At last, her blue eyes opened and, with a smoldering look, she viewed him, a question there he was sure.
“I just made love to you,” he whispered before he could stop himself, his voice cracking like a schoolboy. He watched her frown lines develop as she pretended not to hear. But he knew she had due to the blush streaking her cheeks. Her reddish-brown hair was piled high, nearly escaping the tightness of the scrunchie. At last, a trace of a smile started coming on, but she turned her long neck to the side and faced the other direction while her shoulders revealed a giggle she was trying to mask from him.
Perfect.
They headed for the co-ed lockers. The showers were occupied but he was able to get inside the men’s restroom in time to get a stall and wipe himself clean. He had not brought a replacement pair of pants, only a clean shirt, which he donned afterwards.
He thought perhaps he’d taken too long. The hallway was bustling with people, but Megan had already exited the studio, headed toward the parking lot, and he watched her drive away in her cherry red VW convertible. He hoped she was a regular and he would see her again soon.
That had been one heck of a way to meet a lady. Now, he watched her little VW pull into a shared driveway between two single story bungalows. She veered off to the left into a garage. Rory parked at the curb, stiffly got out of the car, and tried to walk casually toward the woman in red velvet, suppressing every dirty thought he didn’t have a right to think. He was thanking his lucky stars he’d managed to stay patient. The night was just coming on, the brilliant colors of dusk adding a peachy glow to everything, including her cheeks. He was on a mission after all. The plan had worked. He’d executed it about as well as he could, giving her time to decide to choose him.
Because he knew, the woman always chooses. He just had to wait until she did.
Chapter 2
‡
Moustafa could not believe his eyes. The sandy-haired military man was in the bookstore, and he was looking at a woman. Perhaps his woman. What luck! Allah had indeed granted him his wish. This soldier was one of the bearded ones he wanted to stay behind to help kill. Now the man was here, feeling safe at home, standing practically in front of him and had no idea that his enemy stalked him. This dirty golden-haired man was responsible for killing three of their top commanders with a well-placed bomb.
He recalled that day several months ago when he nearly lost his bowels as he saw his wife’s face amid the pile of rubble that was her body. Her guts and brains splayed across the hot dusty street. Perhaps this Infidel would like to experience the same. Moustafa would watch this soldier’s face while he peeled this woman’s flesh from her body, watched her soil herself and scream to the uncaring ears of his fellow Afghan brothers.
Today, he considered himself Warrior for the Prophet, in a suicide pact. His mission had been to find people to kill in the United States. This woman, and certainly the soldier, needed killing to avenge his wife and family. He believed what the mullah told him; that the more blood he seeped his hands in the cleaner his soul would be.
Chosen because he had a student visa, he was sent to San Diego through a multi-faith ecumenical humanitarian group that wanted to help aid his country and the growing refugee problem. It was designed to give him a fresh start in the U.S.
He recalled how he didn’t want to do it at first, wished he could stay back in Afghanistan to fight in the war. Finally, reluctantly, he accepted his role. Now he could see the wisdom of this decision. He’d been destined to achieve a higher purpose.
He knew something of the California town where he was headed because he’d been an exchange student in Stockton, a large village in Northern California, back in the day when his father had a thriving medical practice. But all that was gone now. Because of this, however, the choice to send him was an easy one.
He’d played the card right. Complained the same enemies of the U.S. and coalition forces had destroyed his family, which was partially true. Half of them were killed by the Americans and half by the tribal leaders who used the war as an opportunity to gain more power and wealth. Impatient violators he called them. The Christian group believed him. Sponsored him and gave him an apartment.
He reconnected with his first American teacher in Stockton who said he was pleased to see him, but seemed reserved, asking questions of his intent. Moustafa decided he did not trust this man any longer. His years of living in California had made the man soft. One of his sons had even married an American girl, but though she converted, she didn’t wear the traditional headdress to show proper respect to her husband or the Prophet.
Americans were so gullible, so trusting in the face of superior strength. They couldn’t believe the worst in people, and sent those who did off to prison or the institutions for people not right in the head. California would be a perfect breeding ground for younger trainees, and they would be welcomed with open arms.
So here was the Mustard captain, he called him that because of his sandy hair. He stood out because in the sunlight on those days back in Kabul, his hair almost looked like a red flame poking out from his shemagh. It reminded Moustafa that all infidels needed to be burned to purge the world of their evil and their debauched soft god.
He hid behind one of the large square pillars in the old building and could tell this man lusted after this woman and would take her soon. He crossed and uncrossed his arms and legs, relieving himself of the tent in his groin. Moustafa was careful to take pictures without anyone eyeing him.
He photographed the woman, dressed as some red child-devil with a beard, reading to little children, filling their minds with fanciful stories of lightness and goodness while their fathers went off to war on Moustafa’s people. They would all come to understand. Actually, it wasn’t understanding he sought. They would submit and be forced to give up their way of life at the point of a sword. Fat, sloppy with their logic and loose with their morals, they had forgotten what pain and hard work was all about.
It warmed his loins to think of this woman submitting to him. He could have someone else behead her afterwards.
The session was over soon enough, and although he needed to pee, he decided to watch, perhaps follow them home. He’d record this in his computer as a great day, that the Prophet had blessed him with the gift of coincidence. His knowledge of the secret place the Mustard captain chose to take her to fuck would be the infidel’s undoing, as it should be. He’d chronicle it with a photograph he could look at afterwards and know what pain he would reap.
God is great indeed.
Chapter 3
‡
What’s gotten into you? Megan was somewhat upset with herself for having revealed where she lived, allowing him to kiss her, taking liberties he had no right to take. Though he was a Team guy and her friend had told her he was “crusty but trustworthy,” she still knew this was unwise and too soon. Yet she couldn’t help herself. The world of men was something she knew little about.
She’d had only one sexual encounter, which ended badly. Megan met an older newspaper reporter last summer, with whom she had a brief, heated affair. In the end, she was just a conquest on his road to ruination, a man with a wife and children at home. Megan wasn’t his love interest. She was an addiction and something which should never have happened.
He’d taken her virginity, making a big deal about how much he loved her and respected her, how their meeting was fortuitous and fated. It was all drivel, every single word he’d told her. Thinking about it now just made her sick to her stomach. She’d ended it when she saw him out with his wife and children. She smiled at the kids, and then whispered to his wife, “Ask him how many times he’s screwed me.” Then she walked away.
Of course he never called after that. She was grateful she didn’t have to put any effort into ending things. She needed all the energy she could muster just to repair her heart. Being alone was, after all, what she was used to. Her parents and her little brother were killed on 9-11 during her freshman year, and the tiny inheritan
ce she received paid for the remainder of her college with a little left to spare, enabling her to work at the bookstore. Her needs were simple. She lived for the adventures she experienced reading a book or sometimes two a day. And until today, it was the only place she wanted to be. How quickly things were changing now.
As she opened the front door to her little bungalow, feeling the closeness of this man, observing how her body reacted to the smell of him and the heat he emitted, she knew she was crossing a threshold that was ill-planned and not carefully thought out. If he said one nice thing to her, one thing that smacked of a line or a practiced salesman’s pitch, she’d ask him to leave. Oddly enough, she didn’t want anything but the sex. The promises and words were what were damaging. The sex, she thought would be good for her.
What’s up with that?
Her nerves were frazzled. She dropped her keys and kept her back to the stranger, who was now standing in her darkened living room, who now deftly descended upon her like those dark vamps she liked to read about. She felt the vibration in the room when he breathed. Her ears buzzed. Her chest heaved as he touched her neck with the back of his fingers. She held her breath, waiting.
“You’re nervous,” he whispered.
It made her eyes water. She nodded. It was a little reveal, like peeling back one thin layer of an onion. One step closer to intimacy to let him know how she felt.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said.
It did cheer her slightly as she realized he was waiting for her to react, give him a sign she was willing.
Am I? Is this the right time and place?
But was there ever any perfect time or place? She knew someday she’d have to get over the fear her heartache would eclipse her future and make it difficult to feel anything for any man again.
“Come here, Megan,” he said, even though she could feel his hard body pressed against her backside. Again, he waited. Damn he was slow. From what her girlfriend had said, these guys liked to get it on and get it on a lot. And they liked rough sex, or at least her friend’s husband did. Was it wrong that Megan was hoping for something other than ropes and handcuffs? Something soft and slow to build? Her insides had the potential to warm, but that cold fear still remained, made her skin tingle.
“Please?” he continued.
Relentless. Confident. He’ll never give up, will he? At least not until he gets what he came for.
Against the alarms screaming out of control in her head, she turned and focused on his lips. He inhaled and carefully removed her dark-rimmed glasses, setting them down on the table by her keys. He removed the clip holding her hair and let it fall, running his fingers through it. She felt his muscled arm drawing her in, the musky scent of his chest, the roughness of the stubble he’d not shaved off today. From deep within him came the sound of a wounded animal just before he said her name.
“Megan.”
He grasped her ass over her Santa pants, pulling her close so she could feel his arousal. She realized then that the white-glued-on moustache was still affixed to her upper lip, but at some point, he’d pulled her beard away. When he kissed her, she drank in his inhales, accepted his tongue by parting her lips and giving him full possession. Her arms went up and over his shoulders as he cupped her ass. He lifted her off the ground and carried her toward the hallway and her bedroom.
She felt like a child being led to a new adventure. Ripe with anticipation, the ghosts of fear still stood with their pitchforks at the edges of her psyche, ready to do damage if permitted to act. She was holding them at bay for the now. Telling them perhaps they could come back later. Right now she was okay.
In fact, she was damned fine.
He sat her on the bed, kneeled in front of her and gave her a grin she’d never forget. He was like a child who had been let in on a wicked secret. He slowly unzipped the front of the ridiculous red velvet waistcoat. With the two halves peeled to the sides, he leaned back on his haunches and examined her chest. She held her breath, hoping he approved of what he saw, thinking he’d say something.
His admiring gaze said it all. She felt her flesh swell above the new red bra she’d bought yesterday.
Did I plan this?
He placed one of his hands on her left breast and squeezed, then tore his concentration from her chest to her face and smiled. She felt her panties go wet. She was mentally telling him to “touch me,” and as if he could hear it, he did. He walked forward on his knees and placed his other hand over her other breast, then pulled the coat off her shoulders and tossed it aside. He removed the belted belly pillow, slipping a hand under the black stretchy pants in front and barely touched her nude sex, causing her to gasp. He hesitated, smiling, inching his fingers down further, touching her nub and giving it a little press. Her sharp inhale was impossible to mask. His eyes were dark, watching her bite her lower lip. She arched backward and closed her eyes feeling his forefinger’s desire to penetrate as it continued moving back and forth across her little sensitive bud. The he pulled back, and stopped.
In her black stretchy pants and red satin bra she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him, so vacant with need she was on fire. She wanted to be completely naked for him.
She began to take off her moustache but he stopped her hand.
“Not yet.”
“Why?” She felt her heart warm to him further. “Tell me why.” Her smile came just before he closed his eyes and licked his lips. When he opened them his look was pure molten.
He shrugged, then leaned forward and peeled it off her face, following with a deep penetrating kiss. “Thank you. I wanted to do it. Thought about it all afternoon.” He kissed her again.
She answered his tongue with hers as their lips softly caressed, as she tasted and allowed her head to fill with the aroma of his maleness. It caused her to shake a little. His gentling hand came up under her jaw, his thumb rubbing against her cheek as they kissed.
She expected his hard body to be rough and commanding, but instead he moved with cat-like grace, picking her up with one arm, pulling her back onto the bed, crawling over her body at the same time. There was no effort to it. His fluid movements relaxed her, though the anticipation of their nakedness was hot on her mind. She found the strength to place her palms on his butt and pull him hard against her as she arched her pelvis and spread her knees to accept him.
He made fast work of the bra, tossing it to the side, then came the long deliberate unpeeling of her pants. He left her red panties on, which surprised her.
He played with the lace front, which barely covered her sex. Slipping a finger under the elastic, he found her opening and lazily traveled the length of her, watching her eyes as she arched to receive the pleasure of his intimate touch.
It was on her lips before she could rein it in. “Yes,” she murmured. Her fingers were splayed to the sides of her hair on the pillow. With a slight tilt to her pelvis, she realized she wanted him to taste her, if he was willing.
His finger continued to move in and out of her opening until he slipped off her lace and placed her left knee over his shoulder. He could have said, ‘Are you sure?’ because that was how she interpreted his look, until he dipped his head between her thighs and kissed her slit, clutched the back of her left thigh with his callused fingers, holding her leg up, and then penetrated with his tongue. The deep moan came back. He adjusted his knees, leaving her knee bent over his shoulder and pulling her into his face, lapping her juices and making slurping noises. His deliberate ministrations sent her into outer space.
She had never had oral sex before. Her lips became swollen as he sucked and took tiny bites, pulling her labia and then kissing and sucking her puckered flesh back to submission.
With his head raised, her juices still glistening on his lips, he watched her eyes need him, need him even more as he slipped two fingers inside her. Her shoulders and back pressed into the mattress as she presented herself to him. First his fingers penetrated, and then his tongue. He took her nub in his teeth and pulled it
, then pressed it back against her with his tongue, curling it to extend deep inside her.
Her rising passion made her squeeze her own breasts, pressing them together as she undulated beneath him, pleading with him to climb to her and fill her with his cock. His eyes sparkled but he was slow to react, and she knew it was on purpose. Again she begged with her eyes, and again he smiled and didn’t pay attention.
“Say it, Megan. Say you want me to fuck you.” His deep rolling voice made her vibrate. Everything in her body craved the sound of his demand. There was only one answer for him.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please make love to me.”
“No, sweetheart. That’s not what I said.” He dipped his head between her legs again, and whispered, “I want to hear you say the word fuck.”
She could see he was suppressing a smile.
“Fuck,” she whispered. Searching her brain, she didn’t ever remember saying this to a man before.
“No, honey.” He grinned, wet lips, his piercing eyes, hair messed like a bird’s nest, his scruffy beard also wet around his lips. “It’s fuck me.” He climbed on top of her, pressing her lips together with his right hand, in a circular pucker gently, kissing them, and whispering, “Fuck me. Say it, Megan.” He’d drawn a condom from somewhere, arched back and sheathed himself, letting her see the intention in his eyes. He crawled forward.
His face was two inches from hers, his eyes searching everywhere, his lopsided smile creating the sexy dimple on his right. One hand sifted through her hair. The other squeezed her breast. He held her head up slightly as their lips met again. “I want to hear you say it, Megan.”
“Fuck me, Rory.”
“And again,” he said, crawling further to crouching position, knees lifting her thighs and raising her legs high and wide.
“Fuck me.”
“And again?” he whispered, his cock at her opening.
SEAL My Home: Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 2 (SEAL Brotherhood Series 9) Page 2
