by Mia Ford
“I love you. You’re everything to me,” I murmured as I felt my body grip him and breathed out, gripping the pillows above his head. “I’m going to come, Rob.” It moved slowly at first and then like a freight train, taking me over as I came hard, the feeling pulsing through my body.
He took a moment but rocked up inside of me as his heat joined mine, violent in its release as he cried my name. “I knew that I loved you when we met, Molly. I knew it when I kissed you the first time and felt your body wrapped around mine. You were a game changer from the start.”
“I did, too. I’ve never felt the way I did with you the moment our eyes locked,” I whispered as I felt the pulsing aftershocks through my body. “I’m so glad that you moved here.”
“I am, too. We’re going to settle here, baby. This town, this house. We’re going to have babies here and watch them grow up the best way possible.” I smiled at the idea of being pregnant with his babies and watching them grow up.
Marta said the same thing tonight at our small party. With Nate and Noel getting married soon, she was over the moon about having grand babies. I knew that with her and Keith here as well as my parents, it would be a help. I could have it all.
I felt him roll me to my back as the head of his erection pressed against me. Robert chuckled as he slid inside of me and filled me again, still slick with our come. He fucked me hard and slow; his lips on my ear, my jaw and then my lips. I cried out as he took me without abandon and gripped his back, my claws digging into him.
Book 3
Falling For The Seal
Blurb
Even after all these years I can see her when I close my eyes at night; Annabel Lee, young, naked, fiery, her soft body covered in sweat, her dark hair cascading over her breasts as she rides atop me like Lady Godiva riding through the streets of Coventry. I loved her as much as any teenage boy has ever loved a teenage girl. Then, as teenage boys are prone to do, I screwed it up by cheating on her with another girl. Annabel caught us together and that was the end of that. She wouldn’t even talk to me. I was angry, alone, wallowing in self-pity. I was a ticking time bomb. I knew it was just a matter of time before I went off…
My name is Captain Shane Mavic. I’m a United States Navy SEAL. I’ve spent the last decade going into the worst shitholes in the world to take out the worst people. They’ve shot at me, tried to stab me, tried to blow me up, but it takes more than some asshole with a suicide vest to get the best of me because I’m fearless. I volunteer for the most dangerous missions because I’m not afraid of dying. You see, the joke’s on them. I’ve been dead on the inside for years. And that makes me one dangerous son of a bitch.
My name is Annabel Lee. I was in love with a boy once named Shane. He was the love of my life, but he had… well… issues. He came from an abusive home. He loved me, but cheated on me and that was something I couldn’t forgive. Then tragedy struck. Shane’s little brother died and Shane blamed himself. Then he had to confront his father, the man who had beaten him every day of his life. It was no wonder Shane lost control and did what he did. I should have been there for him. I should have taken him in my arms and told him it was going to be all right. Instead, I helped drive him away.
Now, Shane is back and all grown up. All muscles and tattoos and smoldering heat… My head is telling me to stay away, but my heart—and other parts of me— are screaming to be back in his arms again. Can I trust him this time to not break my heart? Or will history repeat itself and leave me broken and alone again?
PROLOG
Captain Shane Mavic
Who the fuck am I?
That’s a good question. And one that I have asked myself hundreds—if not thousands—of times over the years.
Others have asked the question, too, mostly strange women in strange bars in strange lands who wondered what it would be like to fuck a strange guy like me.
Or dangerously-stupid men who saw fit to challenge me on and off the battlefield, only to regret it once my boot heel pushed their bloodied faces into the hard barroom floor or the gritty Iraqi desert sand or the soft Columbian mud, like I was some kind of old timey gunslinger they wanted to gun down to further their own silly reputations.
I could understand the attraction on both accounts. I stood out like a sore thumb in their dark, little worlds, this big American motherfucker with no tolerance for bullshit and no look of fear in his eyes.
Most women wanted to fuck me and most men wanted to kill me.
Hell, I’d even fucked women who wanted to kill me and killed men who wanted to fuck me up, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.
Anyway.
Welcome to my world.
I wasn’t afraid of anything other than the past.
And the past couldn’t hurt me anymore.
At least that’s what I kept telling myself here in the present.
And fuck the future.
I never think beyond one day at a time.
It would be insane to do so, given the life I lived.
I went out, did my duty, and tried to come back alive so I could go out and do it all over again tomorrow. That was as far ahead as I ever looked. My world could end now and that would be just fine by me. I’d pretty much done everything God put me here to do and then some.
So, to answer your question, brothers and sisters, who the fuck am I?
I have no fucking idea.
Feel free to let me know if you ever figure it out.
1
Shane
Fine. You want the rundown? Here it is.
My name is Shane Andrew Mavic. Captain Shane Mavic. I’m twenty-nine years old. I’ve been in the United States Navy for 11 years now, or to be more precise, 4,105 days, 15 hours, and 26 minutes, give or take a couple of minutes.
I’ve been a SEAL for 3, 875 of those days. Out of those 3,875 days I’ve spent less than 45 days in the United States and exactly zero days in my hometown of Gulf Breeze, Texas. And as you can probably tell, I’m a little hung up on numbers. I’m not math whiz by any stretch of the imagination. To the contrary, I barely graduated high school. I just like keeping track of things in my head. Counting helps keep me clear. Plus, I just like numbers. I find comfort in them. Numbers are safe, predictable, always logical: unlike most of the people I’ve dealt with in my life, where two plus two equaled any number but four.
During those 3,875 days, I’ve gone on missions in 24 different countries, most of that time having been spent in some of the world’s premiere shithole destinations like Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, the Philippines, Columbia, Turkey, Croatia, and Iran; places you could not pay me to go unless I was there in service to my country.
Still, I’ve loved every fucking minute of being a SEAL. The intense training, the constant adrenaline and exhaustion, the heat, the cold, the dirt, the mud, the swamps, the shit, the danger, the fighting, the knives, the bullets, the bombs, and yes, the pussy. Hell, I even loved that tingly feeling that inched its way up my spine, like a spider creepy-crawling under the skin, knowing that the motherfucker asking to bum a cigarette or wanting to know the time might be wearing a suicide vest or waiting for you to let your guard down so he could slit your throat. That shit gets my adrenaline pumping, man.
So, to answer your question: who the fuck am I?
I’m a motherfucking Navy SEAL, motherfucker.
That’s what I do.
That’s who I am.
Don’t get me wrong. It hasn’t been all work and no play. During that time, I’d had sex with 432 ladies of various shapes, sizes, colors, and nationalities. My standards tended to waver based on the amount of readily available pussy and the amount of alcohol consumed.
I’d been the beneficiary of 319 blowjobs that ranged from “just okay” to “fucking mind-blowing”. In my humble opinion, there was really no such thing as a bad blowjob, although there was one Peruvian chick that had one hell of an overbite who left me with teeth marks on my cock that took a few days to heal. I didn’t mind so much. I just consider
ed them to be battle scars, like the three bullet holes in my back that got me my first Purple Heart and the jagged scars on my forearms from that cocksucker in that Columbian bar who came at me with a butcher knife when he caught me talking to his old lady.
I’d been on the receiving end of 272 hand jobs and spent an entire furloughed weekend in Bogota once, cuffed to a metal bed while identical twins named Lola and Lulu—who didn’t speak a word of English—did things to my body that I wished they’d videotaped because you’d have to see it to believe it.
I walked funny for a week after that, but it was worth it.
I reckoned my looks were the main reason I got laid so much. God knows it wasn’t my sparkling personality that attracted the women. I didn’t smile much. And I wasn’t much of a talker. And my intolerance for bullshit had led me into so many fights that I didn’t even bother counting them anymore.
A Ukrainian chick whose name I couldn’t pronounce and can’t remember once told me, “Is good thing you good looking. You have personality like dog shit.” She said it while she was straddling my hips, riding my cock like a jockey in the Kentucky Derby. I just told her to shut the fuck up and keep on riding. And she did.
“Tall, dark, and dangerous,” is how my buddy Troy introduced me to the ladies who hung out in the bars we hit when we had some down time. My SEAL call sign was Vader, which I thought was kind of cool. It fit me. I’m 6’4, with buzzed dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, and I can grow a full beard in less than a week. Over the years, I’ve packed on 225 pounds of solid muscle, and have black tribal tats all over my shoulders and arms. Women dig tattoos. At least a certain kind of women do. And those women of a certain kind seem to flock to me and it would be rude to turn them all down (I just turn down the dogs… I know… I’m shallow that way…).
One woman in Germany wanted to fuck me because she said I looked like the dude on the cover of some dirty romance novel she used to get herself off when her husband—a German Army colonel—wasn’t around. I think the name of the book was like, Big Dick SEAL, which fit me because I was a SEAL and I did have a big cock. It’s exactly 10¼ inches from base to tip when fully erect, to be precise. I know… numbers again…
What’s that? Have I ever been in love?
Once. But that was a long, long time ago, when I was just a kid.
I lost my virginity when I was 16, roughly 4,745 days ago, to a girl named Annabel Lee back home in Gulf Breeze. Her daddy said he named her after that Edgar Allen Poe poem, but I knew that was bullshit. Billy Ray Lee had trouble reading the backs of cereal boxes. I knew for a fact he didn’t know who the fuck Edgar Allen Poe was. Somebody smarter than him must have pointed out that he named his baby girl the same name as the poem and it made Billy Ray feel smart, so he went with it.
Anyway, in the poem, the narrator fell in love with this girl named Annabel Lee when they were both very young. She was so beautiful, and their love so deep, he believed the angels were jealous and took her from him. His love for her continued even after her death and he never stopped pining for her. I remembered reading the poem over and over again in high school, hoping in some silly teenage way that it was not an omen of things to come for me and my Annabel Lee. No, she didn’t die, but her love for me did the moment she caught me with my dick in another girl’s mouth in the back of my mom’s old Chrysler after a football game. I tried to win her back, but she wouldn’t even give me the time of day, and I couldn’t really blame her. I royally fucked up. I fucked us up. It wasn’t too long thereafter that the sheriff put me on the bus headed for boot camp clear across country and that was all she wrote.
I never saw or spoke to Annabel Lee again.
It was the one regret that topped all others in a life filled with regrets.
I can still remember a few lines from the poem. I recited them in my head every night the first few months I was gone.
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
Like a lot of girls from south Texas, Annabel was one part Mexican, one part Cherokee Indian, and two parts “who the fuck knows”. Her hair was the color of a raven’s wings and her eyes were as deep a blue as the Gulf of Mexico at sunset. Fine, I’m no Edgar Allen Poe, but that’s how I remembered her, so fuck you.
Annabel and I were just sixteen-years-old the night we popped each other’s cherries in the back seat of my mom’s Chrysler (that old piece of crap Chrysler had a back seat like a mattress on wheels).
We had been unofficially dating and fiddling around sexually for a long time. We were young and horny and loved to experiment and make each other cum. I didn’t count things back then, but there were a lot of hand jobs, finger jobs, blow jobs, and massive amounts of tongue fucking. I lived for those moments when I could suck on Annabel’s tender clit and part her pussy lips with my fingers and shove my tongue deep inside her sweet hole. Her juices flowed from her pussy like a warm stream over my tongue and into my mouth. It was like drinking the nectar of the gods. I lapped it up like a kitten attacking a bowl of milk and prodded for more. Even after all this time I could still close my eyes and taste her on the tip of my tongue… sweet… salty… pungent… I could still smell the scent of her cunt when I inhaled deeply, recalling the memory of her squirming against my lips.
We had done everything except fuck at that point, so we knew each other’s bodies well and knew how to quickly reach the point of orgasm. Slipping my cock inside her pussy just seemed like the natural progression of things, at least that’s what I’d been trying to convince her of. I’d been begging her for a while to let me fuck her, but she kept saying no, no, no. I had cum in her mouth, on her belly, on her tits, on her ass, and on her face, but I longed for the tight, wet, searing heat of her pussy around my cock.
And then the night came when Annabel said we could take things all the way. She had been milking my cock and I’d had my fingers buried all up inside her pussy for nearly half an hour when she whispered, “I want you to fuck me, Shane” in my ear. I was so fucking excited I almost shot my load just hearing those words. I could barely get the rubber out of the wrapper, my hands were shaking so bad.
Annabel calmly took the rubber and expertly slid it over my cock and climbed on top of me. I could remember the exact moment her tight pussy opened up like a delicate flower and allowed my big cock to slowly come inside. Her pussy was so tight it hurt going in at first, like a thousand fingers squeezing my dick as it forced its way into a hole the size of a thimble. Then, the tip of my cock hit her hymen and she froze. I watched her take a deep breath. Then she smiled at me with tears in her eyes and impaled herself on my cock in one quick movement. She gasped and fell still for a moment, then she exhaled deeply as her hips started to slowly move back and forth, sliding me in and out of her gushing virgin hole.
I exploded within seconds and so did she.
And from that moment on we never looked back.
That night still stands as the greatest night of my life.
I have replayed it in my dreams a thousand times.
Annabel was tall for a girl; thin, with pert, firm tits and not much in the way of curves, but she had a beautiful face and a tender way about her that just made me want to be near her. She had this aura, I guess you could say, this chemical magnetism that drew me to her like a moth to a flame or a magnet to steel. Like the moment I first slid inside her, I could still close my eyes and feel the heat coming off her young body as we lay there naked and sweating after our first awkward sex.
I’d known Annabel Lee pretty much my entire life, since first grade probably, but we started hanging out regularly our junior year when the chemistry teacher put us together on a project, probably because Annabel was the smartest kid in the class and I was the dumbest (plus I needed at least a C to keep my spot as quarterback of the junior varsity football team). I guess Coach Hand, the chemistry teacher
who also happened to be an assistant football coach, figured I needed all the help I could get to even get a C in the class. He was right. I would have racked up another in a long line of D’s if it hadn’t been for Annabel’s hard work. We all knew it; her, me, and the coach. She got an A on the project and I got a sympathetic C that allowed me to keep playing football. My mom was proud as punch because she couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a grade above a D.
Me and Annabel hung out a lot after that, then casually became a couple our senior year. We never made it official, I mean, I never gave her my football jacket or a ring, but she had my heart for sure. She was my girl and I was her guy and everybody knew it. I was only happy when I was with Annabel. The rest of my life back then was shit. Pure unadulterated shit.
Then I fucked up big time and she caught me doing it and wouldn’t even talk to me after that. When she saw me coming she’d head in the other direction. She ignored my calls, my notes, the pleas sent through mutual friends, and my late-night visits outside of her bedroom window. Her mom would call the cops and I’d flee when the sirens got close. Once, the sheriff followed me home and told me to keep the fuck away. Fortunately for me, my old man had already passed out or he would have beaten the living shit out of me.
Then my brother Kenny was killed and everything went to shit.
The last time I saw Annabel was 4,103 days and 11 hours ago, the day I climbed onto the Greyhound bus for the long ride from south Texas to northern Michigan, headed to basic training at The Great Lakes Naval Training Center on the western shore of Lake Michigan. I didn’t even know she was there until the bus was pulling out of the terminal. I glanced out the window and there she was, sitting in her old man’s pickup truck watching me through the dirty windshield. She had her thin fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. She didn’t wave. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. She didn’t open her mouth. She just watched me go with a blank expression on her gorgeous face. I’ll never forget the look of apathy in her eyes. Or the sharp pains in my chest as I mentally ripped out my beating heart and tossed it out the window. It splattered like a ripe melon when it hit the scorching hot blacktop and sizzled like a frying egg. That was fine. I could live without it because I wouldn’t need it anymore. I was leaving it behind forever, along with my Annabel Lee.