by Anne Marsh
She toed off her pumps. “Hurry the hell up.”
He grinned. “Your wish is my command.”
~
Without her shoes, Mia was two inches shorter, which made him a good ten inches taller than her. She liked those inches, too. He stood in the middle of her too-small motel room, just watching her. Potential awkwardness was apparently not something he worried about. He had a way of looking at her that heated her up, made her stop thinking about what could go wrong.
Still, she might not have planned enough for the night, however, because now that she had him alone, she wasn’t entirely certain of her next steps. Getting naked seemed like it should be a priority. In fact, it was a requirement if she was going to make her fantasy of hot, no-strings sex come true. He grinned at her.
“I’ve got all night,” he said, holding his arms open. “Have at me.”
Holy. Moly. She was really doing this. She flicked open the first button on her blouse.
Tag’s T-shirt hit the floor. And then he sauntered over to her bed and sat down on the edge. Bending over, he unlaced his motorcycle boots while she stared. Or drooled. Honestly, she wasn’t sure which. Then he spread his legs and beckoned.
“Come here.”
She was used to being in charge. That came with a military career, and not only was she good at giving orders, but she liked giving orders. Taking them, however, had always been a problem, at least when it came to relationships. Walking over to Tag and letting him call the shots was a new sensation. A good one, too. Imagine that.
He ran his hands over her arms, down her sides, unbuttoning and untucking and undoing her a hundred different ways. She had to hand it to him. He stripped off her blouse and her skirt and her nylons in seconds. Which left her standing there in her panties and her bra—and she’d dressed for the occasion.
“I like that.” His voice came out all rough and growly, proving she’d chosen wisely. She’d bought a matching red lace set because she’d needed to feel sexy. It was a small miracle the bra hadn’t shown through her dress shirt.
Tag was only half-naked, but he was beautiful. The dog tags around his neck flashed as he moved, calling attention to all that muscled, sun-bronzed skin. Maybe they’d have time for a shower together because, in her imagination, his soap-slicked, wet body was a dream come true. The way his hands fisted on his denim-covered thighs, he was doing some sexy appreciating of his own.
“You’ll like me naked even better.” She hoped. Oh God, how she hoped. Who knew doing something for the first time would be so nerve-racking? Or rewarding? Because when he reached down and popped the first button on his jeans, she learned her SEAL had gone commando.
“Show me.” He smiled slowly, and she wanted to pounce on him, make demands, show him just how hot the simple act of looking at him had made her. No. She was in control, she reminded herself. This was her night, her fantasy. He was merely helping her out.
So she shimmied just as slowly out of her red bra, and yes, she might have practiced the move once or a dozen times in front of the mirror. The straps slid down her bare arms after a little shake of her boobs that made his eyes darken. Then she reached behind her and undid the clasp. Thank God for yoga. One more shake and her bra hit his lap.
He glanced down and undid another button.
“You need to go faster.” Because hello, need you naked now. “And you’ve got more buttons than I do clothes.”
He shrugged. “I could make it up to you later?”
She thought about that briefly. While she worked her panties down her hips. She’d bet he was a man of his word.
As soon as her panties hit the floor, he pulled her onto his lap and she straddled him. Lots of hot, open-mouthed kisses later, he had his hands threaded through her hair, and her fingers dug into his shoulders. She rocked against him, hot and tingly and in a rush for reasons that had nothing to do with the hours ticking away and everything to do with the man underneath her. When she pushed him backward, he went with a low groan. Together they peeled off his jeans.
“Get inside me now,” she ordered.
He leaned up and nipped her ear. “In a hurry much?”
She grinned at him. “I believe I outrank you, sailor.”
He flipped her a small salute as she reached inside the bedside table for the strip of condoms she’d secured there earlier. She tore open the first packet and rolled the condom down him. His fingers pressed into her hips, steadying her as she took him.
“First...” And then he hesitated.
She didn’t know what to call it either. Not first fuck or first sex. Those words didn’t begin to describe this moment with this man. For all her worries about finding a guy and how the night would go, this was perfect.
“Our first,” she agreed, hugging his hips with her waist, and taking him deep inside her. Long, delicious minutes later it was all first orgasm.
~
Tag sprawled on the bed, the sheet tangled around his waist, watching while Mia tucked in her shirt and checked her buttons. Walking out flashing her bra wasn’t today’s mission. She had just enough time left on her countdown clock to stop by the base and grab her duty bag. In another hour, she’d told him in between the night’s third and fourth orgasms, she’d be hitting the air and headed back to the sandbox. And he’d be... here.
Their first good-bye was nowhere near as good as their first kiss.
“Hey,” he said softly, before he ran out of words.
Maybe she didn’t know what to say either, because he had no clue. She settled for, “The room’s paid up for the rest of the night.”
He didn’t want to stay here without her—not being alone had been the whole point of coming with her—but clearly she didn’t want him chasing her to the street. So he’d stay, count to a thousand, and then go. She grabbed the small bag from the luggage rack and turned toward the door.
“You were...” She hesitated, then she smiled. A happy smile that lit her up from the inside out and made her goddamned beautiful. They’d definitely gotten something right here tonight, and it wasn’t just the sex.
“You too,” he said, meaning it.
“Thank you.” She opened the door, paused. “At ease, sailor.”
Then she slipped out the door and was gone. The funny thing was, he was at ease, even as he mouthed thank you to the empty room.
Want more Mia and Tag? Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek from WICKED SECRETS...
1
Discovery Island came with its own resident Adonis. That particular plus had definitely not been in the travel brochures Laurel, Mia Brandt’s cousin and the bride-to-be, had waved enthusiastically when proposing a four day bachelorette cruise from San Francisco to Cabo San Lucas. The woman was a travel agent; she should have known the man candy would be even more of a draw than discounted cabins.
Fifty yards away from Mia’s perch in the beachside bar, the hottie masterfully coaxed a boat motor to life while she stared. He might have been working in the shallow water with his back to Mia’s group, but the sheer size and power of him demanded a second look, as did the effortless way he dominated his surroundings. In a firefight, she would have taken him out first, because everything about him screamed trouble.
As soon as the hostess had shown Mia to her seat, she’d spotted him at two o’clock. Cataloging her surroundings was second nature, the end result of two tours of duty in Afghanistan. After her time in the sandbox, she’d marked her exits and searched for anything out of the ordinary. Not that she recognized ordinary anymore, but she’d made it her personal goal to rediscover that quality, and she’d set herself a deadline of Christmas. With only three months remaining to accomplish her particular mission, scoping out potential dates—rather than potential hostiles—over bad margaritas had seemed an excellent step in the right direction. The normal direction.
This guy was worth a second look for many reasons, although the only threat he posed right now was to her libido. An ancient gray T-shirt stretched tightly o
ver his shoulders as he wielded his wrench, clearly still dissatisfied with the boat’s performance despite the motor’s obedient purr. He’d rolled up his faded jeans, the worn denim cupping his butt in the best possible way as he bent over, fiddling with some new mechanical bit. His dark hair was buzzed short with military precision, and his forearms were a rich, sun-browned color. When he pulled a screwdriver out of the toolbox beside him, Mia’s group of gals heaved a collective sigh.
Hooyah. Definitely spectacular.
“You think he’s single?” One of the bridesmaids leaned into Mia, her attention firmly fixed on the hottie working the engine. Laurel had assembled a bridal party from all walks of life. In addition to Mia, she’d invited two girlfriends from college, her husband-to-be’s baby sister, a gal from her office and a woman she’d met on a cruise to Jamaica. Two Jenns, an Olivia, a Lily and a Chloe. Mia’s other mission was keeping the names straight.
The guy’s dating status, however, wasn’t the actual issue. She shifted back—she still didn’t like casual touching—and plucked the veil off her head. Her cousin had brought faux bridal veils for everyone, but there was only so far Mia would go for family. Being a former aviation pilot and officer in the US Army and only six months back from her final tour, pink tulle far exceeded that distance. Far. “That’s not the right question.”
The bridesmaid—Mia was almost certain she was one of the Jenns—absently inhaled her margarita, her gaze never wavering from the man in the boat. “No?”
A guy like him clearly didn’t know the meaning of the word no. His T-shirt rode up as he reached over the engine block, revealing a sun-darkened expanse of golden brown skin and the navy blue edge of his boxers. The straight line of his spine just begged to be traced by her fingers. Or her mouth. Her tongue...
At ease, soldier.
She’d seen gorgeous men before. Slept with them, too. Just because sailor boy was the sexiest sight she’d laid eyes on in weeks didn’t give her hormones license to rampage unchecked. Her ship sailed in hours, and she wasn’t looking for quick fun. She also didn’t need to leave behind yet another guy who would decide he was done waiting without telling her.
Even now, she could hear her ex’s voice as he explained how her last deployment was his license to cheat on her because, honestly, did she expect him to wait forever? Eighteen months hadn’t qualified as forever in Mia’s book, but then honesty apparently hadn’t been part of her ex’s vocabulary either. She wouldn’t make that mistake again, and the sailor
in the boat had mistake written all over his very sexy self.
Might-be-Jenn slurped, drawing Mia’s attention back to the problem at hand. “The question is—is he single right now?”
The man braced his legs as he twisted something on the engine block, and one of the other bridesmaids started fanning herself with a stack of bar napkins. Right on cue, a bikini-clad tourist hopped up onto the edge of the boat. The guy’s fetching new visitor leaned in and said something to him.
“Scooped.” Mia’s neighbor polished off the remainder of her margarita. She didn’t sound particularly forlorn. “I need another round.”
It was hard to imagine needing more tequila and salt, but Mia signaled for the waiter anyhow. Her role on this cruise appeared to be that of designated party planner, probably because she wasn’t any good at having fun herself, or so she suspected. Checking the waiter out visually for suspicious bulges and concealed weapons when he came over to take their order for refills was a case in point.
“Is he taken?” Bridesmaid number two—so much for keeping her vow to learn their names before the cruise ship reached international waters tomorrow—scooted closer and looked hopefully toward the water’s edge.
“We could send him a drink.”
“Two.”
“Or bring the drinks ourselves.”
“A long, slow screw against the wall.” Mia zoned out during the animated discussion of drinks that followed, which was probably why she missed the right turn the conversation took somewhere between wall and Mia. Her name. Five heads swiveled her way. Hell. She must not have blacked out or had a flashback, because no one looked worried.
“What?” she asked Laurel, who was bouncing up and down in her seat. If Mia closed her eyes, she could imagine they were kids again. Laurel, who had always hated her name, had been an only child three years younger than Mia and they’d quickly become inseparable. Since her cousin lived less than a half-mile away from Mia’s family, there had been plenty of zipping back and forth on their bikes.
Laurel had emailed daily when Mia was deployed, sharing all the small-town news and celebrity gossip. She’d also sent care packages, which had been a mixed blessing, albeit always good for a laugh. Laurel’s definition of essentials didn’t match Mia’s, but they’d agreed on chocolate and Cheetos. The random gag gifts in the box had been another matter, but explained why Mia’s unit had the best supply of whoopee cushions in the sandbox...and why Mia was now sporting a hot pink bikini bottom with rhinestones. And a tiara.
Laurel had a devilish sense of humor and a contagious laugh. And since making Laurel happy made Mia happy, a little public humiliation in the wardrobe department was a small price to pay.
Laurel elbowed her. “He’s wearing dog tags.”
“And?”
“And so he’s military, right? Maybe you know him.”
Of course, because the number of soldiers serving Uncle Sam was so small that they were all on a first name basis. In the last six months she’d served in Afghanistan, she hadn’t met every serviceman stationed at her base. Many of them, certainly, but not all of them. So the odds of her knowing the guy working on the boat were miniscule. Mia sighed. Sure, she could march over there and introduce herself, but she doubted he’d be interested in a glassful of vodka and gin. Sex, on the other hand, was a definite maybe if he was anything like the soldiers with whom she’d served.
Stall.
“I doubt we’ve crossed paths,” she said, fishing an ice cube out of her glass. If she mainlined enough sweet tea, she might not fall asleep tonight, and avoiding the nightmares ranked higher on her list of things to be desired than hot men working on boats. “Afghanistan wasn’t that small.”
“Go over and ask him to join us,” Laurel urged.
“Why me?”
Her cousin’s impish smile reminded Mia she wasn’t the only person here used to giving orders.
“I’m the bride,” Laurel reminded her. As if Mia could possibly forget, given the group’s collective outfits. “I’m off-limits. Taken.” Another round of giggles ensued. “Someone available should go.”
It was true. Mia did want to be available. It was part of her whole act normal, feel normal plan. Laurel, on the other hand, was unabashedly girly. She loved glitter and pink—and her husband-to-be, Jack. Laurel was the kind of happy that made others smile. She didn’t forget a promise, and she’d waited almost a year for her wedding date to make sure that Mia would be home. In turn, Mia would walk through fire for her baby cousin—and up the aisle in the satin monstrosity Laurel had chosen for the bridesmaids.
All of which made walking across the beach to the hottie on the boat a no-brainer.
Since she wasn’t drinking—thank you, accidentally detonated concussion grenade—she’d nominated herself to be in charge of organizing the day’s festivities—kind of like a designated tour guide instead of a designated driver. They’d hit the water for some snorkeling and devoured a lunch that had somehow morphed into the current cocktails for six. Next up was the zip-line and ATV tour, followed by a sunset beach walk. While she couldn’t guarantee the bridal party’s continued good behavior, she could guarantee they slept like babies tonight. Apparently, she could also add procurer of hot men to her mental résumé.
With that thought, she stood up and pointed herself in the direction of sailor boy. If her girls wanted his company, they’d get it. Seeing them happy was a good thing. This was precisely what she’d fought for in Afghanistan, this
beautiful, silly happiness. Laurel glowed whenever her husband’s name came up. They could laugh a little too loudly, drink a little too much, and have far too much fun, unlike the very few Afghani women Mia had met during her tours.
The sun beating down on the beach certainly upped the temperature to Afghanistan-like levels. Moving out without her flip-flops had been a mistake because the sand was scorching hot. As soon as Mia got close, speeding up her incoming to an undignified trot as the soles of her feet cooked, the visiting bikini babe slid off the edge of the boat, landing in the water with a little splash. Sailor boy didn’t look up. Not because he didn’t notice the other woman’s departure—something about the way he held himself warned her he was aware of everyone and everything around him—but because polite clearly wasn’t part of his daily repertoire.
Fine. She wasn’t all that civilized herself.
The blonde made a face, her ponytail bobbing as she started hoofing it along the beach. “Good luck with that one,” she muttered as she passed Mia.
Oookay. Maybe this was mission impossible. Still, she’d never failed when she’d been out in the field, and all her gals wanted was intel. She padded into the water, grateful for the cool soaking into her burning soles. The little things mattered so much more now.
“I’m not interested.” Sailor boy didn’t look up from the motor when she approached, a look of fierce concentration creasing his forehead. Having worked on more than one Apache helicopter during her two tours of duty, she knew the repair work wasn’t rocket science.
She also knew the mechanic and...holy hotness.
Mentally, she ran through every curse word she’d learned. Tag Johnson hadn’t changed much in five years. He’d acquired a few more fine lines around the corners of his eyes, possibly from laughing. Or from squinting into the sun since rescue swimmers spent plenty of time out at sea. The white scar on his forearm was as new as the lines, but otherwise he was just as gorgeous and every bit as annoying as he’d been the night she’d picked him up at the Star Bar in San Diego. He was also still out of her league, a military bad boy who was strong, silent, deadly...and always headed out the door.
