Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10)

by Anne Marsh

  I’m not done with her.

  I catch up to her in two strides. “Let me give you a ride.”

  Her mouth tightens. “Nope.”

  Okay, then. I’m not sure why she gets to be the pissed off one here. I’m the one who got blindsided on the beach. Aren’t I?

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

  She picks up the pace. Wish I knew where she was going. “You know everything, Ro. You figure it out.”

  “Give me something to work with.” I make a grab for her as her foot slips on the sand and she lurches. She yanks her elbow away impatiently. Just minutes ago I had my fingers in her pussy and she was riding my hand for all she was worth. What the fuck has changed since then?

  The heel of her hand slams into my chest in an invitation to back the hell of. “Sometimes I come with a camera crew, Rohan. It’s part of my job description. People take pictures of me and they don’t always ask first.”

  Not unless she invited them to the photo shoot. That was the point Finn was trying to make back there on the beach, and I can see his point. Coincidences are far rarer than most people believe, and our piece of Angel Cay is both private and tremendously unexciting. We’re a bunch of guys running a K9-training business. I mean, we don’t even stock puppies—we’re truly all work and no play. There’s zero reason for snap-happy photographers to be on our turf in the wee hours of the night.

  “If you don’t believe me, you can fuck off,” Hindi snaps when the silence spins out for too long and marches off down the road.

  Alone.

  After dark.

  Yeah, I suck in the husband department.

  Hindi

  After leaving Ro, I text Lilah to come and pick me up. No, she wasn’t the photographer lurking on the access road, camera in hand. She was, however, the anonymous tipster who sent a text to the camera crew from a national celebrity gossip site that just happened to be hanging around Angel Cay trying to snap pictures of Hindi Alvarez on her secret getaway. By the time I make it to the main road, I’m feeling sorry for myself and my feet hurt. If I could have, I would have sprouted wings and flown home. It sucked having to wait for somebody to haul my sorry butt from Point A to Point B.

  Naturally, this is when Ro pulls up in his Jeep. He doesn’t offer apologies. I’d be happy to deal with even a simple request—because yeah, I’m feeling guilty—but he’s got his frowny face on and he doesn’t look happy at all. Seriously. I prefer his O-face. Those moments on the beach were out-of-this-world fantastic and I can still taste him on my lips. He’s like the world’s best flavor of cookie and I want to devour the entire box.

  “Get in,” he says calmly, destroying my fantasy.

  He doesn’t believe I had nothing to do with the photographer on the beach, but he hasn’t quite worked up to making accusations. That’s one of the things I love about Ro. He doesn’t rush to judgment. He thinks shit through, moving from point A to point B and you can’t speed the man up—or slow him down. He’s inexorable and inexorably fair. Therefore, there’s no way I come out on top and I’d prefer to leave before he gets that too-familiar disappointed look on his face.

  I walk a few steps away. Lilah’s about five minutes out—surely I can last that long? “I don’t think so.”

  Especially since certain parts of me are still tingling from a monster orgasm.

  “I promised you a ride.” Oh, look. The muscle in his jaw tightens. It’s always nice to find out he’s not entirely indifferent to me.

  He kills the Jeep’s engine. I do my best to ignore him… which is hard because the man is hot even when he’s all pissy. The road stays stubbornly empty and there’s no sign of Lilah or rescue. Ro makes a rough sound that might pass as conversation or a question in his universe, but I’m insisting on entire words and complete sentences tonight. At least he’s shed Jack and Finn, although I wouldn’t put it past Finn to pop out from behind a palm. That man doesn’t trust me.

  “Ignoring me will make this take longer,” Ro growls. Goody. On a scale of one to ten, his pissiness has just achieved a perfect ten. I pull out my phone and send an emergency text.

  Drive faster. Need immediate evac.

  Lilah’s response comes almost immediately. Already breaking multiple traffic laws. B there soon.

  Soon is not good enough. I need immediate. A transporter would be even better, because the Jeep door opens and then closes. Ro doesn’t slam it, but I can feel the irritation coming off him in waves. I sneak a look at him and he’s watching me.

  “I told you I would take you home.” He holds out a hand to me. God, he makes this so hard. Everything he does, every time he opens his mouth, reminds me of us on the beach. Together and going at it, mostly naked, his fingers buried deep inside me.

  I rode his fingers.

  I came so hard I saw stars.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell him. No way I’m getting in that Jeep with him. Then I’m a captive audience for the Hindi-you’ve-disappointed-me speech or, my personal favorite, the not-again-Hindi monologue.

  He sighs. I stare down at my phone. The screen’s blurry all of a sudden and it must be raining because there’s a drop of water on the screen. And then a second.

  “Are you crying?” Captain Obvious sounds horrified, so there’s a silver lining to my embarrassing breakdown.

  “Fuck you.” He has eyes and I’m done here. “If you’re not putting me in the time-out corner, I’m leaving. See you around.”

  I head down the road. I’ll text Lilah to keep driving until she spots me. No more waiting around.

  There’s no warning rush of sound. The man moves like a snake. One second my feet are firmly planted on the ground and the next I’m dangling over his shoulder, kicking and hollering. If there are any paparazzi still hanging out in Ro’s palm trees, they’re getting their money’s worth tonight. He pins me in place with one arm.

  “Hey.” I use his butt as leverage to push up. “I in no way agreed to playing kinky cave man games with you. Put me down right now.”

  “Shut up,” he says, far too pleasantly. His long legs eat up the ground as he makes for the Jeep.

  “You have no right,” I snarl and slap his ass. Not my finest moment, I’ll admit, but my options are severely limited by my current position and even I draw the line at biting his butt. I have a bad feeling I’d like it far too much, and biting would lead to kissing, and you can imagine how that would end up.

  He smacks my ass. Hard.

  “Tit for tat, darling,” he growls.

  There’s a world of possibilities in that offer.

  My imagination takes a lovely detour down Smut Lane, just long enough for him to drop me into the front seat of the Jeep. He reaches down, grabs the seat belt, and locks me in place. My bag goes flying into the back seat.

  “You touch that belt,” he says conversationally, “and we’ll revisit the spanking game.”

  Okay then. I think I’m supposed to be cowed. Not… curious. Jesus, the man is dangerous.

  He retraces his steps around the Jeep and gets in. Seconds later, we’re headed down the road. “I’m taking you home. You don’t have to speak, don’t have to like it, don’t have to say thank you. But I promised to get you there safely and that’s what I’m going to do. After that, shit’s up in the air.”

  Yeah. I know exactly what he means.

  “Fuck,” he breathes quietly, driving just a little too fast.

  I know exactly what he means.

  Hindi

  There’s a box of Twinkies on my back steps. There’s also an open can of tuna fish, and Yowly is going to town. I’ve been feeding that cat all week and he hasn’t let me touch him once, but he’s clearly happy to put out for the big, surly SEAL scratching behind his ears. Yes, I have an ex-SEAL on my steps, too. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving. His unhappiness last night certainly hadn’t translated into a promise to put in an appearance today.

  “He has fleas,” Ro announces. “They sell shit for that, or yo
u can stop by Search and SEALs and I’ll give you some of the stuff we use on the dogs. If you dial the dose down, it’ll work on furry here.”

  While I appreciate the practical tip, I have one question. “Why are you here?”

  He looks up at me. He’s got those goddamned sunglasses on that I hate, and since I’ve already achieved permanent residency on the naughty list, I reach out, pull them off, and tuck them in the vee of my T-shirt. This has the effect of drawing Ro’s eyes straight to my boobs. Since I wasn’t expecting company—let alone the Twinkie-and-tuna-fish-bearing kind—I’m not wearing a bra. What you see is what you get and that’s just a T-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. It’s not my reality TV star look. This shit’s straight from Walmart and it’s the most comfortable thing I own. Two hundred dollar yoga pants may come with the job, but they’re for show. When I’m alone and being me, I want the stuff that I can spill shit on and that actually goes in both the washer and the dryer.

  Right now, that clearly works for Ro. He clears his throat roughly, dragging his gaze back to my face. He nudges the cardboard box of chocolately goodness closer to me. We’ve always had a thing for Twinkies, him and I. It’s the only junk food I’ve ever seen him eat, and I once made a meal of them when we first met.

  “I brought a peace offering,” he says. The box inches closer. How am I supposed to resist? “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about what happened on the beach.”

  Actually, he totally should have.

  I have no desire to tell him this, though. I’d really rather be the hot almost-ex he thinks of in the same breath as Twinkies. “I’m not perfect.”

  “I’ve noticed.” He nods. Ro won’t lie to me. You know those stupid get-to-know-you games where you pick three adjectives that describe you? Ro’s adjectives are honorable, candid, trustworthy. Yowly bumps his head against Ro’s knee hard. He’s marking Ro as his, and it’s an urge I completely understand.

  Still, I try again to make Ro understand without resorting to a full-blown confession. “I make a lot of mistakes. I’m kind of like the bumper cars at the fair—I go full-speed and ram into a lot of shit.”

  “Okay,” he says, more slowly this time.

  “So we’re way too different for anything between us to work.”

  He snorts. “I’m not the tea cup ride, sweetheart.”

  “You want me to be blunt?”

  “Please,” he says, and of course he means it.

  “You deserve someone perfect because you’re a goddamned hero. And me? I’m just me, smashing into shit and breaking it.”

  He nudges the box of chocolately goodness closer to me. I pick them up because someone should take them inside. You know, because otherwise they’ll melt in the Florida sunshine, and that would be wasteful. No other reason. I’m definitely not having some very naughty fantasies about where I could frost Ro with the Twinkie icing.

  “We have a motto in the SEALs. The only easy day is yesterday.”

  Am I sure what he was getting at? Absolutely not. While I appreciate the SEAL share, it wasn’t particularly helpful, so I fall back on sarcasm. You know—ye olde standby. “You mean it’s gonna get harder?”

  He gives me The Ro Look. He needs to patent that sucker. Or trademark it. Chalk it up to something else I don’t know, because I don’t understand the difference between the two.

  “You don’t have to be perfect,” he says. “I’d just like you to give this thing between us a shot. I want us to have a shot.”

  That’s such a lovely sentiment. I’d like to say I give the man a standing ovation, but if my father taught me one thing, it’s that perfection is always desired. Sure, I don’t have to be perfect, but that’s like saying I don’t have to lose ten pounds, make more money, or do cardio three times a week. Even brushing your teeth is optional, as long as you’re okay with your dentist’s extreme unhappiness and dentures at the early age of thirty.

  So no, I don’t have to be perfect.

  “Good thing.” I pat him on the back, which is a nice, friendly gesture. At this point, grabbing the Twinkies and holing up in the tub seems like my best option. “Because my screwing up perfection is guaranteed.”

  He gives me a long, slow look. “You always such a Debbie Downer?”

  “I’m honest. That’s a good trait.”

  He honest-to-God sighs, like I’m being the difficult one here, with my insistence on telling shit the way it is. “Then we’ll start again until I fuck up. I promise you, baby, I’ll fuck up.”

  In the last six years, I’ve done more than my fair share of starting over. I’ve learned a few lessons along the way. The first? It’s way easier to achieve a do-over and reinvent yourself when you don’t give a fuck. The potential that I feel something for Ro is way too great for this shot of his to not scare me. Committing to him feels like taking a step—off the edge of the Grand Canyon.

  Everyone applauds the athletes from the small countries who run in the Olympics, right? It’s like the Jamaican bobsledders or Nigerian ice skaters. They’re completely, totally out of their league because they just don’t do snow and ice where they come from. They’re always going to come in dead last unless someone else screws up. No one ever thinks about the hours and the training and the hopes they might have had that this time they’d really do it. Come out on top. Go home with the medal.

  No matter how much time and effort I put into this thing with Ro, I’m still not going to be standing on top of the medal podium at the end of the day. I don’t come from a place that does feelings, at least not the happy, loving kind. Thanks, Dad. So I don’t pretend that I want to join a team or give things a shot—at best, I’m standing in the stands, enjoying the show. And when I explain this to Ro, he totally fails to understand.

  He listens quietly as I explain in great depth about tropical climates, bobsledding, and ice skating, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I don’t need perfect.”

  “You don’t need anything,” I snap. “You’re Mr. Perfect. You do your own thing, get by on your own.”

  Yowly shoots across the yard, gunning for cover. Smart cat.

  “I need you,” Ro says.

  There’s a moment of awkward silence. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the ocean. The wind in the palms. A sea bird hollering for its mate. These are good sounds, but they can’t quite fill in the silence hanging between us.

  “You have to stop running, baby girl.” His voice is all rough and growly, snarly with a side of tender. “You have to try.”

  Fuck him. Since when did being my almost-ex qualify him as my shrink, too? I’m the queen of do-overs and starting over is never as satisfying as knocking the ball out of the park on your first swing. The anger starts slow, but don’t worry. I’ll pick up steam fast. Getting angry is familiar—and it is way less scary than the other feelings Rohan MacCarthy stirs in me. Today, I’m going with lust and anger for two hundred bucks.

  I stand up and hook my finger in the collar of his T-shirt. “Step inside my office.”

  He looks down at my finger, amusement curling his pretty mouth. “Am I in trouble?”

  One of us is. I haven’t decided which of us is the lucky party, but the answer will come to me. I step backward into the bungalow, drawing him with me. He lets me do it, moving with me with all the grace of a ballroom dancer. I don’t want to cha-cha-cha him—I’m craving something entirely different. Anger. Angry sex. There’s a fine line between the two, as Mr. Temporary-Alvarez is about to find out.

  I drag him so close that his front’s pressed up against mine, his boner digging into my belly. Guess Mr. Tall and Grumpy gets off on arguing too. Wish I’d known that years ago—but I’ll make up for lost time now. Reaching around him with my free hand, I push the door shut.

  “You definitely feel like trouble,” he smirks at me. His hands find my hips, steadying me, rock solid in their strength. Fuck this. I want to shake him up like a bottle of soda, make him erupt in a glorious, messy, unplanned ca
scade of sweet, sticky goodness and yes, I know exactly how dirty that sounds.

  I’ve been so lonely these last few years and he seems to feel the same way. If before we were fucking islands in two different oceans, now we’re tectonic plates crashing into each other. I want to slow this moment down, to stop rushing even if the destination is so impossibly sweet.

  “Shut up,” I order. Possibly, I use my outdoor voice. I’m sure not too quiet about it, but he doesn’t look fazed. Typical. I’m sure Ro marches into battle with the same look on his face. Calm, cool, collected, walled off—take your pick. He doesn’t get riled, doesn’t yell, and, yes, sometimes, I wonder if he feels anything strong at all. Let’s find out, shall we?

  I jump him, arms around his neck and legs cinching his waist, and pull his mouth down to mine for a kiss. He’s not getting away from me this time. He groans something, but I’m no lip-reader, so I shove my tongue in his mouth and show him silently how I’m feeling.

  His hands cup my butt, taking my weight like it’s nothing. His chest presses against mine and I rub my boobs against all that ridged muscle. God, he feels good. His thumbs rub, tracing the curve of my cheeks, dipping unexpectedly lower, deeper. My man has a dirty side. And the way he kisses… the man should be a national monument. Some kind of park where everyone can come and stare and take pictures because… holy fuck. His teeth nip my lower lip and then his tongue sweeps inside my mouth, taking and tugging and trapping me in a maelstrom of pleasure.

  When one big hand dips into the back of my panties and then lower, I whimper. “Take it out.”

  Have I mentioned that Ro’s it is particularly impressive? He teases me with his fingers instead, sliding through my slick folds and finding a million nerve endings I didn’t know existed. I want to pull his hair. Scream his name. Chain him to the wall of my bedroom and never let him out.