Duty and Desire: Military Erotic Romance

by Kristina Wright

  But first, a whole week alone together before heading home.

  Home. Because the army was home. His unit was all the family he needed. The army, and this guy right here.

  Robbie smiled and kissed the top of Chi’s head. “Best. Christmas. Ever.”

  SNAKE DANCE

  Lynn Townsend

  Airman Mitchell Llewellyn was going to throw up. He bent over, nearly doubled in his seat. If he was lucky he would manage to vomit all over the floor in front of him and keep his boots out of it and the only thing that would come of it—aside from probably being thrown out of the club—was that his squad would never let him forget it. He’d end up with a flight name like Cookies or something equally humiliating, but it would go away soon enough. His wingman’s call sign was Conman, and the less said about that, the better.

  If he wasn’t lucky, he’d manage to soak his jeans and boots. It was nearly an hour’s car ride back to their hotel. He’d not expected that Vegas was so large; it was a single city, in the middle of the desert. How could anything be so far away from anything else? With the traffic, he’d be lucky if they made it back to the shower before three in the morning. Mitch had heard New York described as the city that never slept, but Vegas? Vegas didn’t even know the meaning of sleep. The city ran on booze, sex and 5-hour Energy.

  If he was very unlucky, and he was currently entertaining the possibility of extreme karmic retribution, he’d lose his lunch—what lunch? Had he actually eaten any lunch at all?—all over his squad leader. Yeah, that’d be just peachy. Not like Peterson liked him much anyway. This was just going to seal his fate if he upchucked a stomach full of cheap beer and bar nuts all over Peterson’s fancy leave duds.

  Would it be so bad, he wondered, if he just fell onto the floor? Maybe his roiling stomach would ease. Or at least, he’d not splash quite so badly when he lost it.

  He kept his gaze firmly on the floor and counted backward, a trick his mother had taught his sisters. His mom was a career pregnant woman; with Mitch as the second oldest child with seven sisters between him and his younger brother, he’d heard a lot from his mother about pregnancy, morning sickness and all the things that had made him squirm with embarrassment at the time.

  “Hey, sailor.”

  A foot appeared in his line of sight, perfectly formed with delicate toes painted an impossible shade of green. He knew it was perfect because the shoe that enclosed it was entirely made of glass. Well, plastic probably. A massive platform heel, the sort you saw in porn videos, with a fish swimming around in the toe. Not a fish, a decoration, but still, it undulated gently in the water, looking peaceful.

  “...airman...” Mitch muttered to the shoe.

  Fascinating. How did the owner of that delicate foot actually walk in those shoes? He never could figure out why women did it—except that men enjoyed the effects of heels on the legs and ass of a woman. Seemed like a sucky reason to so thoroughly abuse one’s feet, but hey, if they didn’t mind, he wasn’t going to object.

  “I’m a naval aviator.”

  “Whatever.”

  Perfect foot was attached to perfect leg. Short skirt—so short it should be illegal. Wasn’t even a skirt at all, just a couple of flaps of brilliant green tied over her hips. Bare midriff. Mitch raised his eyes further. An olive-sized glass gem set in her navel, glinting wickedly in the sea of her flat, naked belly. Two scraps of green cloth, sequined with black tassels hanging down, cupped a pair of average, but very nice, breasts.

  “Hey, the eyes are up here, Airman.”

  “Yeah,” Mitch said. “I know. Just taking the scenic route.”

  “Take your time,” she said. She shifted her weight—or maybe the weight of that tray of drinks—which did interesting things to her hips. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “What’s the problem, ma’am?” Mitch managed to jerk his eyes the rest of the way up, focusing solely on the waitress’s face, and ignoring as best he could the show in the background, that terrible display that was making him so sick to begin with. “We didn’t order another round.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, I’ll take it out in trade. You can work it off.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come with me, Airman.” She leaned down to whisper in his ear, giving him a long, leisurely look down her shirt. She straightened, then distributed the beers to his squad. “On the house, boys,” she said, passing them out. “Drink up. We’re all so grateful to our servicemen and women, you know. Keep this country great!”

  His squad didn’t ask questions. Free beer was free beer. And it wouldn’t be the first time some retired navy captain had bought them a round or someone had treated them to dinner in memory of their brother who’d died over there in that godforsaken desert. If there was someone to thank, thanks were given. But free booze, free food and one time a complimentary limo ride, these gifts were never, ever refused. It was rude. And you know the military and free beer. Like peanut butter and jelly. Apple pie and ice cream.

  Mitch swayed alarmingly as he got to his feet. He hadn’t had that many drinks, but the show, oh mother Mary of god, the show; he was going to vomit, and now karma really was being a cunt because he was going to vomit all over the pretty waitress.

  “This way, darlin’,” she said. She grabbed his arm, her fingers cool on his overheated skin, and turned him expertly away from the stage. At that point he would have followed her into hell just to get away.

  The guy in the front row was going to toss his cookies. That was as obvious to her as it was to Seth, the bartender. Not that it was unusual. They were a bar, and they were a strip club and there was more alcohol under this roof than should be allowed. Vomit was just a part of bar life. But usually it was contained to the bathroom or that small, overcrowded hall that led to the restrooms. And it was never Mandu’s concern. She was a waitress, not part of the cleaning crew.

  But there was something about this guy; he went ash pale as soon as Medusa had started her act, bringing Reggie out to dance with her. It wasn’t the first time Mandu had seen that look on a man’s face. Innermost Fantasies promised the most exotic, the most wild, the most unique nude entertainment on the strip. Well, exotic it was. Wild, yeah, that too. Unique? Probably not. Freak shows of the less naked variety had been common as long as there had been people stupid enough to lay down their money.

  And yet, pale as he was and in danger of puking, the guy stayed firmly in his seat, swallowing excess saliva and keeping his eyes averted. Medusa—her real name was of the less exotic variety, Dee Dee Simpson—was actually one of the more mild dancers, her lithe, curvy body moving in time with the music, the rasp of her partner’s flesh against her own still somehow audible, even over the crushing beat and the rowdy crowd.

  Reggie was a snake. A sixteen-foot-long boa python with marbled skin and a flat, evil, wedge-shaped head. Tame, mind you, for the Innermost.

  Other nights, the headline acts included blood-play, various B&D shows, pony-play, and other, even more deviant performances. Dee Dee and her snake, even as the python twisted over her naked body, sticking his nose and tongue along her flesh, tasting and smelling the snake urine that Dee Dee daubed on her skin to get his attention, hadn’t bothered her much, even when she’d first started to work at Innermost. Not that she’d particularly wanted Reggie to slither over her, but the snake was old, slow, well-trained and vastly overfed. He wasn’t interested in eating anyone.

  That aside, there was something about the boy. And he really did look like a boy with that ridiculous military haircut and fashion sense that looked like it came out of a J.Crew catalog. A boy masquerading as a man who was determined to tough it out even if it was looking like he was going to lose that battle.

  “Here I come to save the day,” Mandu muttered.

  She couldn’t have said why she decided to get involved. Certainly no one in this city was a Good Samaritan, and after five years of living here, she’d rarely felt the need to do a good thing for anyone if it didn’t involve a better tip.
Maybe it was that boyish look; he seemed younger and more vulnerable than his friends, with wide blue eyes and a cleft chin. The sort of jutting chin one could rest a shot glass on, as Tina the hostess often joked. Superman had a chin like that. The old Christopher Reeve Superman, not that punk in the remake.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up at her, blue eyes that were so lost, full of revulsion and terror. She knew she was doing the right thing.

  With the patience of a saint, she managed to extricate him from his friends, gently tugging him across the bar’s slightly sticky floor. He was so intent, staring anywhere but the stage that he didn’t even notice that she led him out of the bar. He didn’t look up until cold night air blew across his skin.

  “What the hell?”

  “You didn’t look like you were enjoying the show.”

  “I wasn’t. But what’s it to you?”

  “Maybe I have a soft spot for hard-luck cases,” Mandu said. “And I didn’t want to have to mop the floor when you puked on it.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Probably not to your friends, they were too busy looking at boobs.”

  “Not usually something I’m averse to myself,” he said. “My name’s Mitch, by the way. Thank you.”

  “Mandu,” she introduced herself. “Which is not Mandy. I ain’t a Barry Manilow song.” Too many dates played that song for her, trying and failing to charm her.

  “Mandu. Got it. So, you come here often?” Mitch gestured at the alley. Away from the snake dancer, he appeared a little more animated, and a lot more handsome than she’d actually thought at first.

  “Not usually, no. I don’t smoke, but some of the girls do. All the new laws, so they have to come out here to do it. It’s Thursday night and only Dee Dee still smokes; she’s up on stage now.”

  Mitch shuddered. “That was. Ugh. I know, it’s unreasonable, I know. Less than ten thousand people a year are bitten by snakes, and of those less than a handful actually die. And that snake isn’t even poisonous. I know it’s stupid.”

  “You don’t have to live through a plane crash to be afraid of flying,” Mandu pointed out. “My brother was in the marines. Stay out here, ten, fifteen minutes. Dee Dee will be done, she’ll go put Reggie away—”

  “Reggie? That thing has a name? What is she, an Indiana Jones fan?”

  “Something like that. You can tell your buds that I was so taken with you, I nailed you in the alley. I don’t mind. That’ll keep them from giving you hell about the snake. Save face.”

  Mandu hopped up onto the air generator. The rumble of the system vibrated pleasantly under her tired legs. She swung her feet, feeling the shock of relief, almost greater than the pain of walking around in those shoes all evening.

  “You’re doing all this for me? Why?”

  “It’s my break anyway.”

  She stared down at her feet enclosed in the clear shoes. Originally, she’d pitched the idea of doing a Cinderella act to the club’s manager. The “talent” made the most money, not only from the bills given to them on the stage, but also they took a share of all the waitstaff’s tips. But she wouldn’t add throwing Tony a quick fuck on top of the pitch, so he’d let her wear her costume as a waitress, but not get up on the stage. Yay, life in Las Vegas. Totally glam.

  Mitch stepped into the cradle of her legs, lifting her chin with one hand. “That’s not really an answer.” He was close, very close, and even in the cold desert air—why had no one told her how cold it got at night?—she could feel the heat radiating off his body. Mandu considered shoving him away; this was face saving, not an offer of a quick fuck, after all. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually touched another person deliberately. Sought comfort from another human being. She leaned closer to him, resting her head against his broad chest.

  “I wanted to do something nice for someone. Like no one ever does around here. You reminded me of me.” She spoke to his shirt, a white linen button-down that smelled of generic fabric softener. “Like you’d come out here for something, found it entirely as you imagined it would be, and discovered that you actually didn’t want it at all.”

  Mitch put his arms around her, fingers warm against the naked skin of her back. He rested his chin on top of her head and she felt suddenly protected there in the curve of his embrace. “This is nice,” he said. “I haven’t just talked to a girl in a long time. What’d you come out to Vegas looking for?”

  “Not really sure. Glamorous life, maybe? My brother went and did something I thought was stupid, joined the marines while we’re at war, and I guess I had to prove he wasn’t the only idiot in the family. Only what he did was brave and wonderful, and what I did was just stupid.”

  “You said he was in the marines.” Mitch’s arms tightened around her. “What happened to him?”

  “Yeah, 2nd battalion, tank division out of Lejeune. He was a gunner. He’s home now. Honorably discharged. Purple Heart and all that.” Tears prickled in her eyes. “He broke his back when some Iraqi threw a grenade at his jeep. He wasn’t even in the tank, you know, just riding back to the base. He can walk now, a little, my mom says. I haven’t been home to see him.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Portsmouth, Virginia,” Mandu said. “I doubt you’ve heard of it—”

  “I have, actually. I’m stationed at Oceana,” Mitch said. The door to the alley rattled, then opened.

  “Small wor—” Mandu started to say, then Mitch’s mouth descended on hers, swallowing her words. She froze, startled, then relaxed with a soft groan of desire as he tickled the edge of her lower lip with his tongue. How strange, she thought, barely coherent.

  “Oh, sorry there, slick,” one of the other airmen said, his face breaking out in a smirk. “Carry on.”

  “Go away, Conman,” Mitch snarled, his lips twisting interestingly against Mandu’s. She raised her legs, locked her ankles around the small of his back, pulling him closer. One hand dropped to her thigh, cupping the smooth skin. She writhed, pressing herself to him, need consuming the space between their bodies.

  “Absolutely, Alleycat. Absolutely.” Conman pointedly closed the door.

  “Asshole,” Mitch said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry, I just... wow, that was fine, though. I’m taking advantage of your kindness. I don’t mean to be.”

  “Oh, shut up and kiss me again, Airman,” Mandu said. Her legs remained locked around his hips and she rocked her pelvis against his. Delicious heat and a sudden, welcome hardness pressed between them.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mitch grinned and bent to kiss her again. This time was slow, easy and gentle, just the barest hint of urgency, wanting, below the subtle dance of tongue and teeth. She tasted beer on his tongue, felt the curve of his lips against hers. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders and under the hard surface of his muscles she detected tremors of excitement.

  Mandu lolled her head back and Mitch continued his exploration, his lips pressing against her cheek, nipping gently at her ear, then blazing a warm, wet trail down to her shoulder. His tongue found the sensitive spot along her collarbone and she groaned under the sensual onslaught.

  It had been too long; she thrust her hips, too eager to be patient, too full of wanting and need to wait for him. Her panties, pale silvery briefs meant for show, chafed against the swollen flesh of her pussy. Rubbing aggravated the itch instead of relieving it. She hissed, her fingernails scoring along his neck. She raised her hands higher, feeling the rough scrub of his short military haircut against her palms as if somehow she had the power to hold him to her forever.

  Mitch plunged one hand into her wealth of blond hair, tangling a fist near the nape of her neck. She gasped as he tugged lightly, tingles and prickles traveling down her scalp and spine.

  “Do you like that?” he asked. Mandu tried to nod; constrained by his grip on her hair, she couldn’t.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “You want it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Mi
tch kept her head captive, assaulting her throat and down the slope of her breast, his tongue wetting the thin material of her waitress costume. He blew warm air across the trail of wet, and while she couldn’t see his face, she felt him smile against her skin as her flesh rippled with goose bumps, her nipples tightening behind the fabric.

  She squirmed as he licked, tasting every inch of her exposed flesh and going nowhere near where she wanted. Mandu gasped, her voice breaking into a mewling cry of protest as he explored her belly, bypassed her hip and licked fire across her thigh. She was arched nearly double, elbows supporting her against the generator, breasts thrust out.

  The hand in her hair hurt, it hurt, dammit, and her breasts hurt and her pussy ached. She couldn’t move away from the assault of his mouth and didn’t want to, but for god’s sake he was torturing her. She cried out, locking her legs around his neck. The heels of her shoes tattooed against his back and he gripped one ankle with his free hand, holding that leg hostage as he licked again, delicate and sensual, against her thigh, just at the edge of those ridiculous panties.

  The heat of his breath sent her into a gasping tremor, a rush of fluid dampening her panties. She clenched against a spasm that twisted through her belly. I’m going to cream and he hasn’t even touched me, she thought, stunned.

  “Stop fucking around and fuck me.”

  He relaxed his grip on her hair. Mandu sat up shivering, curling her arms around herself. Mitch sank onto one knee, his forehead against her pubic bone, the bridge of his nose settling against her slit. She stared down at his head in astonishment—he was vibrating!—and realized that it was laughter, soft but earnest, that shook him.

  “Impatient, are you?”

  She couldn’t answer the obvious, just nodded.

  “All right, then.” He pulled back just long enough to yank her panties down, leaving them dangling from one ankle. He curled his arms around her thighs and lowered his head.