Once Burned

by L. A. Witt

  I laughed. I shifted a little, and a twinge bit at my knee. I managed to not wince, but I was going to be limping unless I did something to help it. A shower. That would help. We’d showered after we’d fucked, but hot water would help my knee more than anything. Anything aside from asking for an ice pack, anyway, and I wasn’t ready to let Mark think I needed ice the morning after I got laid. “You mind if I grab a shower?”

  “Not at all.”

  While I showered, the aches and pains in the rest of my body made themselves known. My legs didn’t feel like they were connected to my body. My hips felt every thrust I’d taken last night, but I managed to not fall on my ass. Even if it took some wincing, I made it down the stairs. I grinned as I got closer to the bottom step where I’d almost bent Mark over, before he’d panted something about the bed being more comfortable. It had definitely been more comfortable. Still would’ve been hot, grabbing him and doing him right there on the stairs.

  Maybe another time. When my knee wasn’t acting up. Which was basically never, but a boy could fantasize.

  Mark was in the kitchen, which was open to his living room. As he fussed with the coffeepot, I leaned against the kitchen island and took in my surroundings. Yesterday, we’d spent most of the morning in bed, then ducked out for coffee before I’d headed home, so I hadn’t really noticed much about the house outside the bedroom.

  He’d mentioned something about being recently divorced, and that made sense as I looked around his house. It wasn’t cheap bachelor pad shit like a footlocker for a coffee table or a milk crate end table covered in beer cans. He had sleek taste—simple black furniture, black-and-white framed prints on the walls in black frames, not much in the way of knickknacks. He didn’t bother with decorative pillows, but there was a red, black, and white Navajo-style blanket draped over the back of the sofa.

  And in the corner, sitting on top of an old TV stand, was a three-foot-high Christmas tree. It had a single strand of lights around it—they weren’t on—and some small ornaments. A lot of blue and gold, which wasn’t a surprise, and from where I was standing I couldn’t decide if the gray ornament near the top was a Navy ship or something out of Star Trek.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  I turned around. “Yes, please.”

  He poured a couple of mugs and handed me one.

  “Thanks.” I gestured at the tree with the cup. “A Christmas tree? Already?”

  Mark glanced at the pathetic little thing, and he shrugged. “Thought it would give the place . . . I don’t know, some life?”

  I looked the tree up and down. “It’s cute.”

  “If you’re into Charlie Brown Christmas trees, maybe.”

  “Oh come on.” I laughed. “It’s small, but it’s nice. How does it look with the lights turned on?”

  Mark nodded toward the tree as if to say Go ahead.

  Hell, why not? I crossed the room and paused to look at the gray ornament near the top. Turned out it was two ornaments next to each other—the starship Enterprise from Star Trek, and the USS Enterprise aircraft carrier. Cute.

  I turned to Mark. “You were stationed on the Enterprise?”

  “Briefly,” he said as he joined me beside the tree. “Really early on.”

  I faced the tree again and flipped the switch on the green cord sticking out from the stand. Instantly, dozens of tiny white lights came to life.

  “There. See?” I smiled. “It’s cute. A little early, but cute.”

  Mark smirked. “So it’s cute and small, and it’s early. I hope we’re still talking about the tree and not my dick.”

  I choked on my coffee and almost spat it all over the glittery tree. When I’d recovered, I set my cup down and wrapped an arm around Mark’s waist. “We’re definitely still talking about the tree.”

  He reeled me in closer. “Good. Because I don’t think Christmas lights could save me from any shortcomings there.”

  I snorted and rolled my eyes.

  Mark laughed. Then he gestured toward the kitchen with his thumb. “You want some breakfast? I’m not God’s gift to cooking, but I make some decent French toast.”

  Whoa. A home-cooked breakfast? One that I didn’t have to sweat bullets over budgeting? Fuck. That sounded amazing. I didn’t want to take advantage of him or use him as a meal ticket, but damn if the prospect of French toast wasn’t seriously tempting.

  “Sure. Yeah. Can I help with anything?”

  Mark shook his head. “No, I’ve got it. Have a seat.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time someone besides my mother had cooked for me, so I didn’t argue. Coffee in hand, I took a seat on one of the barstools at the kitchen island.

  Mark made breakfast, and then we moved to the table.

  “Wow,” I said after a couple of bites. “This is really good.”

  “Thanks.” He actually blushed. Fuck, he was cute. “It’s probably one of a dozen things I know how to make without giving anyone food poisoning.”

  I laughed. “You’re better at it than me. I’ve tried to make it a couple of times, and it always comes out either soggy or leathery.” I made a face before skewering another piece of syrup-drenched bread.

  “Eh, we all have our weak spots in the kitchen. Whatever you do, don’t ask me to make my mother’s meatloaf.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Just . . . trust me.” He grimaced as he sliced off a piece with his fork. “My ex-wife tried it once and made me swear on my life I’d never commit that crime against food again.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. But then my mom gave us all salmonella one Fourth of July, so . . .” He shrugged.

  “Salmonella?” I sputtered. “Seriously?”

  Mark rolled his eyes as he nodded. “Yeah. That was not a pleasant weekend for any of us.”

  I almost mentioned the time the mess decks on my last ship gave about two hundred people food poisoning, but I didn’t want to talk about my old career, so I let it go. “What else can you cook?”

  He thought for a second while he took a sip of coffee. “I can make a decent steak. Pretty good at a few different kinds of pasta.” He paused. “I learned how to make this really amazing stroganoff, but I almost always fuck something up. If I tried to make it now, I’d probably have to call my ex-wife and have her walk me through it.”

  “Ever tried writing down the recipe?”

  “I did,” he muttered. “But I still manage to screw it up, and thank God she’s a wizard at unfucking culinary disasters. That’s why I keep her on speed dial.”

  I laughed. “Your own personal cooking lifeline. Nice.”

  “Trust me. I need it.” He sipped his coffee. “Do you cook?”

  “I try to.” I played with the handle on my coffee cup. “I’m pretty good at making bocoles. They’re little round cakes made out of corn dough. You can put pretty much anything on them, and my mother makes them all the time.” I paused. “She does a lot of Huasteca cooking.”

  “Huasteca?”

  I nodded. “The natives that used to live in San Luis Potosi. Or, well, they still do. Just not as many.”

  “Are you Huas . . . How do you say it again?”

  I smiled. “Huasteca.”

  “Huasteca.” It sounded a bit clumsy, but he was trying.

  “I have some Huastec blood, yes. My ancestors were mostly Spanish, except my grandfather was Italian, and my great-grandmother on my mom’s side was Huastec. She passed down a lot of the recipes.” I laughed self-consciously. “My abuela and my mother are much better at it than I am. The bocoles are pretty easy, so I can’t fuck them up.” I paused. “There’s this one dish—Zacahuil. It’s . . . like a three-foot-long tamale.”

  Mark blinked. “That’s not a meal for one, is it?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “No, that’s for when the whole family comes over.”

  “Can you make that?”

  “I’ve . . .” I grimaced. “Yeah, I can make it. Sort of. But it’s been a
long time since I’ve even eaten it, so I’d need my abuela looking over my shoulder if I tried to make it.”

  Mark chuckled.

  We kept on talking. Mostly about kitchen disasters and things our mothers had made while we were growing up. That turned into who’d had the most traumatic childhood meal (his grandma’s atrocity of a stuffed-pepper recipe won that one), whose school had had the worst food (my junior high’s shoe leather mystery meat patties), and the weirdest thing either of us had ever eaten (possibly a tie between the live baby octopus he’d tried in Korea and my neighbor’s famous frog legs).

  It wasn’t until I went to refill my coffee for the third time that I realized I’d been sitting long enough for my knee to get stiff. Damn, how long had we been here?

  According to the clock on the microwave, it was almost one thirty in the afternoon.

  “Shit,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stay quite so late.”

  “Quite so—” He did a double take at the clock. “Whoa. Well hell. Do you want to go grab something for lunch?”

  I hesitated. Joining him for lunch after we’d spent the whole morning talking, and after our one-night stand had turned into two, had implications. Or at least, left the door open for implications.

  It was also really tempting. I was getting hungry again, and who was I kidding? I liked Mark. Spending a little more time together wouldn’t kill us. Might kill my I’m not dating a military man argument, because it was creeping into actually dating, but . . . to hell with it.

  I smiled. “Sure. There’s a place not far from here that’s really good.” I gave the clock another glance. “The church crowd is probably clearing out by now too.”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll get my wallet.”

  After a weekend that had consisted of more sex than sleep, I was going to be such a wreck at work today. Hell, tired as I was, I would’ve gotten lost on my way from my car to the boat if it weren’t for the fact that a giant flattop ship was kind of hard to miss.

  Dazed, I made my way down the long pier. A few civilian contractors passed by me without a second look. Some enlisted Sailors and junior officers stopped, saluted me sharply, and said, “Good morning, sir.” I returned each salute and greeting, thankful that habit and muscle memory had made those responses automatic enough to still happen even while I was in a haze.

  Habit and muscle memory saved me from making an ass of myself, but I needed to be sharp. As the new XO, I couldn’t be shuffling aboard in the morning like some kid who’d been partying all weekend.

  Not that I was out to impress anyone or get command of a ship; my ambition had run pretty dry in recent years. Still, I had a job to do, and I did take my role seriously. I was the enforcer of the rules the commanding officer made. The CO and I would be in deep shit if the crew didn’t respect us, and the upper chain of command on this particular boat wasn’t held in terribly high regard these days. Not after the last two COs, the XO, and several others had been relieved for various offenses over the course of a year.

  That wasn’t to say other ships didn’t have their fair share of bullshit in the upper ranks. When I’d been stationed on an aircraft carrier back when I had been a lieutenant commander, the CO had been so close to retiring that he’d just stopped giving a fuck. The XO had been the opposite—a hard-ass who’d throw the book at someone for the most minor infraction. The CO’s apathy hadn’t mattered when the XO had kept us all in line.

  Then the XO had been busted with his dick in a petty officer. Adultery. Fraternization. Conduct unbecoming a gentleman. Overnight, the five-thousand-strong crew had turned almost mutinous. If the CO didn’t care and the rules didn’t apply to the XO, then why should any of us bother?

  The Fort Stevens had roughly the same level of respect and morale right now. The junior personnel regarded the senior ranks with open contempt, and those who were senior to them but junior to me and Captain Hawthorne pretty much shrugged and wished us the best of luck.

  And, of course, the ship was scheduled to go to sea for six months in the spring. Couldn’t wait to see what happened when a crew on the verge of mutiny was tired and sex deprived with no land in sight. Especially once we deployed and brought aboard almost two thousand Marines on top of the thousand-plus existing crew, making the boat three times as crowded. Fantastic.

  Once I was on board, I followed the maze of passageways to my office. The space was cramped, but that was to be expected. Everything on a ship was cramped. Well, unless you’d spent time on a submarine. I never had—aside from a tour once or twice—but some friends had, and they thought a carrier or an amphib ship were the damn Four Seasons after those claustrophobic confines.

  I shuddered. There was a reason I’d never volunteered for sub duty.

  I settled into my office to get some work done. I had several Sailors and a couple of officers coming in today for Executive Officer Inquiries. XOI was a step below Captain’s Mast, which was a step below court-martial. These were serious offenses, which meant I needed to be focused.

  That didn’t mean I was focused, though. The minute I sat my aching ass down, my mind wandered right back to the man who’d spent most of the weekend in my bed.

  He’d left Saturday to go to work, and then he’d come back yesterday for a rematch after closing. We’d gone to a café he’d recommended for lunch, and what a surprise—found our way back into my bed last night. This morning, we’d both been bleary-eyed as hell when I’d had to get up and head to the boat . . . but not bleary-eyed enough for him to refuse that blowjob in the shower.

  I shivered in my desk chair. Goddamn, he was hot. And addictive. One look at him on Friday night had given me a hard-on, but I’d had no idea what was in store once I got him into my bed. Now I was suddenly desperate for him to lay me out and ride my ass again. It was as if I’d never felt anything like that before, and now I needed as much as I could get.

  Except I had been fucked before. There were a couple of guys in my past, and my ex-wife had been very enthusiastic with that strap-on. So I was no stranger to giving or receiving anal.

  Holy fuck, though. Diego. That man had ridden me hard until I couldn’t take anymore, and when I’d begged him for more anyway, he’d given it to me. His cock was addictive. He was addictive.

  And the way he’d talked dirty in my ear? That was . . . oh God. I couldn’t even say he’d been talking dirty. When he’d slipped into Spanish, I’d had no idea what he was actually saying. He could’ve been complimenting my car or insulting my mother or reciting the Lord’s Prayer. All I knew was his tone had been so utterly filthy, he’d talked me right over the edge into the hardest orgasm I’d had in years.

  I shivered again, goose bumps breaking out under my uniform. Christ, that man was sexy. It was impossible not to come away from a weekend like that in anything but a good mood, even if that good mood wasn’t going to last long. Which it wouldn’t—not when I had a day packed with Executive Officer Inquiries. Because disciplinary hearings were so much fun.

  I managed to concentrate enough to get through the first couple of XOIs without making an ass of myself. A distracted XO during a disciplinary hearing would really help with that ship-wide morale and discipline problem the CO and I were fighting. The minute I had my office to myself, though, I was back to spacing out and thinking about Diego. Hadn’t he said something this morning about getting together again?

  I sat up. He had. Somewhere in the middle of making out and blowing him, there’d been a we should do this again and an I want more of what we did last night. The only thing left was to figure out when or where. Or whether he was just enthusiastic about another rematch because he’d had his dick in my mouth a minute before.

  So, during lunch, I slipped down to the pier to find a decent signal and texted him.

  Busy tonight?

  Nope. Off today. ;)

  Oh, now that made things more interesting. A midweek work night wasn’t the time to be starting something at one in the morning, but earlier? Oh yeah, I could do that.
/>
  Want to grab dinner & then go to my place?

  Can do. When/where?

  We texted back and forth for a few minutes. By the time I went aboard again, we’d made plans to meet at the café we’d gone to yesterday, since it was close to the house.

  And now, with my evening plans sorted out and my libido tugging even harder at my focus, I returned to my office for the first XOI of the afternoon.

  When I got home, I stripped out of my uniform, showered, pulled on a Cardinals T-shirt and jeans, and drove to the café to meet Diego.

  He was there when I arrived, and he smiled as I came up the sidewalk. Then his eyes drifted down, and he suddenly looked horrified. “What the fuck is that?” He gestured at my shirt.

  “What?” I glanced at myself.

  “You’re a Cardinals fan?” He clicked his tongue and scowled. “And here I was thinking you were almost perfect.”

  Aside from being on active duty?

  I didn’t ask that out loud, though. As curious as I was about his almost-allergic aversion to the military, the conversation was light and I wanted to keep it that way. “Don’t tell me you’re a Patriots fan?”

  He made a disgusted noise. “Please. Eagles, all the way.”

  I scoffed, shaking my head. “Oh God. Well, enjoy watching the Cardinals stomp them on Sunday.”

  Diego paused like he was thinking. “They are playing this weekend, aren’t they?”

  “I think so, yeah.” I took out my phone and pulled up the schedule. “No, wait. Two weeks from Sunday.”

  Diego’s eyes lost focus for a second, but then his face lit up. “All the bartenders get a weekend off every month, and that’s mine. Perfect!”

  I grinned. “So you want to watch the game with me?”

  “Hell yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m always down for being there while a Cardinals fan watches his guys get stomped.”

  I laughed. “Uh-huh. We’ll see about that.”

  “We will. Two weeks from Sunday.”

  “My place?”

  He nodded. “Your place.”

  This was going to be fun.

  We went into the café and, after we’d been seated, opened the menus. We talked while we perused the menu, meandering from topic to topic. We were still getting to know each other, after all.