The Crazy Good SEAL Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Robinson

  Pressing the button on my Bluetooth earpiece, I answer. “Steven.”

  I hear his smile. It’s not just a saying either. I swear that man’s smile has a sound. A feeling. “Morganna the lovely. How are you today?”

  “I’m busy, Steven. What’s up?” I can’t help the traitorous smile that inches its way across my face. I check it when I realize how long my to-do list for the day actually is. There are a million things I should be doing at this moment.

  He coughs once. “A couple things are up.” He smiles again. “I’m leaving for a trip tomorrow and I was hoping I could take you out for dinner tonight. You choose the place.” Normally I wouldn’t think anything about grabbing dinner with Steven. We eat together on a regular basis. I’m convinced most of the people in our life think we’re already doing the nasty on the side. Male and female relationships are always construed that way. I’ve never been one to care what others think. As long as I’m true to myself, I can take my next breath. One glance at my day runner on my desk and I know what my answer should be.

  “Yes,” I say, because wasn’t I just meandering about being true to myself? Plus, it always makes me nervous when the guys take trips. When they deploy for six-month spurts? I basically have a mental breakdown in which I smile wide and say my goodbyes and crumble the second I get into the confines of my bedroom. “You pick the restaurant. I’ll be ready to go at seven thirty.” I want to go to dinner with him. I glance sideways at Phillipe because he’s waving his arm and mouthing something to me. The only word I make out is Alex. He’ll have to stop by later than he planned on if he wants to hang out tonight.

  Scratch that. I need to cancel Alex. My subconscious knows how true that really is.

  “That was much easier than I thought it would be. Does this mean you’ve decided to ditch the bitch and be my girlfriend?” Steven sings, very terribly, the last part. “Don’t answer that question. I’ll pick you up later.” He ends the call.

  I take my blue tooth out of my ear, slamming it on my desk, and retreat to my bedroom. I call to Phillipe on my way out, letting him know that I’m taking a quick break. I ignore the shrill call of my cellphone and close my bedroom doors behind me. When the sound of my hectic life downstairs is muted, I lean my head against the cold, heavy wooden doors. Doors that Stone chose—doors that have seen me at my most intimate. Wood that knows me better than most of my friends.

  Turning my head, I stare at the framed artwork that covers my light blue walls. The images are of every tattoo Stone Sterns had on his body the day he died. The artists recreated each piece by photograph. It was my way of never forgetting him. Now when I glance around, I feel stuck, swallowed whole by his memory, unable to let go with him littering my walls and plastering every square inch of my heart. I can’t give anyone a legitimate chance with Stone haunting my soul. Isn’t that what true love means?

  With a red fingernail I trace one of my favorite pieces. The lobster body with my own head, my resting bitch face on full display. I laugh. It comes out as a strangled sob. I take it off the wall and continue on to the next framed image. It’s a beautiful script with a perfect Stone-ism: “Swallow life whole.” I’ve been chewing up my life in tiny pieces since he left me—cautious, predictable, and half living. That quote sums up the man that I loved…the man that brought life out of me. I leave that one on the wall and tearfully remove the remaining pieces from my space. I pile them in several stacks by my door.

  Sitting in front of my mirror, I fix my tear stained makeup, comb my fingers through my hair, and ready myself to tackle the rest of my day. Stone would want me to live life, but the lump in my throat only seems to grow when the piles of Stone catch my eye in the mirror’s reflection.

  I can’t look back. I can’t change the past or the decisions that led to his untimely death. Those were his choices to make. His life to swallow.

  I close my eyes for a few seconds and then head back to my office. I sit down at my desk and ready myself for my two o’clock videoconference. When Phillipe comes in I make sure to ask him to clear the new piles in my bedroom and to let Alex know I won’t be seeing him tonight. I make a note to call him before my date tonight. I need to stop kicking that dead horse. My daddy would be appalled at my behavior.

  Alex is an understanding type of man. He’s rational. Deep down he must know that we don’t click the way we’re supposed to. The fact that I’ve been able to make excuses to not sleep with him should have waved a giant red flag. His patience knows no bounds. I shrug. It’s business. He’ll understand. I’m not leaving him a choice.

  With my resting bitch face in place, I work. But for the first time in a long time my chest feels lighter.

  I have life to swallow whole.

  _______________

  Right on time, Steven pulls into my circular driveway, stopping his truck in front of my front door. I watch him saunter up through a stained glass panel on the side of my entrance, taking deep breaths. He’s clean-shaven and he’s wearing a button-up shirt and slacks. His hair is still wet, so I know he came directly from the boxing gym. He’s been there more frequently lately. I attribute it to the fact that he doesn’t have girlfriends to entertain…or anyone to have sex with these days. The tall door creaks as I pull it open before he can barge in.

  My hair and makeup are perfect. Phillipe helped me get ready before I dismissed him for the day. Some may say he’s underpaid for all of his skills that I partake in. Cocking my head to the side and not hiding my perusal of his body, I say, “You’re late.” There it is. The smile that can be heard around the world.

  “I’m right on time, M. That dress. Those shoes. You are absolutely edible.” He pulls me into a hug and I breathe—long and deep and cleansing. “You dressed as a man-eater on purpose. That’s your game tonight, Ms. Sterns?”

  I clutch him tighter, drawing strength from his familiarity. His humor only makes me feel more at home in his arms. “It was a bad day today. I dressed like a man-eater because that’s the path I’m on. I’ll just apologize in advance.”

  He pulls away and narrows his eyes. “We have reservations. Tell me all about it in the truck,” he responds, tucking his arm around my waist and guiding me toward the passenger side. When he enters on the other side, I glance his way. His sculpted jawline works as he decides what to say next. My guess is he’s swaying between a joke or a serious conversation.

  I helpfully supply the serious for him. “I’m having a hard time with your offer, Steven. I can’t turn my cheek to the feelings I have for you anymore. I also can’t figure out if you’re truly reformed or if it’s a good idea to make the same mistake twice, but then I realized something today. If anything ever happened to you, I would care no matter what. If you get shot, or if you got in a car crash, I’d die inside. Today, Stone told me why. You’re already in my heart. You’ve had me, be it friends…or currently, more, for longer than anyone else. That doesn’t mean I’m any less afraid of what that means.”

  His hand on the stick shift shakes as he watches me speak—his eyes glued to my lips, his face rapt. His full lips part, and I wait for his response. I place my hand on top of his to still the quaking.

  “What I’m saying is I’m not sure if it’s truly only sex that I want from you. Is that an option you’d be willing to explore?” I ask. It’s my turn for my voice to crack, giving away my emotions.

  “Yes,” he says into the still air. “Of course. Yes. Yes. A million times yes.” It’s as if he’s holding something back. I see it in his deep eyes, but it’s not malicious, so I let it go. He takes his other hand and rakes it through his brown locks. “You’ve just made my fucking night.”

  I smile a weak smile. Swallow life whole. This particular bite is so large that it almost chokes me. “Well, I’m still hungry. Dinner?” I ask, smiling at him, happy to veer the conversation back into safe territory.

  He leans over and takes my face in both of his hands. “More like you’ve made my night. My week. My month. Maybe even my year. To think
my sex only plan was to convince you of the very thing you decided without having sex with me. I feel like I should be offended.”

  I shake my head and then bring my lips to his, silencing him. I scoot as close to him as I can, twining my fingers into the back of his hair. I close my eyes and let go. I let it all go—everything I’ve held back for fear of falling. His large, warm hand slides onto my bare thigh and creeps up toward the hem of my dress. He deepens the kiss at the same time. A tactic to distract me, I’m sure. Lips press, skin touches, and I want everything that I’ve held myself from. The collar of his shirt slips into my grasp and I bring myself onto his lap, straddling his legs.

  Breathing heavy, he leans his forehead on mine, his gaze locked on my exposed lacy panties pressed against the bulge in his pants. “While I’d love nothing more than to fuck you right here, in my truck like a teenager, I think there are more comfortable places…” his words trail off when I place wet kisses under his ear, on the most sensitive place on his neck. I trail my tongue down, pulling his collar out of the way, seeking any skin—any muscle. Working my way, slowly, back up to his ear, I breathe into it lightly. Light nude lipstick stains his neck and I love it. It marks him as mine.

  “You were saying,” I moan, utterly giddy on power. His hands splayed on my ass pull me directly over his throbbing shaft. If our clothes didn’t exist in this moment, he’d be deep inside me, filling me. I shudder as a flood of wetness trickles to my sex.

  “I forgot. Your lips brainwash a smart man, M. I want them.” I give them, smashing them into his with an unintended force. His hips press up against me, my panties rubbing me raw, but feeling electric at the same time. I dart my tongue into his mouth as he thrusts into me, urging him to continue. “Lets play a game,” Steven says against my lips. I pull my head back to better see his gorgeous face.

  “What game?” I whisper, narrowing my eyes.

  I already know where his head is at. Literally. “Just the tip,” he replies, biting his lip, narrowing his eyes right back at me. My hands trail over his hard chest and down to his abs. I feel the heat radiating off his body through his shirt. Mental images of him shirtless come to mind and I pretend. It’s another game I’m good at. I pretend we’re both naked, doing exactly what we want to.

  I move my hips in a small circle, separating my lips to nestle him as inside me as much as the fabric will allow. “You’re already in me,” I say, leaning my head back as he takes his turn kissing my neck, his hands still firm on my hips, grinding me against his thick erection.

  My back accidently leans on his truck horn and the burst of noise jolts us a little. “I don’t think we’ll make it to dinner if we venture into my version of the game: just the tip. Panties off, cock wet,” he pants. I crawl off him, but stay close.

  My dress is still uncomfortably around my waist and my panties are completely drenched. Steven’s gaze is locked on my face. I glance down at his groin as it tents his pants. I hook my fingers into my tiny scrap of underwear and slide them off my legs, careful not to catch them on the spikes of my heels. I drape them over the truck’s stick shift and wiggle my dress back down to cover myself.

  “My panties are off and your dick is wet.” I motion to the small wet spot on his pants where I was just sitting. His eyes dart down and then quickly flick back up to mine.

  “I win,” I tease, still breathing heavy.

  Shaking his head, he starts the truck and begins to pull away from my house. “We’ll see who wins when I walk into French with a wet hard on.” French is a swanky restaurant that I’ve only been to a few times on business meetings. I wonder who he spoke with to get reservations on such a short notice. “I promise not to fuck this up, Morganna,” he says, inserting his serious tone into the usual comedic relief.

  Steven’s hair looks mussed and his cheeks still have remnants of my lipstick. He looks like I feel. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  He looks at me while driving. “I keep my promises. Always.” With his attention back on the road, I glance out my foggy window.

  I believe him. He’ll keep this promise to me. He won’t treat us like a fling, or one of his many girlfriend relationships. It will be more. I suck in a deep breath, my libido waning. I hope I can get used to that fact.

  I like the idea of feeling vulnerable, while being perfectly safe and in control. I know I’m safe, but I’m afraid I have no control over anything where Steven is concerned.

  “Are you going home for Christmas?” I ask, because I know Steven is my new safe; he’s always been safe. I wonder what happens when our relationship turns him into a variable. I won’t be able to bear losing the safety…or my control.

  He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t I always? Want to ride home together?”

  “Yes. To both of the innuendos you so eloquently weaved.”

  Steven nods his head and honks the noisy horn of his truck with a tight fist. “Christmas in the country with my girl! Fuck yeah!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Steven

  Past

  WHAT’S THAT SAYING? You attract more flies with honey? I call bullshit. You catch more flies with precise, methodical traps. Death traps. Honey is for pussies and idiots.

  “No, I don’t think that’s the best way to go about it,” Cody says to the room, and as the officer-in-charge we have to listen to him. The decisions he makes affect everyone. Not just the guys, but the people we’re trying to kill and, of course, the innocents. We’re back in the desert, on another deployment, chipping away at the enemy by picking them off one by one.

  Maverick and Stone banter quietly back and forth as we plan an important mission. I walk over to listen in, figuring I’ll either be entertained or informed. It’s about the mission. Stone trying to convince Mav that his viewpoint and tactic is better, and Mav arguing that his is right. It’s a typical type A sword fest. In other words, just another day at the office.

  I’d insert my opinion, but I’m not on this mission. My job requires that I stay back on the radios making sure everything runs smoothly and timely. Or, so I was told that’s my job. Who really wants to stay back? That’s not why men become Navy SEALs. I didn’t torture my mind and body during months of training to sit behind a safe desk and speak in code. I’d rather be next to my brothers, working as a team toward the common goal of killing those nasty motherfuckers. And of course making this dust bowl a little safer than it was before. A never-ending task, if you ask me. For every figurehead we kill, five more pop up. They are better funded and more meticulously armed than the last big baddies. The cycle won’t stop.

  Their conversation has switched to something more personal. Windsor. Maverick’s crutch and weakness all wrapped up into one petite, hot package. I’m not as close to Maverick as Stone is, and even I know how consumed he is with one, solitary woman. He’s a full on head case at large.

  “Calm the fuck down,” Stone growls under his breath. “We’re going to tag these assholes and we’ll be home in no time flat.” His eyes shift toward mine and they ooze fear. I’m not exactly sure of what, but when I look at Maverick, I see his frantic look and I know exactly what’s going on. When personal lives and problems seep into work, it’s a recipe for disaster. It happens in normal office jobs. In normal jobs others’ lives aren’t in jeopardy. No mistakes are afforded in our profession.

  I slap Mav on the shoulder. “Got pussy on the brain, bro?” I always try to keep the mood light—even if it means crude jokes that offend more often than they entertain. “I can go in his place. Mav can work the radios.” Stone shakes his head the second my sentence is out. Like I suspected he would. Not only are Maverick and Stone best friends since birth, they always go together. It’s a package deal not even the officers fuck with. Any SEAL could slip into either of their positions just as easily, but they stay together. Because they are so precise and accurate, no one says anything otherwise.

  “No way, dude,” Mav says, before Stone can verbally shoot me down. “I got this. He’s ov
erreacting. I’m fine, really. Just a little pissed off at the moment.” The feral smile he’s known so well for creeps in and it looks scary—unstable.

  “It’s not your decision anyways,” Stone adds.

  It was his decision, though. He’s chief. Cody and him decide who gets certain positions, and for some reason Stone is hell bent that I stay back on this one. If he has a reason, he won’t tell me.

  Stone shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, he’s got this, Stevey. No need to worry.” He flashes a fake smile at me. “You’re needed back here. Your mojo keeps everyone happy.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why am I the one that needs to be back here?”

  Maverick is pissed and bristles off to stand next to Cody at the sand table, watching intently as the details of the mission are explained for a final time. Not that he doesn’t know exactly what needs to happen; I think he’s trying to convince himself of something. I glance back at Stone, still silent, waiting for an answer.

  “Is your American flag speedo clean?” Stone asks. We always celebrate after a successful mission. A speedo and beer are the only requirements to attend. He’s avoiding my question. It’s unlike him. He’s just as up front as his wife, Morganna.

  I shake my head, unwilling to accept his detour in conversation. “Dude. Why?” His smile fades into a lopsided smirk.

  “Contingency, Steve. Contingency.” He doesn’t give me a chance to ask for an explanation. He smacks me square on my tight ass and ends up standing shoulder to shoulder with Maverick. I’m on the outside looking in, but Maverick visibly relaxes when Stone is near him—a reflex that neither is aware of. Now that I take a closer look, maybe Stone does know the calming effect he has on Mav. Maybe he knows that he needs him in some weird, brotherly way. It’s something I’ve never noticed before this moment. I shrug, shake my head, and make my best flagrant, Steven Warner exit by slamming the plywood door. I cross a sand drenched path to the other tent office and take my seat at a desk in the corner. I think about calling Chloe or Sasha. Maybe even a quick e-mail to my parents, but I don’t do any of those things. I stew in my pitiful, displaced anger instead. I’d regret this choice for the rest of my life.