Tempted by a SEAL (Alpha SEALs Book 8)

by Makenna Jameison

  But worst case?

  He clenched his fists, mind swirling with the possibilities of where she was, when the barstool beside him was suddenly pulled back.

  His fellow SEAL team member Mason “Riptide” Ryan sank down beside him, his cropped blond hair damp from a shower and eyes glinting in amusement as he took in the lukewarm drink in front of Hunter.

  “Don’t say it,” Hunter muttered.

  “I’m going to buy you a whole damn block of ice when we’re back in the states.”

  “Doesn’t help me much now, wise guy.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “So much for a little R&R this week,” Hunter said, cracking his knuckles. “I’ve had exactly one decent night’s sleep. Not that I’m complaining about the woman I was with the other night,” he added with a smirk. His gaze slid to a group of women laughing nearby, roaming over their curves, then swept back to Mason.

  He had work to do.

  Mason chuckled. “Yep. It’s not exactly ideal to come right off one op and then get sucked back into this clusterfuck. Although how you managed to get us involved is beyond me. You’d think the Brits would be all over this.”

  Hunter smirked. “What can I say? I’ve got friends in high places. I’d rather deal with these assholes myself after rescuing the Senator’s daughter,” he said in a low voice.

  “Damn straight,” Mason agreed. “The poor girl looked scared out of her mind.”

  “Unfortunately, our hands are tied aside from gathering intel though. After we get what we need, confirmation that these two assholes were involved, you can paint the town, pretty boy.”

  “I’m still wiped out from last night.”

  “What time did you drag your ass back to the hotel?”

  “Three a.m. The British babe I met lived clear on the other side of London. I got lost on the damn Tube coming back.”

  Hunter guffawed. “You can pinpoint a location anywhere in the world within millimeters using GPS coordinates and sat imagery but can’t figure out a damn subway system?”

  “Hell, I was thinking with my dick the entire way to her place. She could’ve taken me across the goddamn English Channel, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Besides, after three rounds between the sheets, I was wiped. And don’t worry—she was fully satisfied as well. If nothing, I’m a gentleman.”

  The edge of Hunter’s mouth quirked up. “Why didn’t you wait and leave until morning then, Romeo?”

  Mason chuckled. “Not my MO, man. Yours either.”

  Hunter smirked, shaking his head. “Touché.”

  Their entire Delta SEAL team was full of single, rough and tumble Alpha males who enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman. Whenever they were back stateside, they’d prowl around the Virginia Beach area, not far from their base in Little Creek, looking for a pretty woman to take home for the night.

  Something about sunshine, sand, and beautiful women in bikinis did it every time.

  Hunter had no desire to settle down with one woman—not when the whole damn world was his oyster. And hell if he didn’t love diving for pearls.

  Driving a woman wild in bed was his specialty—and if he could enjoy the pleasure of a different woman every weekend, he damn well would. No sense in tying himself down when he deployed all the time anyway. Nothing like trying to maintain a relationship when you couldn’t say where you were going, what you were doing, or when you’d be back.

  Most women he’d met couldn’t handle a situation like that—and hell if life wasn’t easier this way.

  His SEAL team made an imposing force when they were together—even out of uniform, their shortly cropped hair, muscles, and certain swagger seemed to give away their profession.

  And hell.

  They were never short on ladies looking to spend the night with a Navy SEAL.

  He’d already enjoyed a one-night-stand his first night in London—a university student he’d met while sightseeing. She’d asked if he was lost, and he’d gone along with it, figuring he’d seem less intimidating to her that way. Never mind that he’d memorized the map of the London streets and knew the exact way back to his hotel. Could practically count the number of steps from the street corner to the front door.

  She’d batted those long lashes at him, and he’d gone along for the ride.

  And ride him she had—all damn night.

  Cowgirl. Reverse cowgirl. She was insatiable in bed—not that he’d had any complaints.

  Hell, it was hard to remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself so much with a woman. She knew he was an American here visiting and wasn’t expecting more than one night with him.

  Knew that he’d literally be across the ocean in a few days.

  And damn if that didn’t make it even more enjoyable that way.

  There was no need to let her down easy the next morning when they’d both known it was a one-time deal.

  Hell.

  They’d even had a quickie in the shower before they’d parted ways.

  She’d screamed so loud as he’d made her come, he’d practically expect the British police to break down the hotel door.

  “What are you smiling about?” Mason asked, ordering a soda.

  “With ice!” Hunter called out to the bartender as she walked away.

  Mason smirked.

  “No thanks needed,” Hunter said smoothly. “How the Brits drink their soda practically lukewarm is beyond me.”

  “You blokes need a pint,” a young guy beside them said, chuckling as he took his own beer and headed over to his group of friends.

  Hunter shook his head. “Tell me about it.”

  “He’s right,” Mason said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road so we can hightail it out of here.”

  “Gotta wait for the perps to make an appearance first. Soon as we get confirmation that they have info on the missing woman, we’re outta here.”

  “You think they sold her out to the terror group?”

  “I don’t know damn well what to think. But most women don’t travel to Afghanistan alone and then simply disappear. Her colleagues were the ones who went to the American Embassy when they didn’t hear from her. Apparently, they notified the Brits.”

  “Shit. That stuff is fucked up.”

  “Roger that. Be right back,” Hunter muttered, pushing his barstool back as he stood up.

  Mason raised his eyebrows. “Spot a woman you fancy?”

  “Gonna hit the head.”

  Mason smirked. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “For the men or a woman?”

  “Yep.”

  Hunter grunted in amusement before sauntering across the pub toward the bathroom. A waitress walked by carrying a tray of sizzling burgers and fries—make that chips—and his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch but could grab some food after they’d gotten eyes and ears on the men.

  It was a damn fucking shame he couldn’t take those assholes out himself, but it wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed if he got into a fight in the middle of a crowded pub. His eyes swept around the area once more, and he nearly missed running into a beautiful redhead rushing the other way.

  She was petite, barely coming up to his shoulder, and her fair skin and striking green eyes immediately drew his attention. Not to mention the swell of her breasts beneath the form-fitting, pink cashmere sweater she had on. The soft top hugged her curves enticingly, leaving little to the imagination. The fact that it fit her like a glove, yet didn’t reveal any skin, was intriguing. Normally he was all about short skirts and low-cut tops, but on her? An innocent sweater had never looked so sexy.

  “Pardon me,” she said in a smooth British accent, her silky red hair spilling around her shoulders and her intoxicating floral scent filling the air.

  “Ma’am,” he said, his fingers just grazing her forearm to steady her.

  “You’re American,” she said in surprise, pulling her arm away.

  He quirked a brow. “How could you tell
that from one word?”

  Hell, if he didn’t already miss the feel of her delicate arm beneath his fingers. He wanted to run his hands all over that soft cashmere and feel her soft, feminine curves beneath it. Trace his thumb over those full pink lips. Crowd into her space and pull her close.

  “It’s not common in England. Besides, most English men I know aren’t nearly as tall as you. And they wouldn’t go about manhandling me that way.”

  Hunter guffawed. “You almost fell over when you ran into me. Where’s the fire? The way you were tearing through here there must be one somewhere.”

  “I most certainly did not run into you,” she said haughtily.

  “And what’s preferable to ‘ma’am’ anyway? Would ‘princess’ work for you?”

  “To be perfectly clear, you almost ran into me,” she corrected him, her green eyes sparking. “You were looking around, probably at some other woman, like a typical man, and nearly plowed into me.”

  Hunter smirked. Hell yeah he’d love to plow into her—probably not in the manner she meant though.

  “My apologies from preventing you from falling flat on your face.”

  “That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard.”

  He crossed his arms. “That’s because I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

  “Excuse me,” she huffed indignantly.

  Her breasts just grazed against his bicep as she turned to slide by him, evidently ending the conversation, and his groin tightened. She was so damn soft, he couldn’t help but imagine all those curves pressing up against him.

  Her soft breasts rubbing against his muscular chest. Her small hands clinging to him as he claimed her. Her pink lips whispering in that sexy-as-fuck accent in his ear.

  Why did British women seem so damn irresistible?

  He loved the idea of some English chick whispering naughty words to him. It must be like the sexy librarian fantasy all guys had—some prim and proper looking, beautiful woman turning into a sex goddess when a man took her to bed.

  Coming alive beneath his solid, muscular frame. Whimpering as he made her orgasm again and again. Begging him for mercy he penetrated her, drawing out her pleasure for as long as possible until she screamed out his name in surrender. Until her tight pussy clenched again and again around his throbbing cock.

  Unable to resist, he glanced back over his shoulder, watching her sweet ass sashay back and forth as she walked away in those sexy-as-fuck tight jeans.

  Hell, she was a looker.

  And he couldn’t resist one last taunt.

  “American men are big all over, princess.”

  She looked back at him, her face flushing. He couldn’t tell if it was in anger or arousal, but then she retorted, “Arrogant prick.”

  He chuckled, his eyes drifting lower to her heart-shaped ass, clad in that tight denim. Damn if he didn’t want to have a closer inspection of those sweet curves.

  Preferably without the jeans.

  The woman he’d bedded the other night had some naughty lingerie on under her casual clothes. Did all British chicks wear stuff like that? Because he sure as hell might need to give up the Navy and become an Ex-Pat in London if that were the case.

  Holy hell.

  Forcing himself to look away, he continued toward the men’s room and shoved open the door. He adjusted his earpiece a minute later when he re-emerged.

  Mason’s voice was suddenly in his ear, laughing.

  “American men are big all over? Who gave you that Hallmark line?”

  “It was damn poetic, right?” he asked. “Not sure why she didn’t immediately wrestle me to the ground right then and have her wicked way with me.”

  “Yeah, in your dreams,” Mason chuckled. “I’ve never seen a woman move so fast—in the opposite direction.”

  “I bet she’s wild in bed. Redheads always are.”

  A few men sitting at a table beside him chuckled, and Hunter muttered a curse as he wove his way back through the growing crowd. He was drawing attention to himself all over the damn place.

  By the time he’d crossed the pub back toward the bar where he’d been sitting, his gaze was drawn to movement outside.

  Hunter’s gaze narrowed as he saw two Middle Eastern men lingering on the sidewalk, animatedly talking with hand gestures. A woman walking by stepped away from them, frowning, and a beat passed before they turned and pushed open the pub’s door.

  Even amongst the after-work crowd they stood out.

  Expensive suits. Slicked-back hair.

  The shorter one carrying an expensive leather briefcase.

  He’d memorized the photographs of the men he was seeking earlier. Knew every detail of their faces, from the small scar on the cheek of one to the angular jaw and slightly crooked nose on the other.

  Bingo.

  Chapter 2

  Emma’s heart raced as she walked toward the crowded bar, her palms slick as she clutched her leather backpack in both hands. Unlike the adrenaline she’d had coursing through her over the past few hours, though, her pulse was pounding in an entirely different way at the moment.

  Awareness prickled over her skin as she felt the heated gaze of the man she’d nearly run into watch her walk away, and she was certain her face was flushed.

  The curse of being so fair skinned, she thought in exasperation.

  She certainly wasn’t interested in a man who’d bragged about the size of American men.

  Good heavens.

  American men were large all over?

  There was certainly no doubt their egos were.

  He was just cocky enough that he probably did have the goods to match.

  Not that she ever intended on finding out.

  She had enough to worry about without drawing undue attention to herself anyhow. Without having foreign men hit on her in crowded pubs. She’d barely been back in London a day, and she was already in trouble again.

  The jaded police officer she’d spoken to earlier had told her to go down to the station with her information. Hadn’t seemed to understand or care about the documents she’d found. With the threat level in Britain at “severe,” you’d think he’d have been more concerned. But it’s not like she could wave them around in public where anyone could see.

  She couldn’t go back to her flat—not after the way it had been ransacked this afternoon. When her neighbor had texted her mobile and let her know the police were there and that the entire place had been overturned, she’d fled. She hadn’t even gone back to investigate the damage or file a proper police report.

  Not when she was being followed. When someone knew about the documents she had.

  She was too afraid to even go to the police alone for fear of being caught. She didn’t dare walk around in public alone when someone was clearly after her. When she’d nearly been grabbed a week ago in Kabul and someone had found her back in London.

  Still, her heart raced unexpectedly as her mind lingered on her brief encounter with the American man, replaying every moment in slow motion. As heat bloomed across her skin.

  The guy she’d bumped into had towered above her, with a week’s worth of dark stubble on his strong jaw and multiple tattoos on his muscular arms. He was confident and arrogant. Brash. Practically oozing testosterone. A man like him was probably used to women dropping their knickers the moment he walked in. No doubt there were pounds of muscle beneath that soft, cotton tee-shirt he had on. And she’d felt his restrained strength as his fingers had grazed her forearm, as she’d brushed past him when she’d walked away.

  A guy like him no doubt thoroughly knew his way around a woman’s body. What was that expression her American friend Lily was so fond of? Sex on a stick?

  Emma had felt small and almost fragile beside him. Feminine. And that was unexpected, because she was fiercely independent. Content doing things on her own. Although she dated from time to time, so was so busy with travel and her research, she didn’t have time for a serious relationship. A commitment of any sort. She had
her career to think of and refused to let a man stand in the way of her success. Not after everything she’d worked for.

  No doubt he was here on a vacation anyhow, just visiting London, and she certainly wasn’t looking to spend one night with a man she’d never see again.

  Never mind that he’d smelled like clean soap and a hint of some spice—cologne maybe? Not aftershave since he clearly hadn’t seen a razor recently. From his short, cropped dark hair to his broad shoulders and the way his jeans hung perfectly from narrow hips, everything about him was attractive.

  Appealing.

  Normally she was drawn to clean-cut men in button-down shirts and pressed trousers. The type of man who wouldn’t dream of marking their body with ink and were well-educated and well-spoken. Academics, like her. Who had attended prestigious universities and had their work published in esteemed journals.

  That guy looked like he’d spent the afternoon at the gym, showered, and thrown on the first pair of clean clothes he’d found. Popped into a pub and tried out a few chat-up lines at the first woman he noticed.

  She shivered as she recalled his searing gaze on her. No doubt he was already chatting up another woman by now, and it was for the best.

  Emma had enough other things to worry about.

  Steeling her nerves, she slid onto an empty barstool at the crowded bar, determined to put the American guy out of her mind.

  Glasses clanked around her as the bartender lined up clean cups, and patrons talked loudly above the music. The greasy scent of fish and chips filled the air—so different than the open bazaar in Kabul. It had been only a week but felt like a lifetime ago—in that short span of time, her entire world had turned upside down.

  But she was safe at the moment.

  Unnoticed in the crowded pub.

  The man seated beside her had his gaze on a laughing group of young women nearby. There was an empty barstool with a drink beside him, so his buddy or girlfriend was probably on his or her way back. And she was perfectly content to be left alone.

  “Gin and tonic, please,” she said to the bartender.

  “Coming right up.”

  The woman flipped her white cloth over her shoulder and moved toward the bottles of spirits, laughing with a couple of young men seated at the bar as she made Emma’s drink. As Emma warily scanned the crowd.