by Kristy Marie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Commander in Briefs
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 Commander in Briefs by Kristy Marie
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Content Editing by Marian Black
Proofing by Elizabeth Hess
Cover Designer by Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Front Cover Photograph of Eric Ambrose by Ross Jordan Photography
Interior Formatting by Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
All song titles and lyrics mentioned in Commander in Briefs are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
This adult contemporary romance novel is not recommended for readers 18 years and younger due to mature content.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Commander in Briefs
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A spectacular debut novel that accomplishes so much more than a typical romance. The first lines lured me in, the story held me hostage, and the characters stole my heart!—Jessica, Chatterbooks Book Blog
In memory of my Mama.
Even though I no longer remember the sound of your voice, I still hear when you speak to me.
Until we meet again, Commander.
Oohrah.
Seven Years Ago
“Can’t you just stick it in and grunt a few times?”
Beer erupts out of Theo’s mouth like a geyser, spattering all over my tank top, soaking through to my braless boobs. I’d like to say this kind of thing never happens to me but it happens rather often when you are best friends with an athlete. Athletes love to project shit from their mouths, like a rite of passage or something. Spit. Beer. Sunflower seeds. You name it.
Swiping away the remnants of foam, I scold him. “Theo, what have I said about—” Shit, is he choking?
I panic as violent coughs wrack his extremely toned chest. For God’s sake, I need him alive!
Reaching out, I do the only thing I can think of—I raise his arm like a little kid. Those deep, navy-stained eyes grow wide as he stares at me in horror. It’s clear he fears for his life. Or, he’s concerned the University of Georgia made a mistake accepting my med school application this fall. I don’t think arm raising is considered the proper medical procedure for strangling.
After a tense few seconds, he barks out a few more coughs and pulls his arm from mine. Since the immediate threat of death has lessened, I let him go, keeping my trained medical eye on his coloring. Just kidding, I wanna be prepared, so I move to the other end of the couch, out of the way in case he needs to hack something up.
He blinks, silently judging me from his corner of the sofa in the small two-bedroom apartment we’ve shared all four years of college. I’m braced for anything. A lecture? A pillow to the face? Hey, you never know in this friendship, we’re some violent motherfuckers. Instead, he goes the mature route, clearing his throat one last time before cocking his left brow up in amusement.
“No, Anniston. I cannot just stick it in and grunt as you so eloquently requested. That’s not how it works.”
Eh. It never hurts to ask. You never know what kind of truths you can uncover if you ask the right question.
“What about that whole just-the-tip deal, huh? I mean, that’s a thing, right? Obviously, I don’t know from experience, but I’ve watched enough porn.”
His lips tip up at the corners. I can tell he’s about to pop off some smart-ass comment about my lack of knowledge in this department.
“Anniston McCallister, apart from what you may think, Fifty Shades of Grey is not considered porn.”
“Ok, maybe it isn’t, but you can’t tell me at all those frat parties we go to, guys are giving girls the full making love treatment. No, they are sticking in their peckers midway with a few quick pumps in a filthy bathroom before coming their little hearts out. It doesn’t work that way, my ass…”
Yeah, I know how shit goes down. Don’t even try and play me, Von Bremen.
The stupid grin on his face nearly breaks my stride. He’s enjoying my little rant. And he probably likes that I said “peckers.” Either way, his cute little smile will not distract me from my mission.
I need a Plan B just in case this conversation goes absolutely nowhere. And that’s a distinct possibility at the moment. Plan B could be… it doesn’t even matter because I am determined to get Von Bremen’s compliance with Plan A. I’m not saying I will rape the poor guy, but I would be willing to tie him down a little.
Guys like kink, right?
Regardless, I’m not taking no for an answer.
If he can bang the whole student body, he can bang me.
It’s not like I’m asking for a deep conversation as we take a long, romantic stroll on the beach. I’m not even asking him to buy me dinner. Wait, that’s not true. We already planned on grabbing dinner, and it’s his turn to pay. He’s not weaseling out of that one.
“I’m sure you can find a guy willing to fulfill—” he eyes my wet shirt, paying close attention to the damp spot right below my nipple, “your needs. Why me?”
His half-ass rejection stings. Fuck you, hormones. Okay, so maybe it can’t all be blamed on hormones. I might have ulterior motives.
I am certain I’ve loved Theo Von Bremen since midd
le school. His quick wit and asshole personality appealed to me like chocolate and sweatpants on a Friday night. We became fast friends, but anything further was too complicated.
So, I took a back seat and cherished being his friend. He dated. I dated. He fucked. I didn’t.
I leap off the couch, my arms stretched wide, ready to plead my case. “It’s not like I haven’t given this a lot of thought, I have!” My voice is an octave higher than normal. “I wanted to fall in love, wanted my boyfriend to take me on a blanket under the stars. I’ve had the whole scene planned out since I was old enough to realize what an orgasm was. But the reality is, it didn’t happen for me.”
“Anniston.”
I hold my palms up to silence him so I can get this last bit out. “Don’t get me wrong, I had offers; I’m not a total shrew. But I didn’t want to give it up to some random guy on a quick drunken poke. I have standards.”
Standards that no man measures up to, not even Theodore Von Bremen. But Von Bremen and I share a strange kind of love, and it will mean something if he’s the one to take my virginity. Well, unless it fucks up our relationship and costs me my one and only close friend.
I’m desperate, though! I don’t want to go off to med school a virgin.
Theo might be my slutty wingman, but I trust him and if anyone is going to pop my cherry, I want it to be him. At least when I look back on this deal with the devil, I’ll remember that I loved him, even if I have to lie and say it’s just as friends.
I flop back on the couch, making no effort to keep my boobs from bouncing with the action. So far, the only win for me in this conversation is that Theo’s eyes have glazed over, which means he’s being a total perv and thinking about fucking me right now. Yeah, baby!
After a moment, though, reality washes over him and he immediately bites his nails, a gross habit I wish he would stop. I can’t even fathom all the places those fingers have been. But I guess when you’re used to rubbing them in the dirt, licking the tips before slinging a baseball, what harm are germs, anyways?
I glare at his offending thumb, wedged deep between perfect white teeth. A terse chin jerk is all the communication I need after ten years of friendship to relay my revulsion. He doesn’t give a shit though. He moves to the second finger while raising the third in a salute, just for me. Fucker.
I pick at the lace of my shorts as an uncomfortable silence descends around us. I’m trying desperately to think of how I can convince him, but the cute little frown he’s sporting nearly reaches that one dimple that’s damn near lickable… My fingers freeze. I could pin him down, plunge my tongue deep into that dent, make him moan in approval.
What the hell? Get ahold of yourself. Focus! You want him to agree to this proposition, not scare him off by licking his dimple like some kind of weirdo.
I get back to picking at my raggedy shorts, ashamed to be fantasizing about my bestie. Damn him. And damn these shorts I’ve washed so many times the lace resembles a snarled Q-tip. I should buy new ones, but I’m cheap about clothes. I spend most of my time in a sports bra and shorts, and I refuse to pay sixty bucks for something I am going to freaking sleep in. Hello! Who would see that shit? I’ll tell you. Me! Just me. No one curls up behind me, spoons my freshly shaven legs and slips my tacky sleep shorts down my thighs.
Well, unless Theo gets shit-faced. Then he’s terrified a clown is lurking under his bed ready to grab his ankles and pull him under for a little freaky-deaky. Okay, I might have hidden under the bed once or twice as a joke.
What are friends for anyway?
Long story short, I look like shit run over by the shit train, and booted off at the Shit Station. But here I sit, asking my closest friend since sixth grade to deflower me before this weekend.
Obviously, I haven’t thought this through. If I had, I would have at least brushed the tangles out of my hair instead of twisting it into a messy bun, which fell to the side of my head about two hours ago due to Theo’s immaturity. That badass tore his need-to-win ego to shreds in a wrestling match for the remote—I won.
The silence is maddening as I prepare to pull out all the stops. He doesn’t need this long to think it through. I conjure visions of sad puppies to moisten my eyes. On cue, my lip trembles into a well-practiced pout. I blink, slowly drawing attention to the almost-tears and let my naturally long eyelashes take over.
With as much seduction as I can muster for my longtime friend, I lift my gaze to meet his pinched one. He’s considering it. He just needs a little push in the right direction.
“Please, Teddy.” My plea is dripping in sweet southern charm.
When he springs from the couch, tugging at his dark wavy locks in agitation, I know I have him. “Fuck me, Ans.”
“Yes, Theo, that’s the plan. It won’t take long. We can squeeze it in between your workout and dinner with the team.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. Like it’s a game of Twister. My fake confidence betrays me as my hand twitches with nerves. Before he can see it, I tuck it under my leg, controlling my breaths to keep my fear contained. If he knows I’m afraid, he will back out, no questions asked.
“Be serious, Anniston.” His face turns red; his expression would scald a less determined woman.
“I am.” I’ll take him any way I can get him. I know that makes me seem like a loser, but if you could see the abs on this boy, you would beg him, too.
All jokes aside, Theo is moving to Washington, D.C. tomorrow. Drafted to the Nationals major league baseball team his freshman year of college, he waited to finish his degree before he signed. Now that he has, he’s scheduled to leave for the eastern side of the country at five a.m.
This is my only chance to keep a piece of him.
Once millions of fans get a peek at that cocky smile and chiseled arms, they won’t even care about his charming southern accent, the thick chestnut waves that I find most alluring about him. No, when fans get their hands on Theo Von Bremen, our special friendship will be over. Judge me all you want, but I’m getting a piece of him come hell or high water.
“I’m serious. You’re the only one I trust to do it.” My voice is resigned as I take one more shot at convincing him.
Stopping mid-pace, his finger slips from his mouth in shock. He’s hesitant in his steps back to the couch, almost as if he’s afraid to get close to me. “Are you sure?” That damn finger goes back to his mouth.
I reach up and swat it down because… fuck! It’s throwing me off my game. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve given it a lot of thought and I want it to be with you.”
His eyes squeeze shut as if it causes him physical pain to even discuss this. It’s not helping my confidence level.
Sucking in a choppy breath, his eyes open, set with resolution. “Fine. I’ll do it, but I want to go on record now and say that I think this is a very bad idea.”
I leap toward him as glee shoots through me, catching him off guard with a tackle that nearly topples us over the side of the sofa. With way too much excitement for a friend, I acknowledge his concern with a firm squeeze of one of his delicious butt cheeks. “Noted!”
“So, Von Bremen, how’s it feel to be a big leaguer now?”
I hate Toby. He is so sweet, but dammit, he rakes on my last nerve with his ass-kissing.
We’ve been at Mae’s, a little hole-in-the-wall diner, for the last hour enduring ass-kiss after ass-kiss. Everyone wants to get in good with Theo before he goes off to the big leagues this weekend.
“It feels kinda scary, actually.”
Toby leans forward, his elbows propped on the table like he’s dying to reach out and grab Theo’s hand. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but he looks super invested in the conversation at the moment. “Why’s that? Seems like you would be pumped to get out there and show those punks how it’s done.”
Callum, Theo’s third baseman, rolls his eyes, “Toby, have you seen the Nationals’ lineup? They went to the playoffs for fuck’s sake!”
Callum’s brother, Carter, steps in after that and attempts
to explain to Toby (using smaller, less aggressive words) that Theo will be low on the totem pole when he gets to the team. They do not need anyone to “show them how it’s done.”
“I’ll go to their AAA team until they have a spot open on the roster.” Theo corrects them with a shrug of his shoulders, acting like he isn’t stressed about pitching for a title-winning team—a team that shelled out enough money to feed a small country to acquire him.
I’m not worried though; Von Bremen doesn’t fail at anything. I’m confident he’ll amaze and astound, moving through their AAA club quickly.
Callum scoots closer to the table like he’s about to tell a juicy secret, “Dude, I heard they haze the shit out of rookies.”
Theo looks at Brody, his catcher, who also happens to be going with him to the Nationals. They both grin devilishly. “I think we can handle a little hazing.”
No doubt. Epic pranks and hazing were their trademarks at Georgia Tech. Not that I saw it first-hand. I attended Mercer. Since we don’t go to the same college, Theo and I share an apartment off campus in-between the two schools in Atlanta. The commute through downtown is a bitch, but it’s worth it to stay together.
“What about you, Anniston? Will you be going with him?” Damn Toby and his infinite questions tonight.
The table quiets as they all stare, waiting for my answer. And it’s this exact question, which made the decision to stay behind in Madison difficult in the first place. Theo and I battled over it for months. He wanted me to go to Washington and finish med school there, but I needed to do this on my own. Alone. Theo and I have been attached at the hip since middle school. It’s not a bad thing, but it felt like the right time to branch off and do my own thing. Theo is all I have left here in Georgia—ever since my grandparents’ death four years ago. When he moves to Washington tomorrow, I’ll be moving back home to Madison, moving into my grandparents’ abandoned plantation, attending the University of Georgia in the fall.
I chance a look at Theo, silently begging for help in answering Toby’s question. He only shrugs, absently picking the label off his beer bottle. His constant fidgeting is a well-known effect of his ADHD. It used to annoy me that he was always in motion but I’ve grown used to it over the years. Now, it hardly registers. Except, like now, when I’m frustrated and want to smack that bottle clear out of his grip.