Black and White Flowers (The Real SEAL Series Book 1)

by Rachel Robinson

  I belch and swallow down the bitter taste. “Who taught you to drive? Your little sister?” I grumble, holding my stomach in both hands like a pregnant woman.

  Moose laughs, swerves unnecessarily around a wide corner, and replies, “Your mother.”

  “Ha. Ha. Are you going to tell me, in more detail, about your friendship with Megan?” I ask, glancing sideways at my friend. “You understand why I’m irritated,” I finish.

  Moose is a good man. Some of my SEAL brothers don’t have the same strong morals as my friend here, so it bears asking the hard questions.

  “If you want her just say it.”

  He shakes his head, eyebrows furrowed. “I would never go there. As tempting as it may be. I’m being a friend to her. Remember, as long as you and I have been friends, Megan and I have been friends, too. You guys breaking up doesn’t mean that I have to break up our friendship as well. Correct me if I’m wrong. Do I?” Moose asks.

  My stomach rumbles and my head pounds out a staccato in rhythm with my heartbeat. “Now isn’t the best time for this conversation. If you’re friends with her then I believe you’re friends with her and nothing more. I’m trying to keep Megan and Carina separated, but I’m finding it difficult.”

  Moose groans. “Megan is a wonderful woman. I thought you the luckiest bastard alive. Carina is amazing. For you, lightning struck twice. Twice,” he says, drawing out the last word. “If you want my sage advice, then move on and don’t look back. Don’t give Megan or her concerns a second thought. Move on with Carina. You’ve already made the choice.”

  I want to correct him and say that Megan made the choice for me, but I don’t think it prudent in this moment as he’s obviously going to be in contact with her. The part of me that knows Megan wants to keep her from harm or pain at all costs. It’s an odd sensation because the other half of me only cares for Carina and how my feelings affect her.

  We pull down my new street and my heartbeat pounds out a warning. She’s near and she’s finally mine without any barriers. I just spent a week jumping out of airplanes. The land below me looked like a map with tiny dots—the blue sky expansive—swallowing a person whole. The falling sensation is that of ambivalence compared to what I feel right now. The anticipation of seeing Carina, of letting myself fall without reservation. Kissing her, touching the spot on the side of her stomach I’ve only seen when she leans over to retrieve something off the floor. Most of all, finally taking her lips—her body, and marking them my own.

  Moose pulls into the circular driveway. We end our conversation the way most men end conversations, with grunts of understanding and plans to meet at the gym. We’ve come to a silent agreement about Megan.

  The house is shades of light brown and terracotta. Cacti and rocks litter the landscape. The ease of care was immediately a draw for both of us. Grass is an inconvenience that I don’t want her to deal with while I’m away. In southern California grass isn’t mandatory anyways. The large bay window in the front of the house is bare of curtains—I can see directly into our living room. There’s a moment before she realizes I’m here, that I appraise her. Carina’s hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing her black, thick-rimmed glasses. She was up writing all night. I want to be the reason she’s up all night. She sees me approaching, smiles, and runs to open the door before I can reach the threshold.

  Her brown eyes are pools of emotion, her soft skin, this uncharted, perfect territory glistens. I’m more familiar with the clouds wrapping my skin than I am of the expanse of Carina Painter’s body. Her mind has been mine for quite some time. A fact that both makes me happy and hesitant at the same time. I know exactly what she’s been through in her past and with her relationship with Roarke, and I’m hoping to erase every scar it produced. Moose shouts a quick hello and farewell to Carina and rumbles away. During all of this she hasn’t taken her eyes off me.

  “Welcome home, Smith,” she says, smiling with her eyes.

  My large duffle bag hits the ground the second her voice grazes my ears. I take her in my arms, pull her tight against my body, and tuck my head into the side of her neck. A few deep breaths later I’m more delirious with lust than I was envisioning her naked. “I missed you,” I whisper into her ear. The urge to lick her neck and kiss her war with my moral sensibility to wait for the perfect moment.

  She pulls back, sliding her hands on either side of my face to look at me front on. “It couldn’t possibly be more than I missed you.” She leans forward, a very subtle gesture, but I’m tuned into her at the micro level, so I notice. Her lips twitch. “I put together furniture. Remember? Of course I missed you more.”

  I smile, full and wide. “So you just missed my alpha male muscles and testosterone?” I sling my duffle back on my shoulder. Carina pulls me through the door and closes it behind me. The house smells like her—the light scent of perfume and freshly washed clothing. I drop my bag and kick it to the side.

  “I missed a lot more than that,” she says. “I was teasing. I’m more than capable of doing testosterone fueled jobs, but I missed your testosterone more than I probably should have. Just in a different way than you’re implying.”

  My cock hardens in a swift jerk. I readjust it through my jeans and her gaze dips down.

  “I hope you agree with my choices.”

  “That’s a tactic. Isn’t it? Blindsiding me with lust in two sentences and then asking a question. You can get anything you want that way. For future reference.” Ignoring every testosterone driven response in my body is difficult, but I do. I need everything to be perfect before we delve into that passion-fueled place of no return.

  Carina smiles, tugs on the bottom of her black workout shorts, and says, “Let me show you what I’ve done.”

  I nod. “Lead on,” I tell her, extending an arm at the hall to the right of us. I want to look at her ass as she walks—something that won’t help the current situation in my pants. “It smells like home already.” I hate to compare, but this place, with Carina in it, is homier than the house I purchased with Megan. The house I lived in for years.

  “Yeah? I’m glad it doesn’t smell like fake wood and spray cleaner anymore,” she says over her shoulder. Carina rambles on about how she wants me to put my touches on the rooms and says multiple times that I can change anything I want.

  “I don’t want to change anything. You’ve done an amazing job.” And she has. The house looks lived in, minus my huge rubber storage tubs pushed against a wall in my bedroom. My room. We talked at depth about living together and the challenges that may arise. We agreed that our friendship is the number one priority regardless of how taking things to the next level goes. I’ve told my family that Carina is my girlfriend. We’re expected at my mom’s house late this afternoon.

  She turns completely when she’s in front of one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall. “I set up my bed in here. I know we said we’d keep separate bedrooms until, well, you know we established some sort of status we were both comfortable with, but you don’t have a bed yet. And I won’t have you sleep on the couch I put together. For fear for your life, of course. We can sleep in here together. If you’re comfortable, that is.” She’s rambling, looking everywhere except my eyes.

  Glancing over one shoulder, I study her room and the four large marker boards covering a light gray wall. The scribbles and circles confuse me, but my name, always written in black marker stands out. She backs in a few steps to provide room for me to enter. “Sleep with you, huh? Didn’t you put together this bed as well? Who’s to say this one is any safer than the sofa out there?” I hike my thumb behind me and flash her a grin.

  She blushes. “Jasmine put the bed together,” she says, sitting down on the edge of the king-sized mattress. It’s covered in a soft purple duvet. “I told you it was a hidden talent of hers.” Carina bites her bottom lip and pats the bed next to her. “See?”

  With her seated, she’s eye level to my dick. A fool would hesitate, so walking a couple more steps, I sit next to he
r and rest my hand on her knee. “You do realize we’ll need to do more than sit to test her craftsmanship?” I turn in time to see her swallow deeply.

  “Right now?” she asks. So few things are this simple anymore. We’re both on the same page—we know exactly what we want. “You mentioned taking it slow when we had the relationship conversation before. Humping like sex-deprived rabbits five minutes after you walk through the door is scarcely slow.” Before I can respond she slides her hand over mine—the one on her knee—and guides it up her smooth thigh to rest at the hem of her shorts. The skin on my hands is sensitive to textures and temperatures, and gliding against hers is an extreme pleasure. “Say the word, Smith.”

  If I said the words fuck, sex, make love, bang, copulate, tap, we wouldn’t leave this room for months. Maybe years. I can’t be sure.

  Gently, I take her wrist in my free hand and pull her over to straddle my lap. Her face is so close that her nose is brushing my own and her sweet breath makes me lightheaded. Carina’s arms wind around my neck and her fingers find their way to my hair. She pulls it softly while she catches her breath. “While I’d love nothing more than to rip off your clothes and fuck you until I can’t remember my name, we have to go to my parents’ house soon. When, and notice I didn’t say if, I said when, I finally take your body, I’ll need days. First, days to plan exactly what I want to do with you, and then days to execute said plans.” I brush my nose from her ear down her neck.

  A tiny moan escapes her lips and she lowers her hips to sink herself onto my hard-on. Every muscle in my body flexes in response. “What if I have my own plans?” Carina breathes, her voice a mask of longing. This is a new side of her. One I’ve only dreamed about.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling us. “It’s divine intervention. Even my cell phone wants my plans to be successful.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, she leans to one side to afford me room to reach my cell. I’m not in a career where I can send a call to voicemail. At this point in my workup I have to be ready to deploy on a moment’s notice. If I get the phone call, I have two hours to be on base and ready to pack out. It doesn’t mean I have to answer gracefully. “Talk,” I say, holding the phone up to my ear without checking the caller.

  Carina leans over to my opposite ear and whispers. She tells me how she can help make my plan successful. I’ve never wanted anything else more. My mother, on the other end, telling me to pick up limes on our way is merely background noise.

  She leans back, smiles, kisses me on the check, her lips barely brushing the corner of my mouth, and hops off my lap.

  I reach out my hand as she goes. My balls are painful reminders of what I almost had. “All right, Mom. She’s excited too. Yep. Yeah. The house is great,” I say, answering her mundane questions with as much patience as I can muster. I hear Carina in the bathroom. The water turns on and I’m sure I hear the moment her clothing drops to the floor.

  I run a hand through my hair and then press my palm down the front of my jeans. “No, there’s nothing to worry about. Yes, I saw it as well. There’s nothing to worry about. Turn off the news. Nothing good comes of it these days.” It’s both truth and fiction. She really shouldn’t watch television anymore, but worry? Yeah, she should. Every day the news reports a new terrorist attack. Here on American soil. Each attack gets a little more organized, a little more threatening, more innocent lives taken. I hang up the phone after I console Mom one more time and lie back on Carina’s bed.

  I want to close my eyes for a few minutes to clear my head and rest my wiles. What feels like minutes later, Carina wakes me by tousling my hair and pressing a kiss to my temple.

  “Time to go, sleepyhead.” She’s dressed in a soft pink dress. Her perfume is mouthwatering and she looks stunning. “I let you sleep as long as I could.”

  I drank too much last night. This nap has to be my substitute for the hair of the dog.

  I smile at her, letting myself appraise each one of her features thoroughly. “I think this bed will do quite fine,” I remark. Standing, I take her chin in my hand and tilt her head to the side, exposing her neck. Inhaling deeply twice, I close my eyes.

  She sighs. “I’m glad you approve.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Carina

  IT REMINDS ME OF the Amityville house of horrors. The large wooden house is set back away from the street. It’s a tall, sky blue monster with an octagonal stained glass window at the highest peak in the center. I’m always amazed at how my surroundings change after a short drive. Smith’s parents have a wooded property. We live close to the beach. And we’re both considered SoCal residents.

  Smith drove us in his truck and told me all about them on the way. His nephew is turning seven and his younger sister is married to an accountant. They live a few houses down from his parents. “I wish I could take you to meet my parents,” I say, violently twisting the chiffon dress in my hands. “You can never trust a person without any family.” I smile, but it’s wistful. There has to be some truth to that statement. The only person I considered true family, my grandmother, died when I was a teenager. “I’m a broken, orphaned woman.” I’m only half joking.

  After I split from Roarke, I spoke with a professional. Because some things shouldn’t be bottled up inside and although I know what’s wrong with me, hearing it from someone who specializes in crazy is refreshing. He told me it could be why I create characters in my stories. It combats the loneliness and fills the void where loving parents are supposed to reside. He also told me it’s one of the reasons I stayed with Roarke after he beat me both verbally and physically. There’s nothing like clinging to attachments no matter how destructive they may be. Smith doesn’t have my same concerns, but when we spoke about it, I think he understood.

  “Show me the house you grew up in?” he asks. He knows every sordid detail about my past. When I interview him he always asks questions in return. What’s fair is fair and all of that. “He’s gone now, Carina. It’s just a house now.” Smith knows not to use his name. We know each other well.

  I shrug, sigh, and make a grab for his leg. The heated moment in my bedroom turned into a heated hour, and a heated drive, and basically it’s simmering in every pregnant pause and lull in our conversation. “We could drive by,” I say. Thinking of the house I grew up in sets my teeth on edge regardless of my insane libido.

  Smith pulls behind a large garage structure and puts the truck in park. He takes my hand in his, but leaves mine on his leg. His need to touch me is as strong as mine to him. “No one is ever going to hurt you again,” he promises. When he smiles and squeezes my hand, I believe him. He’s the type of man who can protect me from anything that goes bump in the night. Smith has my trust implicitly.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You have the means to destroy me. Destroying is kind of in your job description if you want to get technical.”

  His gorgeous eyes close, shielding me from his true thoughts, and he exits the vehicle to reappear on the passenger side. He opens my door.

  Taking my head and neck in his hands, he says, “I would never hurt you. You mean everything to me. You’re like my precious. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” I wasn’t the same person when he saw me in that theater.

  I smile because the radiant truth I find in his eyes is too much. Also, the Lord of the Rings joke. “Does Gollum live in the basement? It looks a little bit...” I trail off, my gaze flickering to his childhood home.

  “Scary?” he asks.

  I nod, and he pulls me against his chest. I can breathe here. The monsters that follow me disappear. I’m not truly afraid of the house. Smith knows this. I’m afraid of everything that follows. The future. The unknown. Deployment. Tip-toeing in the new waters of our structurally unsound relationship. “Let’s go. I know a little man who wants to eat cake. He is waiting for us. I’d be scared of him before anything else.”

  Smith leads me into the house, one hand securely on my waist. He is wearing a blue
, long-sleeved button-up. I observe that he tries to cover his arms when we’re in public, so I notice he’s doing it now when we’re visiting his parents. It says something. I’m not sure what quite yet. When a petite brunette rounds the corner with a stack of teetering, multicolored presents in her arms, Smith tightens his grip.

  “Fiona,” Smith says. The house is warm and smells of scented candles and pizza.

  She peeks around the gifts. Her eyes light up as she sees her brother, then her face falls when she notices me. “It’s so good to see your ugly mug,” Fiona says, setting her son’s loot down on an empty table and approaching her brother with arms wide. I step away so she can hug him properly. “And who might this lovely lady be?” She’s polite, at least. I expected some magnitude of hostility because of our strange circumstances and because of Megan.

  I extend my hand. “I’m Carina. It’s so good to meet you. Smith has spoken so highly of his baby sister.” That garners a smile from her. She takes my hand, says the pleasure is all hers, and excuses herself to tend to the mob of children clamoring for cake. Brief, yet pleasant. If all of the interactions with his family are similar, I’ll be free and clear.

  Smith tells me he’s going to help and says I should make myself at home. I wave him off and keep the lump in my throat under wraps. The foyer has childhood photos in every direction. I spot Smith in most of them. Watching him grow up from year to year makes me giggle and swoon at the same time. He went through the bowl cut, crooked teeth, chubby bunny phases like most children who grew up in the ’80s and ’90s. I see the strapping man he would grow up to become when I get to the wall that houses their high school years. My heart drops when I come upon Megan in a glittering prom dress, and then again clutching his hand sitting on the tail of a truck and several more. I have to remind myself she’s been the only one. She’s his only one. From first kisses to bedroom acrobatics, it’s been Megan.