. I give my head a quick shake. What the fuck is wrong with me? Must be too much sun.

  “Dinner.” Talking about food is safe ground, though admittedly anything would have been preferable to discussing my relationship with my parents. Or thinking about her making a baby with some random guy. “I’m too tired to cook. Maybe we could go out tonight?”

  “Like a date?” She gushes in an exaggerated Southern drawl and an eye-rolling flutter of her lashes.

  One side of my mouth hikes up in a lopsided smile. “Yup.”

  I don’t undermine the request with a joke or cheapen it with a pick-up line or some bit of inferred innuendo. Instead, I study her with the same intensity she had outside. Her gaze skirts around the room, and she tucks a curl behind one ear. If I didn’t know better, I would say Mrs. Martinez is a bit bashful at the idea of dating her husband.

  If I didn’t know better.

  But I do.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Her answer lifts a weight off my chest and I’m ready to give her whatever she wants. Hell, far as I’m concerned, we could head to a McDonald’s drive-thru as long as she’s in the car beside me. “Anywhere you want. You pick.”

  I stop working and sit back on my heels, my complete focus on my wife. And she’s beautiful, even covered in dust. A curl flops back over her forehead and I’m itching to brush it back, but I sit and stare, mesmerized until she tilts her head and smiles. “I wanna sing.”

  Somehow that little curl has ended up like silk between my fingertips. I study it in silence for what may have been an eternity while Inara holds her breath. Something as sweet as it is dangerous has taken up some pretty valuable real estate in the center of my chest and I don’t dare examine it because there’s a part of me that already knows what I’ll see.

  “Well, all right.” I tuck the curl behind her ear, fingers brushing the delicate curve where a small silver stud sits before I pull away. “I know just the place.”

  Chapter Eight

  Inara

  I try not to glare at the small redhead standing on stage, but it takes a lot more strength than I expect not to shoot her the evil eye. Marge had to be the first of the group to volunteer to get on stage, and she’s launched into a rousing rendition of an old Spice Girls tune that has the entire bar on its feet, clapping their hands and singing along.

  My fingers clench into small fists as my gaze falls on my darling husband.

  Nine people isn’t a date. It’s a posse.

  What was the sweet and attentive guy who was tiling the bathroom floor with me this afternoon thinking when he asked me out? I hoped it was a sign we might go the distance as a couple, that he was changing his stance. Instead, he invited all his friends on our date.

  I huff and glance around The Rift. The place isn’t nearly as nice as Shaken & Stirred, but the sketch factor is part of its charm. It’s dark, and even though nobody smokes anymore, there’s a haze lingering in the air. The bar is long and made of reclaimed wood and old bar tin, and the booths and tables are some sort of glossy wood with postcards glazed into the tops and there’s a lot of dark leather. It’s the kind of place bachelor parties go after the strip club. Not couples who want to be alone.

  Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe it’s not a couple who wants to be alone—just me.

  Although, in Tony’s defense, it’s my own fault we’re here. I want to sing. I should have been honest and told him what I really wanted: some honest-to-God alone time on a date with him so we could try to get to know each other better. But I didn’t and now we’re in the one place a girl can get her Sunday night sing on while sipping alcoholic beverages from tin cans.

  Craiger and his date, a skinny brunette named Alexus, who seems nice enough, but I fear has more boobs than brain mass, are all too happy to play along and are already on their third canned vodka. I’m not sure why the guy dates the women he does. Nor do I want to know what Mason’s mom must be like.

  We’re sitting in a padded booth, a suspicious amount of cans littering our table in addition to the songbook and several glasses of water. The bar is packed for a Sunday night, but The Rift is one of the few bars in town with themed nights. It doesn’t have the kind of view patrons enjoy at S&S, and the food is shit, so the owners adapted in order to keep people coming back. As a result of this winning formula, the small indoor and outdoor space is teeming with karaoke enthusiasts, and the conversations arou
nd us consist largely of song suggestions and random, quiet performance critiques.

  “This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever seen.”

  I glance at the man beside me and wince. Jim’s miserable, but Taya is having a ball. He’s glowering. She’s giggling. Poor guy. I pat his knee and lean in so he can hear me over the sound of Marge’s soulful crooning. “Ten bucks if you can convince Bear to get on stage.”

  Jim’s eyes narrow. “What song?”

  “Something that’ll make him feel like a woman.”

  He looks from me to Bear and back to me, his eyes bright with challenge, and nods. He pushes his big body away from our table and strides to where Bear stands at the edge of the stage, waiting for Marge to wrap up.

  “What was that about?”

  I settle back beside Tony and smile. “Nothing much. I just found a way to make this suck a little bit less for him.”

  Tony shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. “I’m surprised he even agreed to come.”

  I shake my head. “Why’d you invite them in the first place?”

  He looks at me, eyes wide, but he isn’t getting out of this one. I want an answer and I’ll wait for it.

  “Figured you’d be more comfortable with everyone here.” His voice is low, and if I didn’t know better, I might be convinced he’s embarrassed.

  “I was kind of looking forward to it being just us.” The words slip out before I can recall them, and my cheeks flame. Damn the sun. This must be heat stroke. Or an overtired brain. Or maybe just being around Tony all day.

  His eyes widen before he drops his gaze to his drink and fiddles with his glass. “Sorry.” He pauses to clear his throat. “You said you wanted to sing, so I wanted to make that happen. Figured it’d be easier on both of us with friendly faces around.”

  “I understand.” Except I don’t. Not at all. Is this his kind way of giving me a warning not to get too attached? To keep things nice and easy? Or am I reading too much into his casual words?

  At the end of the day, I did say I wanted to sing. And it was nice of him to accommodate my wishes. As I study him, my fingers tighten around my own glass. This is the problem, right here. Tony Martinez is turning out to be way more decent than I ever imagined was possible. This man takes out the trash so I don’t have to, mows the lawn without being asked, does laundry like a boss, and even folds and puts the clothes neatly away. And he cooks. Cleans like a neurotic housekeeper. Cuddles his friends’ children while they sleep. I didn’t give him enough credit before and now that I am, he’s growing on me.

  A lot.

  “What?” he asks as I continue to study him.

  I shrug. “You’re not what I expected, that’s all.”

  His brows lift. “Oh yeah? What were you expecting? Maybe this?” Then he pulls the most obnoxious face I’ve ever seen.

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  He laughs and tugs me back toward him, closer than before. It registers in the back of my mind that Jim somehow managed to get Bear on stage and they’re singing an old Britney song while the place roars, but not even that’s enough to make me turn away from the heat crackling to life between Tony and me.

  His gaze sears my skin, lighting up every cell in my body.

  I lick my lips. Or maybe I do know what I want. I simply need to decide to take that first step.

  “I was joking,” he says. “This is the part where you laugh.”

  As if they have a life of their own, my fingers trail from his hand to his forearm and to the edge of his sleeve to slip under. His muscle twitches, but I couldn’t pull away if the whole place caught on fire. “I don’t feel like laughing.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  Heat surges just below my belly. I open my mouth to respond only to pause when Trevor Graves clears his throat awkwardly from the wall end of the booth. I glare at him. “Kind of having a moment here, pal.”

  He winces and nods. “Yeah, sorry, but uh, I need a bathroom?”

  I sigh and swallow my mounting frustration. It’s not Trevor’s fault that my hormones picked a terrible moment to go into overdrive. Tony mutters under his breath, but I shove him out of the booth to make way for Graves. The newest member of the team doesn’t make eye contact with either of us, but passes quickly.

  Before I can turn back to Tony, though, Jim and Bear come striding back toward the table. I clench my hands together to hide my disappointment. Bear throws an arm over Marge’s dainty shoulders while she hugs his middle. Envy settles in my chest, digging its way into my heart.

  Jim drops into the seat, his unblinking eyes focused on Trevor. “Who invited him anyway?”

  Tony grabs his drink and chugs it without stopping. Enough conversations have been had that I’ve figured out Jim isn’t fond of the newest team member, so I follow my husband’s lead in evasion and turn to Bear. “Mardi Gras beads?”

  Marge laughs, jangling the set sitting around her husband’s thick neck until he gently pushes her hands away. “The crowd started throwing them about halfway through the chorus.”

  Jim’s glare isn’t singularly aimed at one of us, but at us all. “You said tonight would be fun. So far I’ve lost five bucks, I’ve been publicly humiliated, and on top of that I have to deal with…Graves.” He says the man’s name like a curse, and his expression darkens. But when Taya lays a hand on his arm, the anger melts away, and he smiles.

  “Five bucks?” I mouth to Marge, and she snorts and motions toward the stage.

  “Bear wanted a cut if he was going to be performing.”

  I glance at the always good-natured Bear. No way would he miss the chance to drag Jim up on stage. Five bucks or not. And someday, hopefully soon, we’ll all do this again, but tonight, my objective has shifted.

  My gaze travels over the tantalizing shapes of my husband’s shoulders and chest, and that familiar flame rekindles somewhere below my belly button. I’m horny. And I’m married. That is a perfect recipe for dragging—hopefully, it doesn’t take much—my husband to bed. I want him. I want to feel him inside me. But more than that, I want to know if he can walk the walk.

  And I’m ready. Really fucking ready. Because one thing that isn’t going to make either of us get along better is forced celibacy for another three-hundred-plus days.

  Jim, Tony, and Bear have formed their own little circle to gripe about Trevor, but I don’t care. Tony has somewhere else to be and something—someone—else to do. I tuck myself under my husband’s arm and raise my voice just enough to be heard over their bickering. “You guys should try a little harder with Graves.” I ignore Jim’s narrow-eyed glare. I’m not a terrorist, so I’m in no danger. “He’s one of you now. All for one, one for all.”

  “That’s The Three Musketeers.” Tony smiles down at me and winks. “But she’s right. He’s one of us. And like the Musketeers took in D’Artagnan, who proved to be quite loyal, by the way, maybe we should give the kid a chance.” When we all stare at him, he flushes and shrugs. “Can I help it if the chick in that one scene had amazing tits? I might’ve watched it a few times.”

  Marge groans and Taya rolls her eyes. Normally, this would be the moment where I write Tony off, but tonight I don’t. He shifts and I continue to stare. Our friends might be surprised when he exhibits a thought deeper than a puddle in a parking lot, but I’ve seen him sit and read, a book which I now suspect might be a copy of Dumas’s musketeer tale. His intellectual shortfalls are an act. A good one, but still as pretend as unicorns and rainbow faeries. My husband works hard at keeping up his act of class clown.

  I spot Trevor making his way back from the bathroom and the nervous glance he shoots all of us standing clustered together. As if he can tell he’s the topic of discussion. It’s as much for his benefit as mine that I start leading Tony toward the stage. He starts to give a token protest and then his eyes go wide.

  “I can’t sing.” He hisses the words in a low, desperate whisper.

  I shrug but don’t slow. “Then don’t. I’ll do
all the singing for both of us.” I glance at him over my shoulder and smile. “I’m a former choir girl. Now, I belt out the oldies to blow off steam. Come sing with me.”

  His shoulders relax when he exhales. “My little sister likes to sing too.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You’d like her.”

  I laugh and pull him up the steps onto the stage. “Well, mi esposo, you’ll just have to introduce us, then.” I put my hand on his chest and walk him backward to the stool where performers usually sit for the slow ones. Leaning in, I press my lips against the shell of his ear. “This one’s for you, babe.”

  I chat with the DJ tucked away in the shadows, so as not to draw attention to himself. I give him my song choice and he nods. By the time the opening bars of Amy Winehouse’s “You Know That I’m No Good” start to roll through the bar, Tony is staring, brown eyes dark with what I hope is hunger for me.

  I turn my back on him, gripping the mic and belting out the über-sultry opening lines to the crowd. I don’t care about the people in the audience. Just the one to my right because I want him to want me as much as I want him and if this doesn’t work, nothing will.

  And I’ve got his total attention.

  My heart swells and excitement stirs in my blood. And fair is fair. I walk backward and position myself between his knees, then sway us back and forth, like the couples on the dance floor. The words don’t even matter anymore. His arms wrapped around my waist, his breath on my throat, the thumb stroking my belly . . . those things matter.

  The music carries me away, and I turn into his body to trail my fingertips across his shoulders, down to his heart, press my breasts into his chest. “I told you I was trouble.”

  He shudders and grips my hips, pulling me in closer, until only clothes separate us, and his growl sends my pulse over the edge. I gasp, too distracted by the rigid curve of his cock against my hip to pay attention to the cheering crowd. We’re both breathing hard and I lean back enough so that my voice doesn’t get drowned out by the applause. “We should grab an Uber and go home.”