by Anne Marsh
I looked at Jacks. I looked down at the stack of cards tucked under my arm. He was a good guy, and not just in bed. Damn it.
I tapped on the window.
He looked at me through the window, then reached over and pushed the door open. He hadn’t even bothered to lock it. Not that Strong had a crime problem, but I couldn’t shake my own recent memories of car camping and how I’d worried about every noise, every shadow. Guess it was nice to be six plus feet of muscle and testosterone.
I tossed the stack of cards on the dashboard.
“You kept them,” I said.
Jacks surveyed the stack. He didn’t ask what I had or why I’d gone poking around in his things. Just gave an easy nod, like the answer should have been obvious. “I sure did.”
“Why?” I wasn’t entirely sure what I was asking, but Jacks wasn’t a sentimental guy. He’d have had a reason for carting a stack of cards around with him from one tour of duty to the next, and from Afghanistan back here to Strong.
He shrugged and scooted back to lean against the other door. “They were from you.”
Oh. I wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that, but I knew what to do. I crawled into the cab and onto the seat with him. Somehow it seemed natural to just keep moving until my butt was parked on his lap and my head was using his shoulder as a pillow.
“You never said anything,” I mumbled into his T-shirt. He found my back with his hand and rubbed. For a long time, we just sat like that.
“Thought I’d missed my chance,” he said eventually. “So I didn’t see the point.”
I sighed. “That right there? Is why it’s so hard to dislike you.”
“That’s what frenemies are for.” He flicked me a two-fingered salute. “You love to hate me.”
“We don’t have the best history,” I admitted. I could be honest. It worried me. I had all these… feelings… for Jacks. What if the frenemy stuff—and our personal history—got in the way of something more?
He shrugged. “It’s not a bad start.”
“How so?” This I needed to hear.
He didn’t answer my question though. “Gotta tell you something, babe.”
I’d heard that tone before, just not from him. It usually heralded life-changing news, the conversational equivalent of a trumpet blast. I wasn’t sure what to expect. “Should I sit up?”
“You’re perfect right where you are,” he growled, his arm tightening. Guess he liked my sitting on his lap just fine, which made two of us. I could tell him what else I was thinking—that I wanted to see where we could take this thing between us. That I had feelings for him, feelings I hadn’t planned on or even welcomed.
“Jacks—” I started, hoping the rest of the words would occur to me.
He cut me off, pressing a finger against my mouth. Just because I could, I licked the tip, dragging my tongue over the work-roughened skin. Every part of him tasted good. Not sweet—there was nothing sweet about Jacks—but part forest and pine and all wild male. No matter what happened here between us, I’d never tame Jacks.
“Sometimes when you’re up in the air and the plane’s circling, the ground looks real far away. Got to wonder if jumping’s the smartest thing to do or just a shortcut to the end.” He shrugged, and I drank in the play of muscles beneath the faded cotton. “And then every time I jump, I remember why I do it.”
“Because you’re an adrenaline junkie?” I traced his nipple with my finger, loving the way his breathing got rougher, harder. I thought either he was mine or working his way up to it, so if I could hurry him along, I’d do it. I might not be able to tame him, but somehow I needed to housebreak him just a little.
“Because then it’s me and the sky. Got the wind roaring in my ears, the ground swinging all crazy-like beneath me, and if I do what I trained to do, I’ve got a sweet shot at hitting my target, and everything’s gonna be okay. If I hesitate though, it’s over.”
Okay. I didn’t need that particular mental image of Jacks crash-landing on the ground. Watching him cut himself free of that big pine tree had been funny, partly because I’d been pissed at the world and partly because he’d already handled the landing portion of things and had survived intact.
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“Because I’m jumping right now.” His finger moved from my mouth to my chin, nudging my face up, and my breath caught. “I love you. I should have told you that years ago, but I hesitated, and then you met Mr. Dick and things kinda snowballed from there.”
“You never said anything.” I sounded like a broken record. You didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t didn’t didn’t.
“I should have,” he agreed, and I loved the look in his eyes.
That look was worth a thousand letters or conversations, although I was greedy. I’d take the look, the letters, and anything else he’d give me. I wanted all of Jacks Benson.
“So I’m saying it now. I love you, Holly Clark, and I’m hoping you love me back.”
Old habits die hard, I realized. Part of me wanted to tease, wanted to watch him squirm. The rest of me though had pretty much melted all over his chest.
“You move fast,” I said.
“I know what I want. Who.”
“Me too,” I admitted, letting my hands get busy with the buttons on the front of his jeans. Undoing him was as easy as one, two, three, and then he came popping out. My smoke jumper had gone commando underneath his denim.
“While that’s real nice,” he rasped out, “that wasn’t quite what I had in mind. Jesus,” he cursed when I wrapped a hand around his dick. “I thought you’d want me to explain.”
“I want everything,” I demanded. “Starting with this.”
I squeezed his dick, sliding my hand up the hard length to the tip.
“That your favorite part of me?” Amusement filled his voice as he shifted me to straddle him. His fingers got busy too, stroking down the T-shirt and beneath the hem. Seeing as how I was bare legged, there was nothing between him and my panties, a fact he seemed to appreciate, because he groaned and stroked higher.
“Nope,” I told him and slapped my free hand against his chest. Right over where his heart was. I thought. I had to admit that my knowledge of anatomy wasn’t as great as it could be. “This right here is my favorite part.”
He nudged my fingers up and over a few inches. “I’m assuming you prefer my heart to my rib cage?”
I squeezed and he groaned. “I love you.”
“In the truck no less. Shame on you, babe.” Since he’d somehow managed to find a condom and position himself at my opening, I figured that wasn’t a complaint. And then he pressed into me, opening me up and sliding deeper and deeper with single-minded focus, and I forgot about using my words.
Jacks thrust up and I slammed down, taking him ways I hadn’t dreamed were possible. My bad boy SEAL was a constant surprise. I tightened my knees on his hips, riding him with a slow roll of my hips.
“Good thing I don’t have neighbors,” he muttered, adjusting the angle of his penetration and finding a spot that made me squeal. He drove me insane, and we both knew it. He found my clit, dragging his thumb around the bud in a slow, hard circle, and I lost it, grinding against him and falling over the edge. He withdrew, pushed back inside me, following me in a few fast, furious strokes.
I collapsed against his chest, savoring the way we were still connected. Hot sex and Jacks loved me. My crappy week had taken a right-hand turn into fantasyland. Eventually Jacks shifted, easing me off him and tucking me against his side.
“We should go inside.” I was almost certain we couldn’t spend the rest of our lives curled up on the front seat of his truck. He was too tall, for one, plus my stomach picked that moment to growl.
He grinned and reached into the backseat to fish out a cardboard box. “Brought you breakfast.”
The man was definitely a keeper. He’d brought me cream puffs. A dozen big, fat, oozing pieces of pastry with enough calories to fuel the entire smo
ke jumping team. If I hadn’t already loved him, I’d have fallen for him on the spot.
“I love you,” I said. “Just so we’re clear.”
“Best day of my life when I fell out of the tree at your feet.” He pressed a kiss against my mouth, and for a moment I thought we’d steam up his truck again. “Gonna be one best day after another now.”
“Except when we fight.”
He grinned. “And then we’ll have make-up sex.”
He made it sound so easy. Just… let go. Let it happen.
“I’ve got this,” he rumbled against my mouth, and I couldn’t hold back my smile.
“And I’ve got us.”
Special Sneak Peek of Pleasing Her SEAL!
1
Ladies, it’s Saturday and I’m surrounded by honeymooners. This is one step up from my usual weekend wedding gig, where my people options are usually the geriatric crowd, the toddler dancing crowd (always good for a much-needed cardio burst and the cutest, stickiest kisses), or the drunken groomsman crowd (good for equally enthusiastic but much damper kisses—eww). I counted not one, not two, but three couples wrapped around each other by the pool. I have dubbed them the Octopi because they seem to have eight hands each and at least seven of them are engaged in activities best left to the bedroom or a soft porn channel. Go, Octopi! Speaking of that, watching the Octopi procreate underscores my own single state. You’ve found The One and you’re hearing wedding bells, or you wouldn’t be visiting this blog. Any tips for where to look for a good guy? Because this wedding blogger is feeling lonely in paradise.
—MADDIE, Kiss and Tulle
“HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HOOYAH, HEY.” US Navy SEAL Mason Black fist-bumped his knuckles with Levi Brandon’s. He didn’t have far to reach since both men were currently sharing the same palm tree backrest and catching their breaths after completing their mission.
“Today’s gonna be another easy day.” Levi automatically finished the chant. The words took Mason back to BUD/S training when making the SEALs team had still been seven weeks of hell away. Operating on four hours of sleep or less a night, he’d worked with his teammates to carry their Zodiac over their heads through the pounding surf, crawled through mud flats and made best friends with a three-hundred-pound log that was their instructors’ idea of exercise equipment. Good times.
Levi grinned as if he hadn’t just been embroiled in a firefight. “I’m hoping there’s a beer in my future.”
The current op wasn’t so bad and beat the hell out of completing the O course at BUD/S. Not only had the rain finally stopped, which went in the plus column, but one hell of a tropical sunrise lit up the horizon. Since he was waiting for the Zodiacs from the US Navy cruiser anchored just offshore, Mason had every reason to stare at the horizon. His team was minutes away from successfully finishing their undercover op on Fantasy Island.
One more checkmark in the “mission complete” column.
If he’d been a paperwork-and-spreadsheet kind of guy. Which he wasn’t.
Nope, he mused to himself as he went to work with a SIG Sauer and a sniper rifle. Rather than riding the commuter train, he’d be extracted from the island by Black Hawk and flown to the nearest US military base to debrief. And instead of writing quarterly reports or coding software, he’d helped lead the hostile extraction of a South American drug lord who’d made the mistake of booking a luxury vacation for himself and his new girlfriend on Fantasy Island.
Mason’s SEAL team had moved in early, posing as resort staff, and intercepted the guy as soon as he’d stepped foot on the island. Pretending to be a gourmet chef had actually been fun. Poolside ceviche lessons were a nice change of pace from dodging bullets, and he genuinely liked cooking. The female students weren’t bad looking, either.
SEAL Team Sigma had established an undercover camp on Fantasy Island’s undeveloped side. Unlike the resort digs, their camp was basic. A few hammocks, a couple of tents and enough hardware and weaponry to take over a small country. They could be packed and wheels up in two hours, and that portability alone made the place more perfect than a country club. Better yet, the rugged terrain all but guaranteed that no resort guest would stumble across the SEALs.
The faint sound of Zodiacs cutting across the lagoon announced that it was showtime. Diego Marcos, the captured drug lord, started cursing up a storm behind his duct-tape gag and pulling at his zip-tied wrists. The scumbag wasn’t going to quit until he was in US custody aboard the Navy vessel cruising offshore, and maybe not even then. Not Mason’s problem. The girlfriend, however, looked peaked and more than a little teary, so Mason helped her to a seat on the sand with a hand under her elbow.
She might or might not know squat about her beau’s drug-running activities, but she’d come here with him and now she was tarred with the same brush. Marcos shot her a look, not quite managing to mask his concern. Mason got that. Separating your personal life from your professional life was hard.
Mason didn’t like the worry in her eyes, either, so when she stared up at him, he broke out his Spanish for Dummies. “No te preocupes que vas a estar bien.”
The way her eyes welled up at his words wasn’t a good sign. Or maybe she’d just had enough. Someone, somewhere was going to miss her. That unknown someone would want to yell at her for her bad choice in men and then maybe add an “I told you so.” He could imagine all too easily how he’d feel if she was one of his sisters or his cousins, seven females he loved more than life itself and who’d managed, collectively, to date every badass bad guy out there. Some of them more than once.
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and fell back. He couldn’t let her go, and he couldn’t give her a do-over. So the best thing was to get out of her personal space.
“Softie,” Levi mouthed.
Yeah, but he was also the softie in charge at the moment. Their team leader, Gray Jackson, was supervising the medevac of an injured team member, so Mason had command.
Something flashed at his nine o’clock. Light on glass, like a camera lens. Typical. Right when the mission wrapped and they were all free to ride off into the sunset, everything went FUBAR. Lifting his binoculars, he zoomed in and, damn, it was the hot chick who’d attended the cooking lessons. She’d liked his ceviche. He’d liked…her.
She was gorgeous, with a smile that lit her up from the inside out, radiant red hair bouncing around her shoulders. During the class, she’d worn a polka-dot sundress with tiny straps crisscrossing her shoulders, and his new mission had become finding a way to nudge those thin ribbons down her shoulders and get to know her. Biblically.
He nudged Levi with the toe of his boot. “We’ve got company.”
“Tell me it’s the Budweiser truck.”
“We’re on an island, dumbass.”
“Don’t be so literal.” Levi saluted him with his middle finger. “And let a man dream. Where’s our hot spot?”
“Up on the hill. Nine o’clock. We’ve got a resort guest out and about.”
Levi snatched the glasses away from him and examined the hillside. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Jogger?”
“No such luck. That’s Madeline Holmes. She’s a wedding blogger and right now she’s snapping pictures of the lagoon.”
She was also his personal eye candy, her happy-go-lucky smile drawing his attention every time he was near her. And if he’d taken advantage of this island op to put himself in her vicinity as often as possible, that was need-to-know information.
“And in another ten, our pickup crew.” Levi cursed. “Options?”
Their mission was already FUBAR in some respects: Remy taking a bullet to the abdomen and being airlifted to a hospital, Gray bleeding emotionally because he’d taken a header for the visiting doctor who’d flown out with the injured SEAL. Pick one. Hell, pick both. This was why an insertion into civilian space spelled danger. Everything was easier in the jungle. Something moved, you shot it. Not, of course, that he wanted to shoot the woman.
“What are the odds she’s
taking selfies?” Levi asked.
Zero to none. A familiar calm descended. His pretty redhead was a threat to his team, so he’d neutralize her. No matter how alive she made him feel, the mission and the team came first. “I’ll take care of it. You hand off our guests here to the Navy boys.”
“Got it.” Levi turned toward the approaching Zodiac. “Try to remember that we’re on a no-kill mission, okay? Plus, she’s friends with Ashley, and you don’t want to piss off Ashley.”
Jesus. Did he look that cranky? Or like the kind of guy who would take out an innocent civilian? He agreed with the warning on Ashley Dixon, though. She was a DEA loaner and honorary member of the SEAL team—and she could be mean as hell if you riled her up. Moving rapidly, he stripped off his more obvious weapons and dropped them on the sand. Since he was supposed to be undercover, working on the down low, he couldn’t show up toting forty pounds of lethal hardware.
* * *
MORNINGS SUCKED. PREDAWN ALARMS sucked even more because no one, ever, had accused Madeline Holmes of being a morning person. Still, she’d given it a shot, scrambling up the hill even as she willed the sunrise to hold off. Hitting the snooze button the third time had been a mistake.
In order to make the sunrise, she’d rolled out of bed and settled for a tank top, shorts and sneakers. Usually, she put some thought into her clothes. Okay. Lots of thought. Clothing was like armor. Pretty armor. Instead of rocking her suitcase full of brand-new vacation wear, however, she was climbing Mount Everest. She hadn’t shaved her legs or brushed her hair and she stank of eau de bug spray.
Go, her.
As the air lightened around her, she pushed harder because the sun was coming up fast and, color her romantic, but she wanted to catch the first rays of dawn, the colors exploding over the edge of the horizon. This was probably her one and only chance to visit a place like Fantasy Island, so every moment needed to count—and the pictures would be awesome blog material. And the more footage she got, the better. Everything rode on this trip.