Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6)

by Anne Marsh

  Marlee’s face takes on a stubborn look. “I don’t need a permanent man to have a baby. I could go trolling and find a random guy to knock me up. I could go to a sperm bank and make a withdrawal.”

  She chuckles quietly about that last one, but I’m in no mood for bad jokes. “Not a good idea,” I say, scrambling for reasons to back my point up. “You could get anyone.”

  The loaner penis market suddenly feels way too much like buying a grab bag. How the fuck do you know what you get? What if the guy lied his ass off, claiming super sperm, because he wanted the fifty bucks a shot? This isn’t that much safer than the bar hook up, even if it’s some doctor getting up her vagina instead of an anonymous dick. What about diseases? And orgasms? She should enjoy the process.

  She sucks in a breath. “So do you want to have sex with me? You don’t have to do anything,” she blurts out. “Other than the obvious.”

  She’s nervous. Do you see the way her fingers tighten and relax, twisting the edge of her T-shirt? And the way she kind of forgets to breathe after that one inhalation? My answer matters to her. And it’s not a bad offer, right? We’ll fuck like bunnies—and Marlee will get a baby bunny of her very own. I’ve never been wanted just for my sperm before. This is a new one for Vann’s Universe.

  I take my own matching breath. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Her eyes light up, and for one insane moment I think we’re actually going to do this thing right here, right now. We both look at each other, neither of us sure what to say or do. And then she laughs. Her face lights up, and all the tension vanishes. Her shoulders shake, her tits shake, the edge of her shirt shakes. She flops back onto the floor and stares up at the ceiling. “We’re totally crazy.”

  “Not disagreeing with you there, although the crazy started with you.” I lie down beside her. Not entirely sure what she’s looking at, because all I can see from here is a sliver of light and the bottom of the second-floor bedroom. This means that my next fix-it job has just announced itself—her floor shouldn’t have a peephole.

  Somehow she inches over until her shoulder bumps mine. When I breathe in, I smell her perfume. Something light and happy, full of flowers and fucking sunshine. She turns her head to look at me.

  “I really do want a baby.”

  “I’m now well aware of that.” This is where it would help if I had people skills. Or a social life. Any kind of experience interacting with the world when I’m not on the business end of a sniper rifle. There’s probably something I’m supposed to say or do (other than the obvious) now that Marlee’s nominated me for Super Sperm Donor of the Year.

  “If it helps—” I say, and then stop abruptly. Careful, sailor.

  She pokes me in the ribs. “I just asked to borrow your goodies. You can’t be bashful now.”

  “I could go to one of those clinics and make a donation.” Granted, my entire knowledge of artificial insemination comes from the movies. I’m itching to Google the process, but even I know that now’s not the time. “It doesn’t have to be—personal.”

  She laughs, and I wonder if she knows that the same finger that dug into the space between my second and third ribs is now stroking back and forth over the cotton. No point in telling her, right? Because then things will just get (more) awkward or she’ll stop. Besides, I like what she’s doing.

  It’s not like I’ve never dated or taken a woman home for the night. I’ve had my share of quick bar hook-ups and I’ve met plenty of people while deployed overseas. I love sex as much as the next guy, and after a green light like I’ve just received, usually I’d roll over, pull Marlee into my arms and kiss the daylights out of her. No question. After all, I’ve been making mental fantasy lists ever since I first saw her—so why am I holding back? When did this sailor turn into a gentleman?

  “I don’t like needles.” I feel the little shiver run over her skin even through our clothes. “Making a test tube baby requires all sorts of shots.”

  “I’ve seen badass SEALs pass out when they got their jabs.” Not that I actually like getting stuck myself, but after you’ve been shot by hostiles who’d like nothing better than to kill you, a needle’s no big deal. On the other hand, it clearly is to Marlee. We’ve all got our hidden gotchas.

  “Really?” I can hear the laughter in her voice again.

  “Finn’s not a fan,” I promise her, and fuck it. She invited me to make her a baby, so I don’t have to hold back, right? I take her hand and wrap my fingers around hers. Lift it so her soft skin brushes my mouth. As second kisses go, it’s pretty awesome. “Another guy passed out on the floor of the clinic. We gave him shit for weeks.”

  “It sounds silly.” I can’t help but notice that she doesn’t pull her hand away. “You’re not scared of anything.”

  That’s where she’s wrong. See, I’m usually not worried about screwing up or failing. I’ve been trained to assess a situation and then go in. It helps, too, that Uncle Sam not only has the best toys, but shares them. I’ve always been part of a team, too. I’ve stormed beaches, outshot snipers, parachuted into hostile territory. Babies? And a relationship? Those are terra incognita, and I’m not arrogant enough to believe they don’t matter.

  “I’ve never been a daddy,” I offer. “And I’ve certainly never had a gorgeous woman tell me she just wants me for my sperm. These are scary firsts.”

  She’s all about the baby-making potential, but her body is telling me something more. She wants me. She kind of curls into me, softening against me, running her fingers up and down my arm like I’m a piano she’s playing. Her breathing speeds up a little, like she’s anticipating something wonderful, and for just this moment I know I’m the only man she sees. I’m the center of her world, her focus, and how can I pass on that?

  I’m decisive. Have I mentioned that? I roll, scoop, and tuck Marlee on top of me. Settle her weight on top of my dick. Get one hand on her hip and one on her ass. She blinks, looking a little startled. I know I give the impression of being laid-back and watchful, but there’s a time to wait in the shadows—and a time to go in, guns blazing.

  I’m going in.

  “You have any questions for me before we get started?”

  Naturally, she nods. Marlee has more words than a dictionary.

  “I want a baby,” she says. “Not marriage. Not money. I don’t expect you to stick around or be a father.”

  That’s unexpectedly… hurtful. Not that I’m jonesing to go down on one knee and pop the question with a diamond in my hand, but I’m not on some kind of anti-marriage crusade, either. Does she really expect me to make a sperm deposit and then remove myself from her life entirely? We’re neighbors. We’re bound to run into each other.

  I have to know. “You want me to relocate to the moon?”

  She blinks down at me nervously. “I just don’t want you to feel any pressure.”

  Too late for that. “So my continued participation is allowed at a later date?”

  She shifts uneasily. “Sure. You can do whatever you want.”

  I need that in writing. Notarized. Fucking written in the sky. She’s just handed me the holy grail of mankind—permission to do whatever I want and I have a long list.

  She leans down, looking into my eyes. “Do you want to be a dad?”

  My ironhard dick bumped up against her pussy should be her first clue. “What if I want to? I mean, Roger’s not bad. If he were mine, I couldn’t imagine never seeing him at all.”

  Marlee beams at me. “Okay, then,” she says, and I have no idea what I just agreed to. I’ll figure it out. “I’ll need a full medical history, but you look healthy.”

  I grin back. “You’d better believe it.”

  I have a few scars from my tours of duty as a SEAL. Got a particularly nasty knife gash between my second and third ribs courtesy of a hostile patrol I should have seen coming. A bullet wound from a midnight mountain encounter in Afghanistan. None of those souvenirs, however, will prevent the kind of procreative activities Marlee is planning.
r />   “Have you ever been in the hospital? Had surgery? Any family health issues I should be aware of?”

  “Not really.” I run my hands up her side. I’m not a big talker, whereas Marlee inevitably veers into oversharing territory. We kind of balance each other that way—and at least there’s information on the table.

  “No lingering after effects from your military career?” She actually shifts so she can eyeball my crotch. As if she can’t tell that everything there is in fine working order? Uncle Sam wouldn’t have any SEALs left if he routinely let their balls get shot off. I guarantee it.

  “Shot twice.” I draw a small circle on her left thigh and then run my fingers over her side where the bullet creased mine. “And I jacked up a leg on a bad HALO landing. All occupational hazards, though. Unless Mini-Marlee decides to enlist, he or she is safe.”

  She frowns, and I swear she’s almost ready to climb off me, grab her phone, and start taking notes. “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty-six.”

  She stares at me in horror.

  “Oh my God. You’re a baby.” Apparently, it’s acceptable that I’ve been winged more than once as an active duty SEAL, but my age is a deal-killer.

  “Sweetheart, I promise you I’m no baby.”

  “I’m older than you,” she says, and yep… that’s an accusation I hear in her voice, as if I’d deliberately delayed my birth a few years so she could outgun me in the age category. I reach for the platitudes.

  “Age is just a number.” I heard that somewhere and it sounded good, although if I were picking between eighty and eighteen I know which body I’d choose.

  She narrows her eyes. “If I decided to label your dick five inches instead of ten, would you say length was just a number?”

  “Might get you a ruler,” I acknowledge, “So you could do some double-checking. But the fact you can’t count doesn’t make the motion in the ocean any less amazing, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m thirty-four and a cougar.” She hides her face in her hands—but she damned sure doesn’t dismount or get dressed, so that’s how I know that somehow I’m acing this job interview after all. I imagine her riding me just like this, but with far fewer clothes. Maybe just a cowgirl hat and boots. You know—to inspire my too-young, not-old-enough ass.

  I draw her hands away from her face and press a kiss into each palm. I’m hard. I’m ready. All I need is the final green light.

  “You’re gorgeous. Must be the extra eight years you’ve had to get ready.”

  She giggles. “For a man who doesn’t like talking, you don’t do too badly.”

  It’s not that I’m anti-conversation—it’s just that most people aren’t worth the time. I’m smart enough not to share this opinion with Marlee. She likes everybody.

  “We should practice,” I say virtuously. Marlee eyes me suspiciously. She’s one smart lady—Mini-Marlee had better hope the genetic inheritance comes from that side of the family.

  Since she looks like she’s ready to launch into another conversation and I’ve hit my word limit for the day, I take the easy out. I reach up, cup her face in my hands, and pull her down to me. Her chin brushes mine, her lips skimming my mouth. Fuck this easy, gentle, talking shit. I’m not a sensitive guy, and she knows it.

  I take her mouth hard, cutting off her words, loving her lips that are never, ever fucking silent. She tastes even better than she looks—like the frozen grapes she produces “as a treat” when we both knew she really wanted ice cream. Sweet, creamy goodness. Vanilla with a hint of pepper. I’ll make a goddamned list later. She drives me crazy, and then she gives me everything. Gives in, gives it up, opens up wide so I’m as deep as I can go, my mouth fucking hers until she moans and bucks in my arms.

  She grips me tightly with her hands, her nails digging into my shirt, burrowing beneath to find my skin, and I’m gonna wear her mark for the next day or six. I kiss her and kiss her, driving away the doubts and the questions because she’s invited me in and I know how to hold my ground. How to win a fight. How to kick ass in this sensual war we’re fighting.

  She’s mine.

  When I pull back, she’s panting. My own breathing’s none too even and rebar’s got nothing on my dick. I could probably knock her up with one shot.

  “So. You wanna get started?” My dick is totally onboard with this new get-Marlee-pregnant plan. It means no condom—and lots and lots of sex.

  “Absolutely.” She practically vibrates in place. Unfortunately this turns out to not be sexual. Nope. The words come tumbling out of her kiss-slicked mouth. Lots and lots—and lots—of words. Turns out, Marlee’s got a plan for the next two days, and it doesn’t involve marathon sex, sweaty bodies, or hiding out in my bedroom.

  In fact, I don’t get sex at all. Instead, I get a homework assignment. You know that part in Harry Potter where Hermione Granger is unrolling the world’s longest parchment, a never-ending list of words? Yeah. Marlee’s baby daddy requirements look something like that. I have to go and have a “genetic work up.” And a series of blood tests. I’m also supposed to down a fistful of vitamins, stick to a healthy diet, skip the sauce, and get a flu shot.

  She hops off me and holds out a hand.

  And… what? She wants me to shake on our deal?

  Apparently, the answer is yes. The kissing was a much better idea. I stand up slowly, because there’s every chance my dick snaps clean in half. God. She’s fucking gorgeous. I’m clearly never gonna understand what goes on in her head, but that’s okay. I’ll just enjoy the rest of her. I slide my hand into hers and shake. A diamond ring might have been simpler.

  “You’ll make a wonderful daddy.” She leans up, presses a kiss against my cheek, and dances away.

  “We’re gonna get to the sex part soon, right?” I call after her as she disappears upstairs. Her laughter floats back to me and I head back outside. Might as well grab my tools and fix what I can.

  Bravo loves being my co-pilot. The dog bounces up and down in the front seat beside me when I pull up in front of Marlee’s place the day after we strike our deal. Marlee comes flying out her front door, an enormous smile lighting up her face. Papelier is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, so we’re kicking off the week with step one in Project Knock Marlee Up. Once again, this is not the step I would have focused on. We’re both fully dressed and sex still does not appear to be on the event horizon.

  My first clue—besides the lack of a bed—is her outfit, which would definitely never be mistaken for sexy lingerie. Marlee’s wearing a flowered romper, a pair of canvas sneakers, and carrying what has to be the world’s smallest purse. The bow decorating the front practically exceeds the entire carrying capacity. She’s piled her hair up on top of her head in one of those messy twists, and a ballpoint pen, two pencils, and what might be a chopstick appear to be key structural elements. Little wisps escape in every direction. Honestly? It’s kinda cute.

  I get a handful of seconds to enjoy the view, during which I signal Bravo to move his ass to the back seat. He reluctantly complies, and then she’s yanking open the passenger side door and maneuvering herself up onto the seat with a little hop. Fuck. I was probably supposed to get out and open the door. Or maybe that’s just date night behavior? We’re planning on having sex, but other than my putting out, I’m not sure what she’s expecting from me.

  “You’re here!” Apparently, she was worried that I would come to my senses. Nope. I’m too stupid—and attracted—for that. I’m hers for as long as she’ll have me.

  I put the truck into drive and point us toward the mainland. “Promised you I would be. You got directions for me?”

  She fishes for her seatbelt before she says anything. Today’s mission involves purchasing an ovulation kit. Angel Cay is both small and not in possession of a drugstore, therefore necessitating a field trip. And since Marlee would rather that not everyone in a twenty-mile radius be alerted to our reproductive agenda, she’s decreed we’re going to a drugstore on the mainland. One th
at’s at least forty miles from the Florida Keys.

  For the first twenty miles, Marlee tells me all about the latest doings on Angel Cay. There was a cruise ship in port yesterday, and the visitors provided the usual shot of color. Somebody tried to drive a bike drunk and ended up crashed into a coconut palm with minor injuries. A couple was surprised on the beach in the middle of a very creative sex act (I ask for details about this one but am shot down). Mrs. Johnston, Marlee’s neighbor on the right, is putting in a new garden and has a very hot, very tanned young gardener, and everybody comes out and watches while he digs (although there’s a double standard at work because apparently Mrs. Johnston doesn’t merit the cougar label). Marlee talks. I listen and nod. The highway’s a straight shot, just two lanes each way that thread over small islands. Plenty of boats on both sides, and little baby islands come and go on the horizon. No dolphins today, but I look anyhow. Bet Marlee would love to see those.

  Eventually, she slows down the torrent of words and reaches for the iPod I’ve plugged into the dashboard, thumbing through my selections. I’m a country boy inside and out. I get the idea she’s not so pro-twang, however, because she scrolls, pauses, and moves on.

  “This baby better have my musical taste.” She sounds like she’s talking to herself. News flash? She doesn’t get to pick and choose which one of us the mini-us takes after. In case that’s a deal breaker, however, I go for the diversion.

  “We should name him or her.”

  She gives me the kind of look that you give someone who’s just stepped in dog shit—and tracked it inside your place. “I’ve already called naming rights.”

  Like the baby’s a building or a basketball stadium. “A nickname,” I coax. “Something a little shorthand.”

  She thinks for a moment. “People stick their names together.”