BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance

by Alana Albertson

  What was I going to wear? I’d just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I’d worn last week for VIP night. Mia would’ve worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.

  What I would give to go home to my room in El Cajon, shower, scrub off this makeup, crawl into my pajamas, and binge-watch Dancing under the Stars. The arches in my feet were cramped from those ridiculous stripper shoes, my empty stomach was craving a heaping plate of pesto pasta, not sushi, and my eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Not to mention these humongous tits were killing my back. But I wasn’t going to blow my big chance.

  I waited by the back entrance for Grant. My goal for the night was to get him to open up to me, even just a little. Then maybe he’d invite me to the next stripper party he and his buddies had. But I had no intention of sleeping with him—not now, not ever again. I was confident in my acting ability, but I couldn’t control the way my body would respond to his touch. If we made love, he would know I was Mia. I closed my eyes, imagined the warmth of his chest pressing on my skin, the stubble from his beard tickling the nape of my neck, the tender way he used to hold me.

  I stared down Convoy Street, scanning for Grant’s truck. Our club was next to used-car dealerships and Korean barbecues, and the scent of burning animal flesh and kimchee made my skin crawl. A few customers catcalled me, and I resisted the urge to flip them off.

  The roar of a motorcycle shook the air. Grant had bought a bike? I was so pissed at him. He’d always wanted one when we were together, but I refused to let him get one. It was one thing for him to risk his life overseas defending our freedom; it was another to end up as road kill for a drunk driver and die the way my parents had.

  I wanted to go off on him, but I highly doubted Ksenya would nag him. I took a deep breath and centered myself, slipping back into Ksenya’s world.

  His windblown hair framed his face. I loved his masculine jaw line, his beard, his intensity. The deep scar on his neck beckoned me to reach out and caress it. I had clearly underestimated the hold this man still had over me.

  “Hey, gorgeous. Hop on.” He handed me a helmet.

  “You drive motorcycle? Is dangerous, no?” Screw it, I figured Grant would like a little bit of sass from Ksenya.

  “Nothing’s dangerous when you’re with me. Let’s go.”

  Cocky son of a bitch. In the past six months, I’d never once considered how hard it would be to shut my mouth and not call Grant out on his bullshit. I pulled the tight helmet over my head, wrapped my arms around his waist, and held on.

  The wind chilled my legs as we entered the freeway, my skintight dress riding up around my thighs. I’d never been on a motorcycle, fundamentally refused to ever ride one after my parents died. But gliding through traffic, I had to admit, for the first time since Joaquín had been arrested, that my pulse steadied, my heartbeat calmed. For our brief ride I vanquished memories of my parents, Joaquín’s troubles, my heartache—this overwhelming sense of urgency. I was truly enjoying living in the moment.

  We pulled up to some hole-in-the-wall sushi joint. We weren’t in the ritzy part of downtown. We were on Broadway, a few blocks from the county jail where Joaquín was being housed.

  I’m here, Joaquín. I haven’t abandoned you.

  It was hard being so close to him and not being able to reach out to him, but I had faith I was on the right path.

  I removed my helmet and crinkled my nose. The stench of urine and tar churned my stomach. Grant would never have taken me to a restaurant like this. This was a place where a guy took a girl to hide her, not to show her off. Was he shrouding me because I was a stripper? Or did he have a girlfriend somewhere who he was cheating on?

  Last night, I almost felt guilty for using him to find the truth after having dumped him in the past. But he chose to date a stripper, who on the surface was clearly not the type of woman to get serious with. So if he wanted a fling, at least he would be spending time with a woman who actually cared about him.

  Grant studied my face. “This place is great, I promise. I know it doesn’t look like much, but the food is incredible.”

  Great, he could still read me even as Ksenya. “I’m sure it is wonderful. I’m excited for good meal.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who looks beyond outward appearances.”

  I bit my lip. “Compared to where it is I am from, this place is like palace.” Grant had a point. This could be the best sushi in the city, but I would’ve never agreed to go here when we were dating.

  I’d never considered myself to be pretentious, but I admit I’d been a tad judgmental. I wondered if Grant had held himself back with me, afraid to push me to try new experiences. Why hadn’t I just been more open when I was with him?

  The waitress sat us at a cramped table, stuck between the sushi bar and the restroom. Grant ordered a bunch of rolls, Asahi beer for himself, and sake for me.

  He held my hand across the table. “So, how long have you been in San Diego?”

  “Few months. I lived together in San Francisco with my baba. She died, and it was too much money for me there to live. I have friend here who was dancer and made good money, so I come down. The clubs in San Francisco are good, but houses are not so cheap.” My story was solid—I’d gone over it a thousand times—but gazing across at a man who regularly interrogated terrorists caused my palms to sweat.

  The waitress brought us the first batch of rolls. Grant swirled a neon green mound of wasabi in the soy sauce with such concentration I shuddered from his intensity. “So you live with your friend?” he asked.

  “No. She got boyfriend and quit the club. I live with older woman. She gives to me room in home, and I help with cleaning and cooking.” I tasted a piece of sushi—the Motion in the Ocean roll. The spicy jalapeño sauce lit my lips on fire while the sweet citrus put out the flame. I swallowed the tuna, the slithery fish sliding down my throat. Dear God, please don’t let me gag. I had been a vegan for years. But I knew there was no chance I could remain one in front of Grant.

  “You could clean and cook for me.”

  “Very funny.”

  He popped a crunchy soft-shell crab roll into his mouth. “I’m serious, I travel all the time for my job. I could use some help.”

  Was he kidding me? He had to be joking—he did not invite a stripper he had just met to move in with him. I dated this jackass for two years and we hadn’t even lived together.

  “No, thank you. I do not know you.”

  His eyebrow lifted, and his mouth widened into a sly smile. “Well, get to know me.”

  My head pounded and it wasn’t from the cheap sake. Who was this man who sat across from me? Was it possible to change that much or did every man reinvent himself when dating someone new? I fought the desire to kick Grant in the balls, hightail it out of there, and get back to my life.

  “What is it you do for living?”

  “I sell pharmaceuticals.” His nose didn’t even twitch; he’d become an expert at hiding his lies. Though this fib didn’t bother me. SEALs never told civilians what they did for a living. Joaquín told everyone he met that he drove an ice cream truck. That guy you met in a bar boasting about being a SEAL? He was a liar.

  “Let’s get out of here. I want to take you somewhere.” He signaled to the waitress and paid the bill in cash.

  We slid onto the back of his bike, and I placed my arms around him. I wanted to vanish into this moment, go back to the way we were when we had first fallen in love. Before he deployed that first time. Before I’d done something stupid. Before I didn’t have the guts to confide in him.

  Grant headed down to the pier, in front of the USS Midway, a retired Naval carrier turned maritime museum. The millions of lights from the ship illuminated the ocean, as t
he view of Coronado’s Hotel Del beckoned in the distance. Grant might be lying to his date about his job, but he was also sharing his love of the Navy. Maybe he didn’t see Ksenya as just a conquest.

  We stood under the world-famous Unconditional Surrender statue, which portrayed a sailor kissing a nurse at the end of World War II.

  Grant took me into his arms, and I was sure he was going to kiss me under the moonlight. “You’re so incredibly hot. Let’s go to a hotel.”

  “Nyet.”

  “Come on, babe. We’ll have a great time. If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll take you home. I just want to spend some time with you.”

  My first instinct was to slap him. But my panties became damp as I imagined what this new Grant would do to me. Which way should I go—sweet, shy, good girl forced into stripping? Or nasty, freaky, bad girl who owned her sexuality?

  I had vowed when this deception started—hell, when this date started—to never sleep with him again, fearful that he would discover my identity. Now I decided I wasn’t going to make any rules. I’d fooled him so far—maybe I could fool him in bed as well. I’d spent every night for the past two and a half years imagining making love to him. As Mia, I’d been the girl next door, a young inexperienced virgin, petrified to ask him to act out my deepest fantasies. But I had always harbored a secret desire to play the temptress.

  If Grant wanted to party, I’d be ecstatic to rock his world. This time, I wouldn’t hold back. I couldn’t. Ksenya would have to be a wildcat in bed for me to pull off this deception.

  Sleeping with Grant might be the only way to truly have him let down his guard and open up to me. But this time, sex would be on my terms, on my timeline—and for once in my life, I’d be in control.

  11

  Grant

  I WASN’T BUYING KSENYA’S GOOD-girl act, but I was game to play along. Her eyes had dilated at my request, but she still agreed to go to the hotel with me. She was, in fact, a stripper, not that I cared. It was about time I dated a girl who loved sex.

  I’d worshipped Mia—we’d been each other’s firsts, and I would’ve never made it through BUD/S without her support. But whenever I wanted to ask her to try something new in bed, I’d chickened out, afraid of how she would react. I didn’t want to lose or disrespect her, so I’d repressed my desires. She was a “good girl,” and I’d figured that making love to her should only be about tenderness.

  Since we’d been apart, I’d had mostly one-night stands with chicks in bars and flings with messed-up strippers. I wanted to be with a girl who could fulfill my every fantasy. I wanted to fuck this girl, not marry her.

  I sent a quick text to my buddy to reserve the Bachelor Pad Suite at the Coronado Bay Hotel. Equipped with its very own stripper pole and a huge mirror over the bed, I couldn’t think of a better place to watch Ksenya ride me. The trip over on my motorcycle was sexy as all hell. Her tight little body wrapped around mine, her huge tits pressed into my back.

  The regular girls who worked at Panthers didn’t seem to have any light inside them. Their eyes were cold, their hearts dead. Fuck, I felt dead when I dated them. But not with Ksenya. This chick was different. There’d been other damn sexy strippers from there, but this girl seemed almost innocent. Her immigrant-orphan hardship story was way more compelling than the typical stripper drama. She awoke something inside me.

  Even so, I wasn’t going to chase her. I had enough willing women ready to drop their panties and suck a SEAL’s cock.

  I’d only pursued one woman in my life. And frankly, I didn’t have the time to put into getting to know someone when I was deployed nine months out of the year. How could I ever build a relationship with a sweet girl who’d always be there for me if I didn’t have any time to spend with her? I’d done that with Mia and failed.

  I pulled up to the hotel entrance with Ksenya and tossed the valet my keys. I pressed her against the building. My lips met hers, and her fiery mouth tasted as sweet as freedom.

  She let out a slow, sweet moan. My cock hardened in my jeans—only a fine layer of denim between it and her wet panties. Navy SEALs rarely wore underwear.

  I checked in at the front desk, the key already waiting for me. One of my Team guys knew the concierge; whenever one of the suites was vacant, he was happy to let one of us use it.

  Ksenya’s mouth dropped when I opened the door to the suite. The pad was pure decadence: a black leather sofa faced the gold stripper pole, a mirror overhead. A full bar beckoned to me.

  “Oh, Grant. This place it is very beautiful. It must be very expensive. Do you come to here many times?”

  I studied her face; she looked almost dazed.

  “Don’t worry about it, baby. I have a friend who hooks me up. Would you like a drink?”

  She smiled in agreement, so I poured her a glass of wine, myself a shot of whiskey. She studied the pole. “You want me to dance for you now?”

  Hell yeah, I did. But I didn’t want her to feel cheap. “Let’s just relax for a bit.”

  “Can I look around?”

  “Sure. Make yourself at home.” She walked around the suite, examining the pole, the gaudy painting of a naked woman to the right of the bar.

  I downed my shot, and poured another, then another. My head buzzed from my earlier beer.

  She sat on one of the barstools, slowly sipping her wine.

  Then I saw it. Her lips. Big and pouty, but the left edge of her mouth curled when she smiled. Just like Mia’s used to.

  Fuck. I was still so hung up on that girl that even sitting here with a beautiful woman, all I could think about was my ex.

  I studied Ksenya’s face. It was perfect. Completely symmetrical, as if an artist had sculpted it. No imperfections, like the small bump Mia had on her nose. Still, I’d loved Mia’s face; she was unique. She had been all mine. I was still not sure why I was never enough for her. But that was history. This was my present.

  Ksenya bounced her knees, fidgeting in her swivel chair. I turned the satellite stereo on in the room. “Undressed” by Kim Cesarion was playing. Perfect.

  “Dance for me.” I relaxed on my sofa, the bottle of whiskey in my hand, waiting for my private show.

  Her skin flushed, and her fingers brushed down her side. My every nerve tingled.

  A wicked smile slowly built on her lips, and she pranced up to the pole. She teased me with glimpses of her tan thighs, the round curve of her back. She was baiting me, fondling her chest.

  “Take off your dress.”

  She obliged and it slid onto the carpet. Man, she was incredible. Easily the finest woman I’d ever laid my eyes on. Including actresses, porn stars, and every stripper I’d ever fucked. She was too good to be true.

  “Now your bra.” I set the bottle down.

  With one hand, she unhooked her red lace bra. I motioned her to the sofa, and she rubbed her breasts in my face. My tongue lashed at them, but she slapped me away and backed to the other end of the cushions. The friction from my jeans reminded me how much I wanted her, and my breath hitched. Fine, I’d play—for now. I couldn’t wait to have my way with her.

  “Show me your pussy.”

  Her fingers traced down her stomach, and she pushed off her panties. Her skin looked soft and warm, a thin landing strip begging me to devour it.

  I lowered my voice, touched my tongue to my upper lip. “Come here.”

  Naked except for her heels, she crawled over to me. She pushed herself on top of me and straddled my lap. I closed my eyes for a second, just to feel her sensational body pressing down on mine. I lived for this moment, the moment of anticipation before I hit my target. I leaned in for a kiss.

  “I told you, I don’t do extras,” she hissed before my mouth found hers.

  “Don’t tease me, baby.”

  “I gave you the dance you paid for yesterday. If you want to see me again, you can come by club. Tomorrow.”

  She kissed my neck, my face, her warm tongue tracing my ear, and I imagined her tongue dancing around my cock. He
r lips pulled away from me, and she quickly gathered her clothes, dressed, and slammed the door behind her.

  Fuck.

  My balls burned. I could’ve easily stopped her, but I knew I was being an asshole. After having my heart ripped to shreds by Mia, I just couldn’t allow myself to see women as good for anything other than sex. Women treated me like this too—none of the San Diego coeds wanted to get to know Grant, they just wanted to be fucked by a Navy SEAL, something to brag about to their sorority sisters. I figured after getting fucked over by Mia, these types of emotionless hookups with no future were the only way for me.

  Maybe I was wrong and Ksenya was just a typical stripper playing me—after money, fame, or power—getting me all worked up so I would give into whatever she demanded. But I had to have her. I was ready to play her game.

  12

  Ksenya

  I RACED OUT OF THAT hotel suite and headed to the elevator—pressing those stupid buttons and begging those doors to take me away from this nightmare. I reached into my purse to grab my cell phone and call for a cab.

  Had I just squandered my best chance to find out the truth and save Joaquín? After everything I’d gone through to get here, how could I be so careless?

  I flicked off those ridiculous heels and threw them in my purse. I was wrong—I didn’t have what it took to accomplish this. I couldn’t handle being treated like a whore. Not by the love of my life. I fantasized about unbridled passion with Grant, nothing off-limits. But I had to feel like he saw me as more than a random stripper to get off with. I’d just wanted to tease him, bait him, but I panicked when I couldn’t control my emotions. I needed to regroup.