Wanted: Wife 4 Navy Seals: A Sizzling Hot Military Romance (Wanted Series Book 1)

by Dee Palmer

  “Am I all packed?” My eyes widen with a dizzying head rush when I whip my head around too fast to survey the room and the neatly stacked tower of suitcases Hope has been stuffing all night on my behalf. I have been just as busy and even with my coordination shot to shit, I have managed to cut the crotch out of every single pair of jeans, trousers, and underpants that Dave owns. He’s so keen to share his dick, might as well make it easy for him. Hope cleared the debris and made sure the clothing was folded away, so he won’t suspect I have gone a little Fatal Attraction. It’s the very least he deserves.

  “You are.” She pushes the glass in front of my face once more. I reluctantly take it and drink the water down this time.

  “And you’re sure I can stay with you?” I let out a deep breath and hand the empty glass back. Her kind eyes soften with the sympathetic tilt of her head.

  “You know you can, babe. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Only, I don’t have any—” Fuck, more fucking tears. She’s by my side, perched on the bed as I am, her arms holding me tightly, offering me solace. My body shudders and shakes as I fight the rolling waves of sob after sob that wrack my body. I can’t believe I have any fluid left. I’m utterly battered and bruised, and my tummy muscles scream in agony from all the sorrow. Her hold comforts me while she rocks me and makes soothing sounds to try and ease my pain. I’m falling so deep, I can no longer see any light. “I was so humiliated, Hope. How could he do that? How could he think it was funny? After everything I’ve been—”

  “Because he’s a cunt.” She drags me closer with a tighter, chest-crushing squeeze, and I let out a hollow laugh as she pulls me back once more from the abyss.

  “He really is.”

  “And we’re not going to give him any more time, okay?” She holds my gaze, and I blink the tears away. She nods slowly, and I find myself mirroring her movements, like a small child might do.

  “Okay.” I reply on autopilot, because with the numbness, the unbearable hurt, and copious quantities of alcohol, I’m not sure much is going in. Nevertheless, I trust my best friend; she’s all I’ve got now.

  “You are coming to stay with me, and if that piece of shit so much as enters my post code, I will cut his precious cock off with a rusty spoon and feed it to the pigeons in Trafalgar.” She pinches her thumb and forefinger together with the smallest of gaps, and her other hand is holding an imaginary and equally tiny spoon with which she motions a rough chopping action. I lean my tipsy head onto her shoulder, feeling it’s too heavy to hold up. I let out a slow breath and a hiccup.

  “There aren’t any pigeons in Trafalgar anymore,” I muse out loud, because that is how my drunk brain works, focusing on the pertinent parts of a conversation. Not that my heart isn’t broken, bleeding out from this relationship wreckage, or that I’m a tangled, mangled mess of unstable emotion. No, I’m thinking about where all the fucking pigeons are. I must be suffering from alcohol poisoning, or I might have actually lost my mind.

  “There are still pigeons, babe, and if there weren’t any, I’ll happily stick it down his self-serving throat.” She narrows her eyes with a fierce scowl, looking her meanest and most sincere.

  “Just make sure he swallows!” I blurt out, and she joins me in our first real laugh of the night—well, morning now.

  “It ain’t love unless you swallow, babe, and that man, he fucking loves himself.” She wiggles her perfect brows, but the glint in her eye is so serious it makes me shiver. I love her so much, because she means every damn word. “Come on, babe, let’s get you out of…” She pulls me to standing.

  “My home?” I blurt my interruption. My voice catches on my question, and my tone is a mix of resignation and desolation.

  “His home.” Hope emphasizes this with a wince of sadness, but the truth of it can’t hurt me anymore than it already does.

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of his home and life. I’ve wasted enough time.” I sniff out a bitter laugh. I may have nothing of value in those five cases, but I’m worth more than a fucking gold condom in a velvet gift box. It wasn’t me who kissed ten years together good-bye, but it is me who has finally seen that I deserve to come first for a change.

  “I hate this, Hope. I don’t want to date. I just want someone to make that decision for me. Choose me.” I thump my chest and grunt my best impression of a Neanderthal man. “Very caveman, you know? You my woman. You my wife.”

  “You do not.” She rolls her eyes at me and pushes another online dating form my way. It has been a month, but when I realized there was little love lost, at least on his part, it was pretty easy to pick myself up. Maybe, if I could’ve pinpointed the moment in time when we moved firmly into the friend zone, my relationship with Dave would’ve ended years ago. For whatever reason, though, I didn’t see it, and now I am, for the very first time, ‘putting myself out there’. I’m being proactive and upbeat, which does make me think the decision to leave Dave was the right one all along. I still struggle to get past that night. Actually, I don’t struggle with it. It’s very simple. What he did to me was unforgivable.

  “Well, not exactly, but I would still like someone to—”

  “I know. Someone to choose you.” She wrinkles her nose like the very idea leaves a lingering smell of rotten eggs.

  “Yeah.” I shrug off and ignore her fundamental difference of opinion.

  “Well, what about these guys? No dating necessary, they just want a wife.” She spins her laptop to face me. I don’t bother to look up.

  “Yeah, because that doesn’t sound creepy. What do you mean, guys?” Then I do look up and swipe to enlarge the image.

  “It’s got to be a joke, but this advert is flying around Twitter and the rest of social media. Dream come true for someone like you, someone wanting the whole marriage thing. But four guys? Jeez, you’d have a bucket fanny in a week.” She belly laughs at her own joke.

  “Yeah, but what a week.” I snicker and start to read the advert.

  “Shame there’s no pictures.” She draws her lips down in an exaggerated pout of disappointment I happen to share.

  “Navy guys? Hmm, well, that counts me out. The lucky girl would have to super fit to handle that amount of—”

  “Cock,” she cries out, fanning herself and mock fainting flat-out on her bed.

  “I was thinking about stamina, but yeah. Still, it does sound good, don’t you think? I mean four guys worshipping your body. It feels like forever since I’ve—”

  “Your punani got a pounding.” She’s so unbelievably crude, but I love her filter-free expressions which frequently make me pee my pants. She has been my lifesaver this last month since I moved out and ended my ten-year relationship with the newly titled Dave the Dickhead. He hasn’t even called. “Finn, baby steps, don’t you think? This would be a monumental change for someone like you. I don’t think you’re quite ready for this, honey. You haven’t managed to pick one guy yet, and to go from having fucked one guy to gangbang central? We’re probably talking DVA or maybe DVDA. Now that’s gonna make your eyes water.” Her salacious tone and deviant grin makes me ask, when I really should know better.

  “DVA?”

  “Double vaginal and anal or DVDA is double vag and double an—”

  “Okay! I get your point. Maybe I need to get one date out of the way first, eh?” I wave my hands frantically to interrupt and rush my words to stop her from finishing her sentence and my mind from flashing to a full visual.

  “Never going to happen.” She chuckles, and her tone is slightly mocking.

  “A girl can dream.” I flash her a wink. She may have been trying to shock me, but I don’t need too long to warm to a new idea.

  “Come on! You promised to be my wing woman.” One week later, I fight to pull the covers from Hope’s death grip. She has the duvet tucked over her head and is resisting any attempt I have used to try and rouse her lazy arse for the last fifteen minutes. She groans, and I snatch the covers and whip them back so far, her flailing arms are useless
at trying to capture them back.

  “You don’t need a wing woman. It’s the gym,” she grumbles and flips onto her tummy, pressing her head into her pillow.

  “I do, and you said you’d help.” I wait patiently for her to flip back around. A few short seconds is all it takes. Her face is still like thunder, but at least she’s now sitting up.

  “Why couldn’t you eat your body weight in ice cream like any normal woman does after a break-up?” She squints one eye open, the other scrunched shut, then smiles when she meets my gaze.

  “Because I might have a date, and I have a feeling I’m going to need to be fit.” I tempt her innate curiosity and abundant nosiness.

  “Not another Dave, because I can tell you right now I won’t let you go down that road. You are gorgeous—every inch, curvy or trim. You don’t have to change for any man.” She clicks her fingers in a sassy little air curve.

  “I agree, and this isn’t about that. It’s just he’s from California and he’s in the military. We bonded over our love of jogging.” I motion a little jog. I’m already dressed for the gym so I look the part, at least.

  “No one loves jogging.” Hope shivers and an expression of complete horror flashes over her sleep-crumpled features.

  “Exactly, that’s how we bonded.” My smile is as fit to burst as I am with the weight of the secret I have to keep. I have to.

  “Hang on a minute? You’re going on a date? In the States. Isn’t that a little—”

  “A bit of a trek,” I interrupt.

  “A bit fucking crazy is what I was going to say, but okay, let’s go for the practical element here. Yes, it’s a bit of a ‘trek’.” She air quotes and lays the sarcasm on nice and thick.

  “Get up and I’ll tell you all about it.” I clap my hands to hurry her along, there’s so much to do.

  Present Day

  I DIDN’T LOSE ANY WEIGHT with the fitness regime I started in the two months since answering the advertisement and setting the date to visit, but I’m fitter than I have ever been. A nervous smile creeps across my face, and I can feel my cheeks start to burn. Am I going to be fit enough? As Hope said that’s a lot of—

  “Cocktail menu?” The flight attendant’s bright, friendly voice interrupts my wayward thoughts.

  “Oh, no. Thank you. The champagne at dinner went straight to my head. I don’t want to be smashed when we land. Which will be when?” She informs me with a dazzling smile, we’re just forty minutes out, I sit back and let out a satisfying sigh. I could get used to this, luxuriating in first class courtesy of my men. My men.

  That advert wasn’t a joke.

  Far from it.

  Unfortunately, the few Skype conversations I’ve had, haven’t been great for one reason or another: the connection was poor, the sound didn’t sync, or the quality of the image was grainy and broken. But I have spoken daily to one, more, or all of them in some fashion: message, text, or long emails. I’m confident they are all…Hmm… What? What is it I am confident of? The closer I get to landing the less confident I actually am. My mouth has been dry for the last hour despite ample refreshments, and the butterflies in my tummy need an extension built, there are so many of the critters. I take a calming breath and repeat the mantra that has kept me on this crazy path for the past few months, and ultimately made me board the plane.

  It’s for one month. What’s the worst that could happen?

  I struggle with my last bag, which happens to also be the last remaining piece of luggage on the carousel. The trolley is loaded, and I lean into the handle with my shoulder to gain enough leverage to make the thing move. Not too fast, or I’ll never be able to stop it, and I’d most likely mow down anything in my path: kiddies, little old ladies. No one would be safe. I groan as I round the corner, just through the automatic doors of the exit and that’s when my jaw hits the floor and I let the trolley drift from my hands, not caring what damage ensues. Holy Fuck!

  The airport is crammed, but it’s like someone has put the soft focus filter on my peripheral vision because all I see is them and a massive neon sign with a flashing arrow at the end of the walkway, which says: “World’s Hottest Men Here”. The residual images from the few Skype calls we managed to make, wage an almighty battle in my mind, trying to identify who is who from this distance. Oh my God, they can’t be real. The blond guy on the left of the group is in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt. But the others? They are in uniform, which, I have to say is… There are no words to describe how unbelievably hot that is. I’m a liquid mess below the waist and my throat is parched dry as a desert.

  I struggle to swallow, because the icing? The actual icing is they’re each holding a separate sign with the words: Welcome Home Our Wife.

  So it begins.

  I had wondered if this little set up would be very on the down-low, but there it is, bold as anything for all to see. No going back, signed, sealed, and delivered. Now why won’t my feet move?

  Deep breath, Finn, come on, move! And nothing. If anything, I think one of my feet lifts to take a step backward, but it’s way too late. They spot me and are moving my way in unison like a wall of muscle.

  The blond in the jeans I know is Brady; they call him Pink. He is sporting the widest grin and breaks free of the formation and rushes toward me. His strong arms reach out, scoop around my bottom, and he lifts me high, then spins me in a slow, dizzying circle.

  “Girl, you came!” he calls out, turning us to face the others, still holding me flush against his solid frame, my feet dangling a good few inches from the floor.

  “I did. I really did. I’m just as shocked, I can promise you.” I let out a nervous laugh.

  “Aw, and you have the cutest accent. Doesn’t she have the cutest accent?” he calls back to the others who have now closed the gap and are flanking Pink and crowding around us.

  “You have heard her speak before, Pink. Don’t go acting all crazy and frightening the girl.” The tall, dark-haired one on the end speaks with a deep rumbling voice, and his lips curl with a warm, friendly smile.

  “Oh sorry, ma’am—” Pink’s tone is deeply apologetic, and I’m about to forgive the nonsense when I recognize the oldest, Aarón, who starts speaking again.

  “And maybe you could put her down so we can all say hi.” Pink bites back a cheeky grin, his pale blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he slowly slides me down his body. The lump in my throat is going to be a permanent feature, and I stifle an audible whimper when he finally releases his hold.

  They’re all of similar build, like brick shit houses, big and super fit. Aarón is much taller, maybe six-five. He is the one who just spoke and the one they call Charge. I wait for someone to speak, but they are all staring. Four pairs of eyes, all different shades, but intensely curious and piercing. Okay, I’ll go first.

  “Hi!” I give a little wave and then laugh when they all seem to exhale a sudden breath filled with tension and visibly relax. Stunning smiles now dominate their features, and I make my best guess at identifying them because those profile pictures did not do them justice.

  “You must be Enzo.” I hold my hand out to the one nearest to me. He takes it and pulls me into a hug. He has very short, black hair, dark tan coloring from his South American father, and light brown eyes from his mother’s side. He lets me go and leans in to kiss my cheek before completely relinquishing his hold. I have sent multiple messages to each of them over the last three months, so I have a vague and spotted history.

  “Tug, my friends call me Tug.” He flashes a wink, and I return an easy smile.

  “Right.” I tip my finger in acknowledgment. None of them seem to use their real names, but then, neither do I.

  “I’m Toxic, or you can call me Marlon, if you like.” Marlon has light brown hair, just as short as Tug’s, with floppy spikes at the front. It’s still no more than a few inches, but it softens his cut jaw, strong brow, and penetrating hazel eyes. He steps up to me in favor of pulling me to him, and his arms cover me like a shield; his hu
g is firm and gentle. It feels so good. He stands back and points to the others. “You’ve met Pink, and this is Charge.” I turn and tilt my head back to gain eye contact, because Charge is now standing very close.

  His wide shoulders seem to block out the daylight, and my entire field of vision is filled with the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Glossy dark brown hair, almost black, and those eyes? God! They are the deepest clear, piercing blue and seem to scorch a path straight to my soul, searing me with heat and intensity. I can’t breathe. He doesn’t blink just devours every inch of my face, searching, but I’m not sure what for. I get a nervous knot in my tummy, which is unsettling. Maybe he sees something in me that he doesn’t like? Maybe he sees me, and that’s causing the deep line across his brow to deepen and his jaw to twitch. Maybe I’ve made a huge fucking mistake.

  “You are much more beautiful in the flesh, Finn.” The way he rolls the word around his mouth and lets it flow from his perfect lips with a seductively delicious tone makes my legs tremble and my core clench. He stretches his right hand out to take mine, lifting it from my side and placing it like some precious piece of glass in the palm of his other hand. His hold is strong and surprisingly sensual. His thumb traces the bump of my vein on my wrist across the pulse point, and I swear my heart stops beating. He leans down to place a kiss on the back of my hand, his eyes never leaving mine. The devil himself dances behind those long lashes, I have no doubt. This might be a mistake or heaven, but one thing I’m sure of, I’m definitely going to burn.

  Okay, this is awkward. I’m wedged in the middle in the backseat between Toxic and Tug. Huge man thighs spread so wide mine are squished and literally stuck together from the sweltering heat. The old pickup truck is possibly the coolest thing I have ever ridden in, but it has no air con and even with the windows fully down, I’m dripping. The guys all stripped down to their t-shirts when we started to drive and there’s this musky man smell that is intoxicating, heady and fresh. Despite the hurricane blowing in from the windows, it’s all I can smell and very distracting. Tug puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes. I jump and let out a nervous apology at the concern that shoots across his face.