Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Introduction
THE LONG RIDE HOME
NIGHT WITCH
SHATTERED
THE GRUNT AND THE DITTY BOP
FIGHTING FOR FRESNO
HOMECOMING
PASSING OUT PASSION
AGAINST THE WALL
THE THUNDER OF WAR
SERGEANT RAE
DEAD ON HER FEET
OUT OF TIME
DONE
WILCO
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS
SNAKE DANCE
HOME
FOR BETTER OR WORSE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
FOREWORD
When I was asked to write the foreword for Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance, I thought first about focusing on how hot I find a man—or men—in uniform. It’s one of the main reasons I’ve been writing in the genre since 2006. But as I thought about it, I realized my dedication to the genre is about so much more than sex appeal. It goes far deeper than fantasizing about hard bodies in heart-stopping uniforms.
It’s a delicate dance we authors do when writing about men and women in uniform. Balancing fantasy and reality, taking the cold hardness of war and wrapping it in fiction and romance. Softening the edges enough to make it palatable and entertaining because that is the business we’re in, after all. We attempt to do all of that while still honoring the small and large sacrifices selflessly made by our troops, both past and present. They endure heat and cold, bad food and worse living conditions. Then there are the larger sacrifices—being separated from loved ones for extended periods of time. Missing huge chunks of life at home. And, of course, there are the injuries and casualties that are an unavoidable part of war.
It’s not an easy task, this balancing act. We know there are readers who live with the fear and sacrifice daily and they need a brief escape, even if only for the few hours they can lose themselves in our books. But at the same time, we can’t ignore the realities completely. We need to be aware of and acknowledge it all—the loneliness, the boredom, the hope, the fear. The mundane things that take on larger meaning while being separated from loved ones. Something as seemingly small as mail call is so important for the deployed—bringing disappointment for those who receive nothing, while at the same time delivering glee to those who get a small piece of home.
I know the responsibility of portraying all of that. Delicately weaving the threads within an erotic tale, a romance with a happy ending, is a weight on my shoulders. It’s a responsibility I feel, as I know my fellow authors do too, every time I undertake writing a new military-themed story.
How do we do it? How do we write stories that balance both light and dark? Entertain as well as enlighten? We show the good, as well as the bad. Is there good in war? Yes. There is the camaraderie that those who have served know so well, and those of us who have not may never fully appreciate. The knowledge that one soldier would willingly die for the man to his right, just as the soldier to his left would willingly die for him. But there’s so much more as well. The grabbing life with both hands and living it to the fullest because they know more than most how fleeting it can be. Emotions run high. Love comes fast and hard. And yes, sex too—because what can possibly make us feel more alive than that most intimate of all connections with another human being?
That living life to the fullest is why I undertook writing in this genre, even if it can be daunting. The sheer intensity of how those in uniform live and love is transfixing. We want to feel it too, to share in that intensity. We want to love as deeply. Feel as strongly. We want to fall in love with that alpha male willing to kill or die to protect us, just as we want to make him fall in love with us. We want to be the one who makes him fight to live another day. We want to be on the receiving end of all that intensity. It’s why military stories and the heroes they feature are inherently passionate, intense, sexy and inspiring. And yes, there are the uniforms as well, so sexy when drawn tight over the hard bodies. The cropped hair and the intense stare. The rough exterior hiding the smoldering inside. Those who don a uniform daily and fight to protect us at home can make any heart beat faster.
I feel confident I can speak for all the authors featured in this book, whether the story they penned is modern or historical, lighthearted and sexy or intensely dark. If we can make you feel the emotions we strive to convey, we’ve done our job. We’ve honored those in uniform we’re privileged to write about. And hopefully at the same time we’ve provided, just for a little while, an escape into that world.
Thank you for taking the journey with us.
Cat Johnson
INTRODUCTION: BEYOND THE UNIFORM
It was my husband Jay’s first deployment as a naval officer. After ten years as an enlisted sailor, he’d finished his bachelor’s degree and received his commission. The pier was crowded with sailors and civilian family members saying good-bye. The atmosphere was festive even though the occasion was sad. I scanned the pier looking for Jay amid the chaos. It took less than one minute to pick him out of the sea of summer white uniforms. “There he is!” The friend who was with me said, “How did you know it was him? They all look alike!”
Jay was hours from leaving on a six-month deployment—one of several we have been through in our years together—so I was more interested in catching up to him than I was in explaining why I recognized him in a crowd of officers dressed just like him. But here’s the answer: when you look beyond the uniform, it’s easy to find the person you love. I wasn’t looking for a uniform or an insignia, I was looking for my sailor. And I found him easily by the way he carried himself. It was in the tilt of his head, the swagger in his step and the ramrod straight posture of a man preparing for duty.
Soldiers and sailors and their brethren are romantic heroes on the page because they embody those qualities we love and want in a partner—honor, integrity, loyalty, selflessness, courage. The fact that they also look hot in uniform is just an added bonus. But it’s not the uniform that makes the man—it’s the man (or woman) who makes the uniform. My sailor is my sailor, in or out of uniform, and he lives by the same sense of honor whether he’s on a ship in the middle of the Mediterranean Ocean or lying on the couch with our two little boys. He lives his life with the same passion and enthusiasm he serves his country with, and it’s those qualities that make him not only a good naval officer—but a good husband and father.
For this anthology, I wanted to go beyond the uniform and discover the men and women who dedicate their lives—or at least part of their lives—to the service of their country. I discovered stories that explored the many layers of military experience, from the excitement of special operations to the turmoil of war, the joy of reunions to the poignancy of loss. Whether it was the lighthearted side of lust on liberty or the love that lasts long after a soldier is discharged, the authors in Duty and Desire did their literary duty in creating characters who live and love in and out of uniform. Regardless of length of service, the military changes a person forever—and these stories reflect that. Here you will find passion that overcomes obstacles and limitations, couples who are willing to do anything to be together and love that lasts come hell or high water.
Whether you have served in the military, loved someone who has or simply admired those who do, these stories are for you, dear reader. I hope they touch your heart and inspire delicious patriotic fantasies. All is fair in love and war, but in Duty and Desire, love wins. Love always wins.
Kristina Wright
In love in Hampton Roads, Virginia
T
HE LONG RIDE HOME
Delilah Devlin
White-hot sun beat down on the tops of our helmets. Sweat pooled between our shoulder blades and dampened the necks of our T-shirts. But it was a hot, humid East Texas heat, unlike what we’d endured for the past eleven months, and none of us standing in formation really minded. We were home.
I watched sweat trickle down the side of one particular soldier’s neck as he stood in the row in front of me and thought, not for the first time, that I’d like the chance to lick it away.
Not that Staff Sergeant Mason Haddox had a clue how I felt. We’d been part of the same platoon—played volleyball and shot hoops, driven trucks over long, barely paved expanses of desert and mountains, and cleaned our weapons, side by side, but he hadn’t seen me as anything but another private who needed looking after.
And yet, his tall, muscled frame, black close-cropped hair and wintry blue eyes had made quite an impression on me. I’d lusted after him since the first time he’d shown up drill weekend, a month before we’d deployed. His steadfast calm during the most nightmarish day of my life had only cemented his attraction.
My nose started to itch, and I wrinkled it, hoping formation would break soon so I could scratch it. My feet were roasting in the boots sticking to the black pavement.
True to his word, our commander kept his speech short. A good thing, since SSG Haddox fidgeted, hands tightening and easing, swaying slightly on his feet as though waiting to spring into action. I knew he scanned the crowd seated in the bleachers from the corners of his eyes, hoping she’d show, that she’d changed her mind. I’d looked too and knew she wasn’t there—and wouldn’t be coming. I felt bad for him but was also secretly hopeful that he’d be ready to let go, that he wouldn’t do something stupid now that we were back.
Just a month before we began preparations for our unit’s return from Afghanistan, Haddox had gotten the Dear John letter from his girlfriend, informing him that she’d moved his belongings from their apartment into a storage unit. She’d included two keys taped to the page—one for the storage unit and one to his Mustang. She’d said she was sorry, but had he really expected her to wait all those months?
Had I been in her shoes, I would have. But then, I knew what it felt like to be so far from home that Skype and email couldn’t fill the loneliness. I’d survived it once. However, my husband’s second tour had severed our connection—that and the emails I’d discovered when I’d hacked his Gmail account. Ones he’d sent to a female corporal stationed in another province who was planning a little R&R rendezvous. As quick as that, my love for him dried up like a closed tap. I’d forwarded the email to my account, then sent it to him along with a request for a divorce.
So I knew what Haddox felt. The searing betrayal. The anger. Maybe she’d been a decent person, but personally, I consigned her to hell. The worst thing the person at home could do to a deployed soldier was abandon him when he was too far away to do a damn thing about it.
I hoped he didn’t plan to go find her now.
“Company, attention!”
I snapped into position.
“Dismissed.”
Cheers from our unit and from the family and friends who filled the armory motor pool rang in the late-afternoon air. Haddox stomped away, not bothering to share a word with anyone.
My sister waved and made her way through the throng spilling from the bleachers, a wide smile splitting her face. I gave her an answering smile, but couldn’t help darting a glance to watch that broad set of shoulders move toward the open motor pool gates—the only space large enough to hold the formation and the guests who’d come to welcome the reserve unit home.
The buses that had delivered us from the airport were pulling away. Most of the soldiers and their friends and family were heading inside the armory for the welcome home celebration, but Haddox was heading toward the parking lot.
I gave my sister a quick hug. “Go say hi to Shelby—he’s got it bad for you.”
She laughed and blushed. “Where are you goin’?” Then her gaze followed mine. “Seriously? I thought you said he was an asshole.”
“He grows on you. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She gave me a smile and hitched her purse over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. But you better call.”
“Tell Shelby to grab my gear!” I said before I took off.
Haddox was already dropping his duffel bag into the trunk of a car—an older model black Mustang. I halted beside him, trying to figure out what I could say to keep him from driving away.
“You forget something, PFC Hollister?” he asked, glancing at me as he slammed down the trunk lid.
“Megan,” I said, suddenly breathless. “Thought you might like some company.”
His gaze narrowed. “Did you, now? I’m gonna blow the carbon out of the exhaust. The ride’s gonna be bumpy.”
“I don’t want to get in the way—if you have plans.”
He snorted. “No plans. Don’t even have a place to sleep. Didn’t your sister come to pick you up?”
“Yeah, but she’s all right with me leavin’.”
This time, his mouth twisted into something between a smile and a snarl. “Shelby?”
“Yeah. You know they’ve been writing each other.”
His gaze trailed straight down my body, then up again. “Get in.”
I strode quickly to the passenger door, opened it and slipped into the bucket seat. Then I tossed my hat in the backseat and began unbuttoning my ACU-camouflaged jacket.
He slid in beside me, one dark brow lifted, but he didn’t say a thing when I threw it into the back and sat in my sweat-damp shirt in the musty car.
“Better roll down the windows.” Then he said a little prayer under his breath and turned the key in the ignition. I buckled my seat belt. The engine rumbled into life. With a quick, tight grin, he jerked the stick into reverse and then punched it forward, and we rolled out onto the street, heading west rather than east into town.
Hot wind whipped through the interior of the car, dispelling the musty air and tugging at my blond hair, which was looped into a clip at the back of my head. I reached back and released it, then laughed as the Mustang roared.
Glancing toward Haddox, I noted the hard edge of his jaw, the hand wrapped so tight around the steering wheel, the tensed muscles in his forearm. I didn’t have to crawl inside his head to know he didn’t want me there, but I was.
Maybe I could help him out a bit. And maybe he’d see me as more than a fellow soldier who’d shared the bench seat of a deuce-and-a-half truck a time or two. One I’d been driving when he’d had to talk me through a hail of gunfire when our transport convoy had come under attack.
I unbuckled my belt, ignoring his deep frown. I turned in the seat and reached for the buttons of his jacket, flicking them open, then parting each side.
He didn’t say a thing, but his nostrils flared and his jaw tightened.
I gripped the front of his T-shirt, bunched it in my hand, and tugged it from his ACU trousers.
His stomach jumped, and he sucked it in, making just enough room for me to get my fingers behind the waistband as I unbuckled, unbuttoned and tugged down the zip.
“Dammit, Hollister,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”
“Not if you keep your eyes on the road,” I said, tilting up my chin. Then I leaned over his lap, folded down the elastic band of his boxer briefs and pulled his cock upright.
“Fuck.” The car bolted forward. I had a glimpse of the long, black ribbon of highway, then turned my attention to his thickening cock.
I fingered the curve of the satin-soft cap. “I never said thanks for saving my ass.”
“I didn’t expect it.”
“I know. But it meant a lot, knowing you had faith I wouldn’t freak.”
“I recall shouting at you, calling you a pansy-assed waitress.”
“Which I was, and will be again.” I leaned toward him, brushing m
y breasts against his firm upper arms. “You made me mad enough to want to kill you.”
“Which I take it turned you on?”
“Not right then. But later. Every time I heard you shout, I creamed.”
His eyelids dipped down and he shot me a searing glance. “My dick’s out. Gonna do something with it, or were you just curious, Hollister?”
“I’ve seen it before—at the showers, when Specialist Shelby whipped off your towel.”
He grunted. “Most of the camp saw me stomp back to the tent in my birthday suit. Not my finest moment.”
“It was one of the highlights of the tour for me.”
“Better get busy or put it back.”
I winked. “Yes, Sarge. I’m pretty good at followin’ orders.”
His chuckle was low and dirty, but his expression had softened a fraction. He wasn’t thinking about the bitch who’d dumped him in a letter now.
Sure I had his full attention, I bent, slipping a hand inside his briefs to fondle his balls while I wet the tip of his cock with long drags of my tongue. Then I dove deeper, taking him into my mouth, suctioning to pull him deeper and stroking my tongue along the sides of his shaft.
He hardened quickly inside my mouth, expanding, stretching, veins rising against the steely shaft. I bobbed over his lap, quietly at first, but soon couldn’t help the little slurping sounds I made as my mouth watered, coating him. His balls tightened, pulling closer to his groin, and I tugged them gently until he widened his thighs and melted against the seat.
I moaned around him, then shifted to get my knees under me on the seat. I pulled my hand from his underwear and gripped the edge of the dash and his shoulder for better leverage, then dove again and again, taking him deep into my throat, lunging faster and faster.
His belly jumped, the engine growled—then fingers dug into my scalp and tugged my head from his lap. “Get your pants off.”
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