Hemingway (SEAL Team Alpha Book 11)

by Zoe Dawson

  “Hoo-yah,” Hemingway yelled as the guys on his boat crew congratulated each other. “Lane, you are the freaking best!”

  Lane smiled and clapped Hemingway on the back, his serious dark eyes filled with the glow of admiration for him and their team. “You guys pulled together like champions. Job well done!”

  “I don’t think in all my time as an instructor I have seen such a smooth and well-executed dump boat. It deserves an acknowledgment,” Cheezer said. Cheezer and the other instructors, including Mad Max clapped and Hemingway and his team could settle into the sand while the other boats crews went out again.

  Cheezer was impressed and that wasn’t easy to do. The instructor was a bear, but Hemingway understood the man’s tactics and only bonded closer with the guys in his crew. Teamwork did win, and he had to give grudging admiration for Cheezer’s tactics. There was levity mixed in with the suffering, recognition and reward for spirit and leadership

  After IBS, they headed to chow, then the classroom with Mad Max as the instructor, one hundred and thirty-seven exhausted, sandy, wet, battered and bruised guys along with one gorgeous woman. Hemingway shouldn’t be thinking about getting to be alone with Shea, but that was the only thing on his mind. He wanted to snuggle up with her, get comfortable and just rest in her arms. The lesson was on surf observation, or SUROBS where they were taught how to gauge and classify surf and record the data in an exact format.

  Mad Max was a precise and surprisingly interesting speaker. He didn’t lecture them but gave examples straight from his SEAL experience to show them why all this information was important and that it could save lives on the team when they were deployed.

  He delivered the lesson with an often-crooked smile, as if he had a secret only he knew.

  “With a water insertion and beach egress, you guys have to know the conditions and what’s going on in the water before you hit land. We were four strong going in. We knew the rip currents, where the tide was ebbing and flowing. Everything can be planned down to the tiniest detail.” He shook his head and took a breath, the room hanging on his next words as his voice roughed. “We didn’t know there were insurgents in a small boat hidden by reeds, trying to fish up something to eat. It was a strange happenstance…chance. When we surfaced, they saw us from their concealment. They shot and killed the guy next to me. In a blink of an eye, our mission was compromised.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Improvised,” Max said. “When chance is involved, there is no other alternative.” His shoulders tensed, and he shifted as if the painful memory hurt physically. “We went back under and dragged our teammate with us. They couldn’t see us in the dark murk, and there are no bubbles to see with our rebreather rigs. We surfaced behind them, silently took them out and continued with the mission.”

  “So planning isn’t everything. Execution sometimes is a cluster?”

  “Most times it’s a cluster. Nothing ever goes perfect on an op, but what’s important is making the best of it. What you learn in these classes gives you the tools to try and beat chance.”

  “And the guy who died—”

  Max cut the guy off. “He went through BUD/S with me and was one of my roommates. He did everything right. We all did, but no amount of training, skill or technology will ever beat bad luck on the battlefield. You have to know that going in; what you’re signing up for here. BUD/S is a controlled environment and shit happens. Even when we’re doing our best to keep it as safe as possible.” He turned back to the lesson, but what he had said shook Hemingway as he glanced over at Professor, his other boat crew members and Lane. His gut clenched, thinking about that chaotic moment when those drug runners in Paraguay had opened fire on each other, and he and Dodger had been caught in the crossfire. The thought of losing the tough Brit hadn’t crossed Hemingway’s mind, but Max’s words drove it home to him. Combat was a place where one of his enemies could get an incredibly lucky shot.

  He wasn’t afraid of dying. His fears had more to do with making the time he had in the world mean something, much as he was afraid of living up to his own expectations. Never did he want to let his family down, but more so, he never wanted to let himself or his teammates down.

  Hemingway had gained insight into Mad Max’s team. He’d seen them in action, and he’d been with Dodger and lived through the perilous and exhausting trek to save his sister. If he could get through all that, he could make it through this training. Luck played no role in that. It was all about hard work and endurance. He’d already decided at the beginning nothing was going to make him quit.

  Before he left base, Dodger texted him.

  I think I’m in trouble.

  What’s going on?

  Max’s sister Anna. I saw a picture of her. She’s beautiful. But he will kill me if I even so much as smile in her direction.

  Damn, bro. The code.

  I know. But if he kills me, I’ll just slam open the door to Hell, high-five Satan and ask for the bloody password for the Wi-Fi and spend my afterlife texting Max with haunting messages. He’ll never get rid of me.

  Don’t underestimate him. He probably has a direct line straight to Satan. Smart to forget about her.

  Whoever said I was smart? Later, mate.

  What an ass, he thought with a smile.

  8

  Shea unlocked the door to her condo and stepped inside. After a full week of First Phase, with one hundred and twenty-one candidates left, she was narrowing down her suspects, her run helping her to clear out the cobwebs. Wilson was outspoken, and she couldn’t help thinking he was lying about losing someone important during the 9/11 attacks. She had delved deeper into his background and found very little information. But she was pegging him as the leader of the splintered faction of NWO. Milo Prescott—Professor, as Hemingway called him—was open about his loss and even though she tried, she couldn’t help being moved by what he’d said. He was still on her list, but further down, as someone who wouldn’t harm any of the SEAL candidates. He could be a good actor, but she was guessing he wasn’t playacting. He was as genuine as he appeared to be. But, unable to take chances, she still kept an eye on him.

  She was tired as she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her. But she was sure she wasn’t as tired as Hemingway was right now. Log PT, surf passage, and conditioning runs had weeded out seventeen men in the first week. She knew it was only going to get worse. The had only begun, and she already had a deep respect for any man who took on this training on a voluntary basis…well except for the NWO members who wanted to harm them. She heard the door open and Hemingway call out.

  It had to be close to nine. “I’m in the shower,” she yelled back.

  She heard the door to the bathroom open. “You went running?”

  “Yes. It helps me to sleep, and I need to keep up with my fitness. You have to agree with that.”

  “I do, as someone who’s getting hours and hours of fitness.” His voice was deep and sure, and just hearing it made her feel weak inside. She’d been churning along for some time now, going on sheer will and hatred. But a night with Hemingway had been a more emotionally involving, sexually intimate experience than the whole of her sexually active life. She’d had no idea what she’d been missing and had been fulfilled by a man who was still nothing more than a stranger. She hated to think it, but that description of the world stopping could be the only way to describe what it was like with him.

  She pushed the shower curtain back and smiled. “I’m not even going to give you a hard time about complaining.” She was happy that she didn’t sound half as breathless as she felt.

  “I’m not complaining. Just stating a fact.” He grinned, drew closer and her breath got trapped in her chest at his nearness. Damn, she liked this guy so much. Maybe too much. She pushed those thoughts away along with the uneasiness. Temporary situation, temporary relationship. Everything always changed.

  “Steamy and hot in there?” he said, pulling off his T-shirt. “I don’t think
I ever knew what cold was until I started this training. Care to share some of that heat, babe?”

  “Yes, and yes,” she whispered.

  He shucked his jeans, underwear and socks. Strong arms came around her, his big body pushing into the shower as the cascading water soaked him.

  “I can’t seem to get warm.”

  “Didn’t they let you take a hot shower, the barbarians.”

  He chuckled at her biting tone. “Yes, they let us take a shower, but I think I need another one.”

  “Oh, did you get dirty between the base and here?” She ran her hand up his smooth, water-slicked back, his chest glazing her achingly tight and sensitive nipples. Her thoughts splintered rapidly as his warm lips closed over one of those aching tips. She gasped and arched into him, the exquisite sensation spearing through her, shredding her, leaving her wordless as well as senseless.

  “Oh, so dirty,” Hemingway whispered, his touch caressing as he smoothed his hand up her back. She knew he wasn’t talking about physically dirty, but his mind went to what they had shared in this short, mutual like affair. She had no idea what was wrong with her. She had taken her own physical satisfaction down to a science. Meeting her needs had been easy for the most part. Playing hard to get was only part of the fun, flirty battle. But with Hemingway, all her rules, plans, and what she knew about herself seemed to get chucked out the window.

  Fighting to hold back her emotions for him, to keep herself grounded—a battle she intended to win—she moved deeper into his embrace, and that fierce surge of emotion burst its bonds. Her hands splayed across the taut muscles of his back, and she pressed her face against his neck, working on keeping her knees locked. Trying with all her might to keep from trembling was futile.

  The heated water spilled across her naked torso, beating her aching nipples, sliding across her skin, drenching his short hair to drip off his jaw.

  She was demanding and pushy, and operated strictly by her own rules, which was certainly what had gotten her where she was in her career, at the top of the sought-out undercover operators, their go-to girl.

  “Well, I guess you can share my shower if I get something in return.”

  “Oh. Tit for tat is it?”

  She chuckled, thinking tits would definitely be involved. “Or maybe dickering.” Without having to explain it, he chuckled too.

  Catching her by the back of the head, he kissed the curve of her neck. “All of this talk is making me hot. You are a very bad girl,” he murmured huskily. “What can I provide? I do always carry my own weight.” Pulling her against him, he left a trail of kisses on her moist skin, tasting the dampness of her shoulder.

  She closed her eyes, sinking into the sensations he set off in her. Smoothing her hand up his rib cage, she arched her head back, giving him access to the side of her neck, the moist brush of his mouth sending a shiver of fire and ice along her nerve endings. Catching her around the hips, he pulled her against him, molding their bodies together as he stroked her back, his touch loosening every connection in her body when he began massaging the base of her spine. She arched and moved against him, the rhythmic, kneading pressure setting off pinpoints of sensation that saturated her with tingling weakness.

  “It benefits both of us but will require a bit of work on your part.”

  His fingers tangling in her hair, Hemingway turned her head, leaving a trail of drugging kisses up her neck, pulling her deeper into a swirl of sensation. He lingered at the pulse point below her ear, tasting her skin, then he shifted his hand. He eased into the cradle of her thighs.

  The hard jut of his erection pressed against her and he rasped, “I’m in no position to negotiate.”

  She wrapped her fingers around him, her palm stroking him all the way to his velvet head, enjoying it as his eyes glassed over. She kissed his soft, slack mouth, loving having this powerful man in the palm of her hand as water poured over their sweat-slickened torsos. He groaned so deep and beautiful in his chest, she stroked him using both hands, her thumb gliding over the tip of his cock.

  Her pulse caught when he grabbed her by her upper arms, pressing her against the warm, slick tiles and his rock-hard body. “Babe, please,” he whispered with nothing short of desperation.

  Shea lifted her hips. With two words, he’d negotiated himself where he wanted to be as she let go and slipped her hands around to his taut ass and pulled.

  Pleasure ripped through her, and she flexed her knees, urging him on as she held on to his butt, his powerful muscles clenching and releasing. How could she be so sensitive to him? It was as if everything connected in a golden way. It was as if he knew the secret of her body, her sexuality, her…soul.

  His response was to settle himself deeper between her legs. He lifted her under her backside, hoisting her up until her back wedged against the tile. She wrapped her legs around his hips. Bracing his weight on his arms, he framed her face, then thrust. This time her eyes glassed over, everything going foggy as her world narrowed down to him between her legs.

  The pleasure intensified with each flex of his hips, building so fast in the steamy moisture. She wanted to slow down, remember every moment, saturate herself in every feeling, every sensation, but their collective desires were fast moving trains on a collision course, and she could only ride out the powerful emotions locomoting through her.

  This was just sex. Just sex with a skilled, physically buff sailor, she thought again, but she wondered if she was reminding herself of that fact because there was an irrevocable bond being forged, a union like no other. And it absolutely had nothing to do with sex. Damn this man.

  He was relentless, his thrusts increasing in a tempo that was nothing but hot, hard flesh, deep gasps and rumbling growls. She clung to him, crying out when he slicked his thumb over her engorged core, setting off an explosion as she came hard. Following at the peak of her release with his own.

  He was shaking as he slid from her body and let her legs drop from around his waist. He rolled them both, so his back was braced by the tile, and he held her tightly against him as they both fought for breath. Her knees were loose and wobbly, her muscles pliant, on the verge of uselessness.

  He shut off the water, blindly reaching down and pushing on the knob. He didn’t move, and she didn’t either. The steam slowly dissipated as their heartbeats eased to a more regular pace.

  His arms were sheltering, his chest wide and nice to ease against. Resting so comfortably in his embrace was against her nature. With a Navy Admiral as a father, he’d taught her to stand on her own two feet, and the ranks of NCIS had made her even more independent. Those hard lessons had been carried over into all aspects of her personal life, including intimacy. She could barely put two thoughts together, so trying to understand why she was acting this way was beyond her. Maybe it was seeing him working so hard today after hours of physical abuse that he took in stride, his bolstering of his teammates, and his indomitable spirit. Maybe coming home and connecting with her brother again had shaken something loose.

  She must have withdrawn then, in some way, because he tightened his hold slightly, then slid his hand to tip her chin up.

  “You are a first-class negotiator,” he said, the look in his eyes a little stunned but a lot tender. His gentleness caught her off guard.

  “Did I win?” she asked, needing flippant humor to stop him from seeing she was experiencing the same emotions.

  “There was no contest, you huckster…” He let his words trail off, but held her gaze, his own intensifying in ways that were even more dangerous to her equilibrium.

  “Sucker,” she said softly. “Now you hold up your end of the bargain.”

  He gathered her closer, chuckling. “What is this bargain I was too jacked up to even know I was making with a naked and tantalizing devil?”

  “It’s in the details, mister, and I had the upper…hand.”

  His bark of laughter made her smile.

  He pulled back the curtain and grabbed towels.

  Liftin
g her with ease, she was encased in soft warm terry before she could finish her surprised squeak.

  “What details are you holding me to?”

  “Oh,” she said, nonchalantly, “cooking.”

  He sent the towel over his head but stopped moving when she named the terms of his blind arrangement. Pulling the towel away from his face, he stared at her with a glimmer of retribution in his eyes.

  “Well, if that is the case, my laundry needs folding. Think you can handle that, you little imp?” he asked, slapping her on her damp butt. Then, he wrapped his towel around his waist and left the bathroom.

  “Ooh, this isn’t over,” she called with mock anger. She wrapped the towel around her wet and dripping hair and slipped out of the bathroom, the sound of pots, pans and utensils coming from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.

  She stopped in front of the dryer and opened it. Pulling out the first thing inside, she paused. His UDT shorts, short for Underwater Demolition Team dive shorts, which hadn’t changed from the first time they were issued exclusively to frogmen during WWII, or so Mad Max had informed her. They had to be the most indecent military issued uniform ever made and why door kickers wore them was a surprise to her. They were literally male hot pants, in her opinion.

  She’d been subjected to some spectacular backsides in them during their pool work, and it was lucky the guys were often immersed in cold water.

  With an impish grin forming on her face, she grabbed a black lace bra and a gorgeous gauzy camisole in an enticing nude shade called blush with embroidered black thread in a crisscross pattern on the edge of the bodice and arm holes. Then she slipped on the shorts. They were obviously made for men with narrow hips and her butt filled them out. She had to roll down the waistband because it was too large for her waist, and the roll of fabric sat on her hips in a swath of tan.