Wanted: Wife 4 Navy Seals: A Military romance

by Dee Palmer

  “Problem?” I arch a curious brow but keep my smile to a minimum curl.

  “Other than a huge plug in my arse? Nope,” she quips, and her eyes narrow and aim their humorless glare in my direction.

  “It’s not huge…I’m huge.” I flash a wicked grin and chuckle at her pouty lips and furrowed brow. “Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

  “Apart from a cushion, you mean? Pancakes would be good.” She seems to check her attitude halfway through her retort, but even her slight grumble leaves an unpleasant taste, and I know just the thing to take it away. I switch the heat back off, walk to her, and lift her in my arms. She’s quick to wrap her toned, luscious legs around me, but I can feel her tummy tighten, and she puffs out little steadying breaths with every step I take. I carry her over to the sofa.

  “Hold on to the back of the sofa. If you let go, I stop, understand?” My voices sounds raspy and urgent.

  “What are you doing?” Her cheeks flush, and the sexiest damn smile splits her face, but her eyes are wide and hold a trace of discomfort. Even a trace is too much.

  “Making you appreciate just how good this can feel.” I push her legs up her body until she’s almost doubled over, her sexy, round ass exposed and perfect. The gem of the plug is soaking wet from her dripping pussy, and she couldn’t be more open if I had the spreader bar at maximum extension. “Hold the sofa, Finn,” I grit out. My temper is frayed because once again I’m breaking my own protocol, but dammit, I can’t stop. She’s intoxicating, all-consuming, and today she’s completely mine.

  “THAT WAS SO GOOD,” I moan, rubbing my tummy, which is now full to bursting.

  “You did seem to enjoy it. Oh, you mean the pancakes.” He tilts his head, placing his hand in the center of his broad, built chest. “I’m hurt.”

  “Really? Because you seemed pretty bloody pleased with yourself earlier, when I screamed your name so loud, I lost my voice for a good five minutes,” I quip, as a warm glow spreads through me when his wicked smile morphs into something almost shy.

  We clear away the breakfast mess, and I sip my cappuccino, shifting from one arse cheek to the other. Charge was relentless in the pleasure-giving department, but since the tingles and euphoria have ebbed, I’m still acutely aware I have a piece of stainless steel in my butt.

  “Do you have an elegant evening dress you can wear?” Charge’s question stops me mid-sip, foam resting on my top lip. I swipe my tongue over it, and think through the mountain of clothes I packed, furrowing my brow with the effort.

  “How elegant are we talking? I have a few cocktail dresses but nothing long, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t think to pack the ball gowns.” I snort at my joke; Charge is unimpressed.

  “That will alter my plans slightly, but it’s still doable. Come on, you need to get dressed,” he clips his retort, more to himself by his impassive expression. His mind is clearly racing ahead of the information he has shared with me.

  “What’s doable? What plans?” I jump up and wince, but race to catch him as he strides out of the kitchen, like he’s on a mission. “You mean, I get to put more clothes on, other than just your shirt? Do I get panties and a bra?” I tease.

  “Reluctantly, yes.” His eyes narrow, but darken too, as they rake slowly from my bare feet to my hooded eyes. He stops moving at the bottom of the stairs. Turning, he steps up to me, so close I have to tip my head back to keep the searing eye contact. “Maybe not the panties and wear a dress.” His demand is gruff and curt. I raise my brow at his tone, and he holds my gaze for a long, heated second. “It would give me great pleasure if you don’t mind.”

  I bite my lips tight to stop the smirk I feel pulling at my mouth. I think this is his way of asking and saying please, while trying to remain all dominant and not coming off as a complete arsehole. Nice save.

  A ten-minute turnaround, and we are sitting in Charge’s truck, kicking up a dust trail and heading away from the farm to God knows where. I wear a knee-length, pale-blue summer dress, which hangs from one shoulder and is made up of masses of floaty material, cinched at the waist with a wide, tan belt, which matches my satchel and sandals. I brought my denim jacket, too, though it’s too hot to wear it at the moment, even with the wind howling through the open windows. My hair is braided down one side, but with the breeze whipping like a tornado inside the cab I will need to retame the beast once we stop moving.

  We pull up another dirt track about a ten minute drive from the farm and park outside a large, industrial hangar. Charge leaps from the cab and briskly walks to my door before I get the chance to open it. He holds my hand as I jump down and takes my bag from me, pulling me against his side for a big warm hug. I nestle into his strong hold as we walk around the building to the far side. My step falters.

  “It’s a helicopter,” I exclaim.

  “Smart and beautiful, we really did hit the jackpot,” he teases, and I respond with a narrow-eyed stare.

  “Funny,” I quip. “I meant, shit, it’s a helicopter. I’ve never been in one.” I wave my hand at the sleek, shiny, black machine, with imposing and unnervingly-thin blades.

  “Another first today. Aren’t I the lucky one?” Charge wiggles his thick eyebrows and flashes a killer bright smile, all wicked and sparkling white teeth.

  “You can fly this?” I hesitate, but I don’t resist when he tugs me closer to the bird that shouldn’t be able to fly.

  “I’m a pilot,” he replies flatly.

  “I thought you flew planes?” I argue. My heart rate just kicked up a gear and is affecting the pitch of my voice; even I can hear my concern.

  “I do. Fighter planes, but I learned to fly this as a hobby. They’re a lot of fun. Come on.” His enthusiasm and excitement are infectious, and I return his bright smile while my stomach flutters with fear. There’s a reason I’ve never been in one; they have no wings. My knowledge of flight begins and ends with the fact that the only things which should be able to fly have wings. He straps me into my seat and adjusts the headphones so they are a snug fit. I can feel the color drain from my face, and now I’m challenging the wisdom of eating all those pancakes as my stomach rolls ominously.

  “Trust me?” he mouths, his voice muffled by the cans on my ears.

  “Always.” I force a smile, which he crushes from my lips with a shockingly breathtaking kiss. He’s really good at distracting me.

  We start to hover and every muscle in my body tenses, making an odd and pleasant effect emanate from deep inside. I glance over and see a telltale knowing and wolfish grin tip his lush soft lips. I shake my head, because smugness is so unbecoming. Though speaking of coming…ten minutes into the flight and every dip and swerve, I feel deep inside. The scenery is amazing; ragged cliff tops with sporadic palatial properties, the wild ocean crashing onto deserted stretches of miles and miles of soft, white, sandy beaches, and in the distance, the cluttered colors of a dense city. I try to take it all in, fighting the building ache, because this is thrilling in every sense, but equally, I can’t wait to land. His deep voice crackles in my headphones.

  “That’s Hollywood right there. You’ll see the sign any minute.”

  “Really?” I twist and turn, my eyes scouring the horizon.

  “And the Grand Canyon?” I crane my neck left and right looking for more. The cityscape isn’t nearly as enticing as a natural wonder.

  “We’re about a two-hour flight from that, angel.” He grins.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Geography isn’t my specialty.” I let out a light laugh and shrug.

  “I’ll take you. The guys like hiking there, so we could make a weekend of it.”

  “That would be amazing.” I beam, but quickly turn back to press my nose against the door window and ask again, “Where are we going?”

  “Beverly Hills—dress shopping.” I bite my lip into a thin line and my hands grip together nervously. Geography may not be my thing but I do know Beverly Hills. I also know my hairdresser’s salary is no match for couture and premium br
and shopping. “My treat.” His large hand leaves the stick for a moment to cover my clasped fingers, squeezing some comfort and reading my mind. I’m not sure I feel much better, but I appreciate the gesture. I have always hated charity, especially since, as a child I had no choice but to accept it.

  Charge lands the helicopter on the top of a swish apartment building, and we spend the next two hours visiting some of the most expensive boutiques I have ever had the misfortune to feel both awkward and embarrassed in. I shake my head at the gorgeous, silver, floor-length Amanda Wakeley gown, and Charge’s eyes narrow; it’s the fifteenth dress I have rejected for no good reason and for my own best reason.

  “Right.” Charge replaces the gown and, ignoring the assistant with her next selection, he grabs my hand and hauls me out of the shop. Striding down the street, I have to jog to keep up, and now I feel like complete shit. Here he is, giving me my very own Pretty Woman experience, and I must be coming across as the ultimate brat—an ungrateful brat at that. We enter the first restaurant and he asks for a private table. An uncomfortable silence falls after we sit down, and I wish I could have a redo. He doesn’t deserve this shit—my shit. I don’t know how I can make this right. Even if I explain, I doubt I will make much sense. Not to someone like him. His childhood was charmed, struck by tragedy but still a world away from mine. How could he possibly understand? And my biggest fear? What’s actually worse than revealing all my ugly? Is the thought that after I tell him, he will look at me that way. Doubt will rear its insidious head. I don’t want to give him a reason to ask himself why I wasn’t wanted.

  We place our orders, though food is the last thing on my mind.

  “I’m sorry.” My hands in my lap are sweaty with my fingers twisted together.

  “I can see that,” he clips, his tone flat, but he looks more upset than angry.

  “I just…” I drop my head. Even as I rehearse the words, they sound trite.

  “Yes?” he pushes, and I draw in a deep and calming breath. He deserves more than this, but I’m not sure I can give him what his deep, dark eyes are imploring.

  “I can’t afford to shop here, Charge.” I tip my chin, because I’m not ashamed, but I am out of my depth.

  “I said this was my treat. I didn’t bring you here to spend your money, Finn.”

  I sigh, his soft-spoken response completely disarming me.

  “I don’t like charity,” I say, but the words burn my throat as the years of unwelcome memories bombard me.

  “I’m not offering charity. I’m buying my girlfriend an outfit, because we have a premier to attend tonight, and I want her to feel comfortable. You could turn up in sweat pants and a hoodie and still be the most stunning woman on the red carpet, but that would create another entrance situation I don’t think you would appreciate.” His warm smile softens the sting of the reminder of my utter embarrassment last night.

  “That’s very sweet, but I would prefer to buy my own clothes, Charge.” I twist the napkin in my hand, and he places his heavy hand over mine. He loosens my death grip and interlocks his fingers with mine, before looking into my eyes with his searching gaze.

  “Why?” And here it is, his serious, deep frown, and piercing-dark eyes bore through me. I slowly draw in a deep breath. I really don’t want secrets, but some things are just so hard to share. I have no idea how much I’m going to download so I just open my mouth and pray my filter kicks in before I ruin everything.

  “When my grandmother reluctantly took me in, she wouldn’t spend her money on me. She got some benefits from the state, but she had her own money, too, and the money from the Government was supposed to be for me. It wasn’t much; still, it never came my way. Anyway, she had friends who would come round and she would make a big show of how benevolent she was, providing me with a roof and food. Her friends would bring sacks of clothes, and she would make me go through the bags in front of them and pick out what I wanted. They were always awful, old lady clothes, but I didn’t have a choice. I hated it. God, I hated it. It was bad at primary school but it got so much worse when I hit my teens. I would save every penny I made doing odd jobs and go to the local charity shops, just so I could buy my own clothes. I still got ripped into at school for looking like a charity case, but that’s what I was.” I press one hand to my burning cheek and feel the trickle of a tear. His hand covers mine, and I lean into his hold, his thumb catching the drop.

  “This isn’t the same, angel. Not by a long fucking way.” He shakes his head, and his handsome features are shaded with darkness.

  “I know.” I suck in a stuttered breath, as a riot of emotion threatens to turn that trickle into a torrent, which I really don’t want. The memory isn’t worth my tears.

  “You said reluctantly. Your grandmother didn’t want you?” His soft words still slice open a lifelong, weeping wound, and I fold with the unbearable pain.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to understand.” He shifts in his chair, pushing to get closer, but the stuffy seating arrangement makes it impossible. He stands, and in one swift move has me in his arms, sits back down, and cradles me like I’m the most precious thing on the planet. I look up as he gazes down.

  “I know. I do, but I can’t.” I suck back the building sobs, biting and swallowing down the bile and sorrow. When I speak again, it’s through gritted teeth and a tense jaw. “No, my grandmother didn’t want me, and she wasn’t the only one.” That’s all I can give him, and I know from the look in his eyes it isn’t enough—nowhere near enough. I close my eyes. The memories come thick and fast, as, one more time, I relive and endure every single, hateful word as if it’s real time, and I’m helpless to save my little, five-year-old heart from shattering.

  “I’m sorry, Finn.” His deep soothing voice washes over me on a sweet, whispered breath.

  “Yeah, me, too. But hey, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” I physically shake myself, and as I have always done, I brush it off and brave it out.

  “Right.” His brow knits together, his tone not remotely swayed by my sudden switch.

  “So premier. You mean a film premier?” I power through the treacle of unanswered questions, ignoring the plea for more in his eyes. I have to ignore it, and I’m so damn grateful, regardless of his disquiet, he has let me change the subject.

  “I do. We have a new film out, and tonight is the red carpet deal. I don’t normally attend, as it really isn’t my thing; however, I thought you might like a night of glitz and glamour.” He tucks some loose hair away from my face and cups my cheeks, planting a small kiss on my lips when realization that I’m not able to give him any more finally sinks in. He helps me up, and I return to my seat.

  “I would like that!” My genuine excitement makes him smile, and I sigh with relief that the moment has passed. My mouth-to-brain-to-heart filter is intact.

  “I’ll be able to introduce you to the stars,” he boasts, and I sniff out a derisive laugh. I have met stars, cut their hair, massaged their scalps and their egos.

  “Oh, I’m good, thanks. Unless they shit gold, they are just people, after all. They put their trousers on one leg at a time just like the rest of us.” He barks out a belly laugh, and I smile at the happy sound. It suits him; his whole face seems to lighten. He always seems to hold a seriousness, but now that it’s gone, even briefly, I can see the difference. Utterly heart-stealing.

  We enjoy the light lunch, and I have a few glasses of wine, which makes the afternoon much more relaxed. I pick a stunning black Gucci floor-length, halter-neck dress; it’s backless, with a scoop so low, the no-panty request is a must. I pick out some plain shoes, but Charge bulldozes over my decision and insists on some classic, black-patent Louboutin stilettos. I don’t put up much of a fight!

  We even fooled around in one of the changing rooms, before Charge warned me he will fuck me where I stand if we carried on. The gasp from the assistant just outside the curtain was like an ice bucket challenge, and we ended the aftern
oon copping a squat in the private garden next to the low-rise apartment block where Charge parked the helicopter.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting home?” I sigh as his hand creeps up my thigh to the very apex, and his fingers stroke languidly along my folds. He seems especially pleased that I have obeyed the no panty request—or was it a demand?

  “Hmm?” He isn’t listening, and I snicker. I’m sitting across his lap, and the ample material of my dress is thankfully hiding his forearm. His hooded eyes move down as I look up.

  “Unless you want me to change in some toilet, and you intend on going in jeans and that sexy black tee, we’ll need to go home.” I roll my eyes at having to state the bloody obvious.

  “My apartment’s just up there. I thought that might be more convenient.” I sit up and clamp my thighs, trapping his hand.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I crane my neck to look around his wide and imposing frame to the building directly behind us.

  “Why would I? I have an apartment here.” He nods over his shoulder to where my line of sight is fixed.

  “The others weren’t kidding when they said you were loaded then?” The block of pristine-white apartments looks like something from a movie set, immaculate and not quite real, or lived in. The design is a pastiche of Art Deco with crisp lines and elegant detailing on the balconies. The entrance, though, is ultra-modern, with floor-to-ceiling glass, and even from here I can see into the pure white marble reception area with a concierge desk and security guard. I let out a low whistle. I can’t imagine how much it costs to have a place here.

  “They weren’t.” His frown deepens like the whole notion makes him hugely uncomfortable.

  “It’s okay. I’m not interested in your money, Charge. I’m interested in how many ways you can make me scream.” I wrinkle my nose and reach up to kiss his downturned lips.

  “Oh, good. Because we haven’t even begun to explore the pleasure of pain.” The way his tone drops an octave on the last word sends a sizzle of electricity racing up my spine. I shiver in his arms, and his smile widens. I love that my reactions please him, not that I can control them, because they’re innate and I really can’t help it.