by Zoe York
Her nipples rubbed against his palms, two hard peaks he wanted his mouth on, but he couldn’t stop now. Next round. Because this one was going to end soon with a blackout climax, it felt like. Need roared inside him, loud and dark and insistent. It crawled up his spine and pulled his balls tight. Made him press her into the bed as she cried out his name.
It was fast and furious, but there was something else pounding inside him. He was claiming her, yes, but not like she was his—she was, but that wasn’t new.
No, he was leaving his mark this time as a promise.
He leaned in and nipped at her earlobe.
She gasped. “Again.”
This time he scraped his teeth along her neck. He bit her on the shoulder where he knew she’d be able to cover it up. And then he returned to her ear, his breath coming fast now. Almost out of control. “I’m always coming back to you. No matter where I go, no matter how long I have to stay dark, I’ll always come back to you.” She twisted her head enough for him to see her profile. Her eye was wide, her lips parted. “And I’ll have you with me in my heart.”
She nodded, but he needed to hear her say it, too.
“Tell me I’m in your heart,” he growled out, thrusting savagely into her.
“Always,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “No matter where you go.”
He thumbed over her nipples and she groaned. He did it again and she pressed back, urging him on.
She pushed her left hand against the headboard, and her wedding ring glinted at him. His wife. He howled and cut the last string of his restraint, slamming into her. She writhed beneath him and as soon as her climax started, a squeezing ripple that quickly expanded to twitching pulses through her entire body, he exploded.
When the million satisfied fragments of his mind finally fit themselves back together, he was on his side and Julie was beside him, playing with the hair on his chest.
He rolled her onto her back and let his gaze fall over every inch of her body. A tangle of silk and satin and sex.
He’d never seen anything more perfect.
He kissed her leg before tenderly rolling away one stocking, then the other. She wiggled out of the twisted corset and then they crawled under the covers together, naked.
“Think we consummated our marriage properly?”
She giggled and snuggled into his side. “I think we consummated the heck out of it.”
“Want to do it again?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’ve got six months of celibacy in my future, wife.”
“Good point. We should do it again. For our country. I’m nothing if not patriotic.”
“Patriotic and sexy and oh so beautiful.” He kissed her swollen lips, hungry again. “And sweet. We can’t forget that.”
“Jason…”
God, his name on her lips. He pulled her on top of him and watched through hooded eyes as she fit them together. “Ride me, Jules.”
She bit her lip and did just that. His wife.
He was luckier than he deserved.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Four days later
Green and tan military gear was strewn on every possible surface of their house, and some she didn’t even know existed until Jason’s kit was stacked on it. The bookshelf in the living room, for example, and the chandelier over the dining room table.
“Where did all of this come from?” she asked as she did a slow, wide-eyed spin turn in the middle of the chaos.
Jason shrugged. “I’m honestly not sure. Some of it lives in the trunk of my car, some of it was in the garage—”
“It’s impressive.” She pointed at the containers on the couch. “And it’ll all fit in there?”
“Most of it. It’s always close. You gotta triage what’s a must-take and what’s optional.” He held up the notepad he was scribbling on. “And then there’s this Costco run of stuff still to fit in.”
She blinked. Protein bars, toilet paper… “Do I want to know?”
He shook his head. “Probably not.”
“I can send you stuff, right?”
“Definitely. But I want that to be stuff you want to send me, not the basics.”
She was going to send the first care package as soon as he left, so it would be waiting for him when he landed on the other side of the world. “But still, if you need something…”
He reached for her and pulled her down onto his lap. “Thank you.”
She hugged him back, the ache in her chest easing. She’d been doing this a lot since they got back. Hovering, asking questions, then holding on for dear life when he gave her the tight squeeze she didn’t even know she was looking for.
“Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?”
She shook her head. “I thought we could make a stir-fry together.”
“Sounds amazing.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded.
“You want to come with me to Costco?”
Another nod. She didn’t want to be apart for even a second in the small amount of time they had left.
“This stuff will be out of here soon.” He kissed her again.
But that didn’t make her feel better, because when this stuff left, he’d go with it.
Five days later, her living room was back to normal, and her heart hurt.
All the girls came over, and Emme video-called in from Monterey. There wasn’t enough ice cream in the world to keep the tears at bay, but her friends kept her laughing through the unavoidable sadness.
“It’s okay to miss him,” Cassie said when Julie apologized for the third time about spontaneously bursting into tears. “A long tour is different from the short missions. We all know what that’s like.”
“I thought I was going to be totally chill about this.”
Gaby shrugged. “Yeah. We all do, up until the moment he’s gone, and then it’s like…oh, crap, six months is a long time.”
“That’s why you’ve got us,” Piper added.
“Thank you,” Julie whispered.
Cassie’s toddler wandered over. “Cookie?”
“Oh yes, thank you, buddy.” She grinned and took a bite.
She might gain a few pounds if girls’ nights kept up like this, but it would be worth it.
She was going to gain more than a few pounds.
Julie stared at the pregnancy test in her hand a week later. An airport bathroom was the worst place ever to wait sixty seconds for a line to appear, but now that she saw it—two lines! Pregnant!—she was glad she’d tested before getting on her flight.
It explained the low-grade nausea she’d been fighting for the last three days.
Now she had a happy little secret to get her through the flight. She couldn’t wait to tell Jason.
Telling Jason was proving to be a challenge. She didn’t want to do it in an email, but they hadn’t been able to connect for another video call yet. They’d done one after he arrived, before she found out she was pregnant, but then he’d headed out to forward operating bases, where he was out of touch.
She knew that was normal, but it was still worrying.
This morning she’d gotten an email saying he’d be back on base and could Skype in a one-hour window. Which was right now—and she was still on a plane.
“We’re going to circle one more time before landing,” the crew chief said as he slid into his seat across from Julie.
She forced a smile. There was only another fifteen minutes in her window of opportunity to maybe, hopefully talk to Jason.
Maybe an email would be the best way to do it after all. She kept a printout of the accidental email proposal in her purse. Would he get the connection if she did it like that?
She’d known she was pregnant for three days.
What was another day or two of secret-keeping?
Except Julie hated secrets.
She pulled out her phone, which was connected to the plane’s wi-fi, and composed a new message.
Fr
om: Julie Steyner
To: Jason Steyner
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: this weekend [actually, the first weekend you get home]
* * *
So I was thinking we should go nursery furniture shopping when you get back. That I’ll be seven months pregnant should be a good excuse. Good job, Mr. Steyner. You knocked me up. And I’m stuck on a plane right now, so you’re going to have to describe your reaction in detail.
She read it over, then hit send.
His reply was immediate.
From: Jason Steyner
To: Julie Steyner
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: this weekend [actually, the first weekend you get home]
* * *
…..What?
I love you so much. Good job, Mrs. Steyner. I just shouted so loud the guys in the next tent over yelled back their congratulations.
THE END
* * *
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Read Next: Ruined by the SEAL
An excerpt from
Ruined by the SEAL
(an ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights novel)
MICK FRASIER HAD A THREE-STEP PLAN FOR HIS NEW LIFE.
Beach, beer, sleep.
After months of rehab and fighting his discharge from the Navy SEAL teams, he needed all three badly. And at his first deep inhale of the salty Caribbean air, he’d been surprised to discover that deep down, this crazy plan his SEAL buddy Will Parry had sent him on felt right.
He could smell the sunscreen and feel the ice-cold beer in his hand already.
Hello, Sugar Island. He’d bought the beer at the airport, from two smiling men selling them from a cooler next to the customs hut. A hut. At an international airport.
But any place that handed out beer to new arrivals sounded about right to the tired and grumpy toddler trapped inside Mick’s grown-man body.
Sugar Island wasn’t the Caribbean nation’s real name, of course. Miralinda just had that nickname because of the historical sugar plantations that had been so valuable to the French colonists that settled here in the early seventeenth century.
One of those plantations—and the titanium rod in Mick’s leg—had forced a change of plans. He couldn’t play beach bum forever, but he had enough savings to spend the rest of the winter under the Caribbean sun, and thanks to Will’s grandmother, maybe by the time the summer arrived, he’d have a new career.
Villa Sucre—Will’s inheritance—was going to get a new lease on life. They were going to turn the tired, no-longer-functional plantation into an executive training facility. Give wealthy business owners a legitimate, tax-write off reason to visit the island, and maybe teach them a few survival and team-building skills while they were at it.
Mick had the easy job. Show up, secure some construction permits, and lie on the beach until Brayden Lucas, the third Musketeer in their crazy plan, arrived on the island. A fellow SEAL, Lucas had two more months of active duty, and then he’d join Mick to begin construction.
They’d have three months to get the place operational, and then Will would join them and hit the ground running with the first flight of training groups.
It was a crazy plan.
It was a good plan.
And best of all, it allowed Mick to chill the fuck out for a while, first—if he could remember how.
His taxi stopped smack in the middle of the circular drive, right in front of the entrance to the faded white colonial two-story mansion. Three chickens lazily pecking their way across the drive added a certain ambience Mick wasn’t expecting as well.
As soon as Mick stepped out of the cab, he could hear the music.
Pulsing R&B, the good kind that would make him want to dance if he wasn’t like an oversized elephant in a club. Someone had decent taste in music. He paid the driver and added a generous tip, refusing his offer to stick around. “I’m not heading out again today, no matter what. Thank you very much for the ride.”
The driver handed over a business card. “I live in Petite Ciotat, so if you need anything—a ride somewhere, or an emergency rescue—just call.”
All he needed at the moment was a nap.
“I’ll be fine.” He grinned as they shook hands, then he stepped out of the way and stretched, easing the ache in his leg and his back.
Inside he found dust.
Everywhere.
The wide plank floor was covered in it, and as he walked down the central corridor in the direction of the thumping bass-beat, he left a trail of footprints.
Not a problem. He wasn’t the trespasser, although he had the sinking suspicion that the owner of the music wouldn’t see it that way.
He glanced into each room as he passed. A living room up front, although it probably had a fancier name than that. A dining room. On the other side, a massive room that had probably been a ballroom.
Every room had drop sheets covering the scant amount of remaining furniture. Neatly typed pieces of paper hung next to each entrance way, detailing what work needed to be done. At the bottom of each note was a dire warning. All work must be approved by Cara Levasseur.
Oh, honey, you’ve got such a rude awakening coming your way in ten, nine, eight…
He found her in the kitchen, high on a step stool, cleaning the inside of a cupboard. He noticed her legs, first. Long. Curvy. The warmest shade of brown he’d ever seen. Bare. She was wearing shorts, and they were, in fact, short.
Her legs were spectacular.
Above that she had some lacy shirt thing, but it was mostly obscured by long, wavy ringlets falling down her back. The wild mix of blonde and brown curls did a strange thing to his insides. Or maybe it was that her hair and her perfect legs both pointed right at her jiggling bottom.
Someone liked to dance.
His countdown to a rude awakening died inside his chest. This wasn’t going to be fun. He looked for the source of her music—a cell phone plugged into portable speakers—and pulled the plug out of the wall. The music dropped to a tinny whisper.
The jiggling stopped. She whipped her head around, giving him a totally no big deal that you caught me dancing look. Her face was just as spectacular as her legs. Heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and large, bright eyes surrounded by flawless mocha skin. “Can I help you?”
“Good afternoon. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Not a problem.” She hopped down, her hair flying off in all directions as she strode across the room and pressed a button on her phone, turning off the now-quiet music. Then she held out her hand. “Cara Levasseur. I wasn’t expecting any tradespeople this afternoon.”
Her accent was slight. He found himself straining to catch more of it.
He shook her hand, surprised by how firm her grip was. “Mick Frasier. And I’m not a contractor.”
He’d never been one to avoid conflict. He had the high ground of surprise here, and he should use it to his advantage. There was a letter in his bag that he should whip out now so he could blithely watch as she scurried out the door.
Seriously? Second thoughts because she’s pretty?
She wasn’t just pretty, though. He wanted to think there was a look in her eye, an innocence…
But that was ridiculous.
So even though it took him a few beats longer than usual, he squared his shoulders. He was a cold-hearted bastard. Requirement of the last job, and apparently, useful in the new one, too. Besides, he was fucking tired and needed to lie down before he fell over. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Ms. Levasseur. You’re renovating a house that doesn’t belong to you.”
Her green eyes darkened, like the bottom of the sea churning up as a storm approached. Appropriate. “Excuse me?”
/>
“This estate. I’ve been sent here by the owner.”
“What are you playing at? The owner has passed away. I represent the Miralinda Historical Society.”
“Mrs. Gwendolyn Parry?”
She gave him a wary look. “Yes.”
“I represent her grandson.”
The wary look turned ice-cold. “I think you’d best explain what you mean. Does he mean to establish a claim against Villa Sucre?”
She pronounced it veeja sucre, the blend of spanish and french snapping through his fatigue and sparking something inside him. Something that hungered to hear her say more. Anything, really. Maybe while he closed his eyes and the ocean crashed nearby. He’d blink up at her every so often to appreciate her mouth, wide and lush. It was gorgeous even as she pinched her dusky pink lips together in disapproval. He wondered what else she said that sounded like sex on the wind.
He’d never find out. Shoving aside his sleep-deprivation-induced island-girl fantasy, he unzipped the outside pocket on his bag and pulled out the letter Will’s lawyer had drawn up and handed it over.
She eyed him, and the paper, reluctantly, then snapped it away. She cocked her hip to one side and her head to the other as she slowly read, then glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. Her entire being doubted his veracity.
“This can’t be true. Why are you here and not this…Will Parry?”
“I’m acting as his agent in this regard.”
“A Parry unable to make time for Villa Sucre. No surprise there. And you expect me to believe this is authentic?”
No matter how seductive a woman’s voice, she didn’t get to suggest his best friend was anything but honorable. “I have no doubt it is.”
