by Kara Liane
Oh shit, I guess I do get exercise!
Anyway, I had to push thoughts of Technical Sergeant Peters out of my mind and stop wondering what was under that uniform; my libido couldn’t handle it. It had been months since I’d fooled around with anyone. I was too damn busy writing for a living and trying to pay the bills. My shitty little apartment in South Philly didn’t offer much, but it was home—and still quite expensive. My cat, Pussy, is my sidekick and companion. Side note: I know it’s unoriginal and ridiculous to call her that, but she’s a prissy cat so the name just seemed fitting. Also, I hate my nosy neighbor, so imagine my sheer satisfaction getting to yell “Pussy” through my dump of a place, knowing damn well that the B next door will hear.
Pussy jumped up on my bed as if summoned from wherever she was licking herself and immediately started kneading my chest. Shit, I hated that, but she was an attention whore, as I guess most cats are. She was a big ball of fluffy, snow-white fur. Her yellow eyes always assessed me, and she loved to stick her ass in my face. I’ll admit I had a little bit of a soft spot for the finicky feline anyway. I figured I’d be more of a dog person, but cats were easier to care for when you lead a life like I do. I’m gone for hours on end and keep a weird schedule. Reluctantly, I started petting her, and she purred like a motherfucker.
I so did not want to get out of my comfy, sumptuous bed. That is the one luxury I absolutely will splurge on, besides good coffee. I have to have a nice down comforter and at least six-hundred-thread-count sheets, or forget it!
Okay, enough stalling.
I did one final stretch in bed, ran my fingers through my unruly curls, and stumbled as I got on my feet.
“Pussy, it’s time to get your ass moving,” I said aloud. However, I didn’t know if I was talking to my cat, or myself.
Chapter 3: Schmooze for the News
Everly
Well, that interview didn’t go as planned. I couldn’t even blame it on the fact that it was the end of the workday for the officer I was seated opposite. I know no one likes probing questions, accusations, or finger-pointing, but I thought I approached it with professionalism. I wonder how much more sarcasm I could drip into that line. Who was I kidding? I am a hard-ass when I’m grilling someone, and I make no bones about it. My mouth gets me into trouble a lot, but I won’t apologize for trying to get to the truth and the heart of the subject. When I take on a story, it becomes a living, breathing entity. It is a rush unlike any other. It’s almost up there on the same level with sex; that is, if I could remember what that even felt like these days. The big O was a bitch to me, so I snubbed her right back.
Oh boy, that Peters was obviously wreaking havoc on my senses, considering going without dick for a while normally never bothered me this much, or to this extent. I never did serious relationships. It was always a casual thing, because serious equated to having to share something of yourself, and that just wasn’t me.
I know it’s ironic that I dig for the truth and stop at nothing to attain my goal, when I myself clam up faster than an oyster with a precious pearl. But it is what it is. I know I can come off a bit on the abrasive side, and I understand I may be too headstrong for some guys. That’s why I need a man like Peters to take charge and push back. I don’t need to open up fully where feelings are concerned, but I’d open fully in other ways. Was there even such a man up for the task?
See, the men in my “office”—well, the rinky-dink publication was one giant, open office save for a few desks reserved for upper management, but I digress—those guys didn’t like a confident, strong woman such as myself strutting around the place. Let’s just face it: they are penvious. Yup, not only do they suffer from a sort of penis envy because my nonexistent balls are still definitely bigger than theirs when it comes to chasing stories, but they’re also envious of my writing skills. I can match wit for wit and tit for tat any day of the week and twice on Sunday, thank you very much! My editor knows I’m the best. When a promotion comes up again, I’d better damn well get it, or I’d have to try and move on or go freelance.
Either prospect is scary, but I’ve always managed to land on my feet. I’ve been on my own a long time. I’m thirty-two years old and I’ve never gotten anything handed to me—and would never want to start now.
I stood up from the desk across from the medical officer I had just abruptly finished interviewing. I nonchalantly thanked him for his time, even though he shot daggers at me, and walked out with an air of Everly confidence. The airman, who was my escort for the time I was on the base, walked with me as we moved down one of the corridors at the medical clinic. We rounded a corner and bam! I smacked right into the chest of another freaking airman.
But not just any airman, mind you.
When I saw the nametag, my nipples instantly hardened, and heat with a gush of liquid pooled between my legs. I slowly let my gaze wander up to the face of Technical Sergeant Peters. I sucked in my breath and held it. His probing stare analyzed my face, and the look of recognition was a boost to my ego; clearly he remembered me too. Lust swirled momentarily in his hazel eyes before he schooled his features into that military-rigid pose he seemed to don so well.
His features were just like I remembered. His chin was strong, as was his jawline; it was cut to perfection. His thick brows were shaped nicely and framed his face over his sculpted nose. Those amazing eyes meant double trouble. The flecks in his irises were alluring—I had forgotten how much I wanted to get lost in them.
My fantasies had not even done the man justice. He clearly was a fine specimen of what the opposite sex should be. The way his eye color morphed from brown to green and then back again indicated that he was a person who was constantly shifting—and who would constantly keep me guessing. Even under the fluorescent lights in the hallway, his powerful appeal and aura could not be masked. My thoughts were interrupted by the cacophony of thundering beats my heart was letting out. I could feel the blood pounding and pulsing in my ears. I had never been this undeniably and inscrutably attracted to another being.
If he didn’t talk, it would be a miracle—because inevitably he’d fuck up the moment with his smart-ass charm. But at the same time, I wanted to hear that gravelly, sandpaper voice caress my ears with his wicked tongue. And that smell! Oh, how it made my mouth water. There was a hint of salty sweat mixed with a mountain spring, but not of course girly or floral by any means; it was earthy and masculine and unique to him.
I let my stare venture down his body.
Holy hell, this uniform is much better than the blue one.
He was wearing the camo fatigues that all the girls swoon over. They hugged his body just right, allowing me to make out the mountains of his muscular arms, the broad shoulders, and the thick thighs. I wished it was even tighter so I could have made out what was right between those thighs . . . but hey, I could still fantasize. I was not ashamed of eye-fucking him to my heart’s content. His short, caramel-brown hair, cropped close to his scalp, completed the look.
He was all military man, and I was about to be in trouble again. What exacerbated the situation was the blatancy of impatience and annoyance that met my stare; his irritation was back with a vengeance. It was unnerving and arresting to hate him for being an asshole, yet to be so attracted to him that I wanted him to throw me against the wall and screw me until I couldn’t walk. To hell with anyone who watched. If he did just that in this moment, I would, for the first time in my life, be comfortable with voyeurism.
“Damn it, woman. What is with you fucking running into me?” Peters bit out.
I noticed he called me “woman,” not by my first name. Interesting. Either he was stupid and had forgotten it, or he was purposely acting like an asshat.
“Hey, soldier. I didn’t see you there. And for the record, you ran into me . . . again,” I grumbled out.
I noted I could easily work him up too.
“You know damn well to address me as ‘technical sergeant,’” he retorted.
“And you kno
w damn well to address me as ‘Your Highness,’” I said in the most sinister tone I could manage.
Stop being a dickhole! That’s what I wanted to shout at him, but it would have clearly been inappropriate given the time and place.
We held each other in a staring contest for a moment, then both our lips began to twitch as we tried to hold back a smile or laugh. I heard a throat clear behind me and realized it was my escort. I didn’t break the connection with Peters, though. He needed to make the first move. His lips curled into a panty-splitting smirk, and I found myself grinning back.
“Everly Reynolds . . .” He just said my name, and let it hang there in a wistful way.
I didn’t even know how he could do that.
But like a loon, I secretly loved that he had remembered my name. I glanced down at my chest to see that my press badge was flipped over to the blank side, confirming that he hadn’t just read it again, he had actually remembered it. He followed my action by looking down at my chest too, and we both burst out laughing, remembering our last encounter and the same scenario. Talk about déjà vu. The tension was broken. It felt good to see this side of him.
I noted the perfectly white, straight teeth that I couldn’t believe belonged to a man.
The military must have a good dental plan, I murmured to myself.
I figured it was time to return the favor by addressing him with the proper title. “So, Technical Sergeant Peters . . . do I have to keep calling you that, or have you got a first name?”
He looked at me like a puppy who is perplexed by his new owner, and then it clicked with him that he had never told me. He held out his big, callused hand, and I placed my slender one in his. These were the hands of a working man. These were the hands of a strong man. And these were hands that needed to touch me . . . everywhere. His fingers swallowed mine, and he grabbed them with a firm grip. He was letting me know right then and there exactly what kind of a man he was. He was the take-charge, no-questions-asked, take-it-or-leave-it kind of male. I felt flutters in my belly, and the evidence of more heat was coating my panties. Thankfully, I didn’t wear thongs, so I had a little protection in my bikini briefs.
Just that small contact of hand in hand was a zap to my system. I knew he felt it too. It was like a force of nature right there in the hallway. Correction. He was the force of nature right there in the hallway—one I couldn’t wait to tumble in the sheets. He licked his lips and, in turn, I licked mine. We were practically fucking in the hall just with our body language.
“You don’t have to be so formal with the title either. You can say ‘tech’ instead of ‘technical.’ And I’m Brenneth. But I’d prefer if you called me Brent, Everly.” He rasped out the end of the sentence as if it was difficult for him.
He gave my hand one final squeeze, and we both let our arms fall back to our sides. My hand continued to tingle where we had touched. My breasts were aching and felt full from being so aware of him. I needed to snap out of the trance.
What is with me?
This was so not me. I was never this affected by someone.
“So it’s Brent, huh? I never pictured you as a Brent,” I said cheekily.
“I didn’t know you pictured me at all,” he fired back with mischief in his eyes.
Damn, he got me there.
“Touché!” I admitted with a little snip of reluctance.
I had forgotten about the airman standing behind me again. He very noticeably, this time, cleared his throat and shifted his position.
I turned my head and asked, “What’s up?”
He looked chagrined and stuttered to say, “Umm, ma’am? I need to escort you back to your vehicle.”
Before I could even respond, Brent beat me to it. “No!” Brent stated without even looking at the young’un behind me.
Both the airman and I looked at him with puzzled expressions.
“I will escort Ms. Reynolds wherever she needs to go. I know the rules. As long as she remains with me, I will sponsor her,” he said matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument.
My momentary fit of woe at the thought of being booted off the base was instantly mollified by the hunky, beefy man in uniform. I turned to the pipsqueak. He looked like he wanted to argue at first, but then thought better of himself. I may not have understood the whole rank thing—whether he was an officer or enlisted—but I could see well enough that Brent had more stripes on his arm than that guy. So that had to mean something.
I waved my fingers in that gesture snooty girls do to dismiss someone and said, “Too-da-loo!”
He huffed and scampered off, and I turned back to Brent.
He had a satisfied look on his face. He spoke conspiratorially, “I have an idea.”
God, he was hot.
“Fuck . . .” I whispered, not actually realizing I had voiced it.
I knew my pupils grew large, and that I probably had a panicked look on my face like those little stuffed animals with the grossly enlarged googly eyes.
The wicked gleam in his hazels was evident as he replied, “Exactly.”
Brenneth
“Wait, so how does this ‘fuck’ game work again?” Everly snickered.
Her eyes were alight with merriment, and she was already slightly buzzed from the few drinks we’d been nursing. Hell, I was so horny and hard for her, it was difficult to sit next to her. The bar top was not doing a good job of hiding my very painful, very obvious erection. Occasionally her hand would land on my thigh, torturing the shit out of me. She knew exactly what she was doing.
Damn minx of a woman!
After we left the clinic, I had told her I needed to swing by my place to change into civilian clothes. She didn’t object to hanging out with me, so I figured I could totally stand the company of a beautiful woman for my last night in the States. She stayed in my truck waiting for me while I changed, which was wise because having her anywhere near a bed would have been very bad for both of us. We then headed over to one of the local watering holes, and I decided to introduce her to my own version of the drinking game, What the Fuck?
“We can play it any way we want. It’s practically like any other drinking game, with the ultimate goal being for me to get you drunk,” I joked.
Truth be told, I don’t like my women sloppy drunk. I’d never take advantage of a woman like that. I don’t prey on vulnerability or any degree of inebriation. With Everly, though, I liked that I could rib her. She was like a dude when it came to giving me shots back. The banter was fun. But let me make it perfectly clear: I did not see her as a dude. Shit, she was just a cool chick, and one I could see myself being friends with even if we never ended up rolling around in the sheets. But if I had it my way, there would be fucking soon enough. I liked that I could joke around with her and not have to be so damn gentlemanly. It was a relief to—almost—just be myself.
“Okay, how about we table the drinking game for now? Tell me, how long have you been in the military?” she hedged.
Jesus, she cuts right to the chase.
That spark of reporter bled out as I stared at her beautiful face. Her curls caught the light here and there, making her glow. I knew she must have been damn good at her job—I could just tell. It’s not like any of this shit was top secret about my life, but I just didn’t like talking about myself. I know this is how you do things when you’re on a date, though.
Did I just say “date?”
I hoped I could keep my tone casual as I replied, “I’ve been on active duty for fifteen years now. It will be sixteen this coming summer, actually.”
I even surprised myself when I came to that realization. Sixteen years? Wow, the years had been flying by.
She nodded, but tilted her head as if reading something else in my features.
Damn perceptive woman.
Maybe she could see my hesitancy, picked up on the fact that I not only hated the idea of talking about myself but also had reservations about discussing my career.
Civilians who aren’t ac
customed to this life don’t understand that some people in uniform just don’t want to talk about this shit. I lived it each and every day. Another tour through the desert meant I’d have yet more baggage to carry with me for the rest of my life.
Maybe I needed to turn the tables on her. I decided to broach a safe subject. Talking about family was safe for me, so I knew I could reciprocate when she asked me about mine.
“So tell me about your family,” I demanded more than asked.
It was subtle, but I saw her grip the stem of her martini glass a little more forcefully than she should have. Shit, for a second I thought it might even shatter. She became incredibly tense. I just knew that, although family was a safe subject for me, it was not for her.
Yup, there’s definitely a story there.
Chapter 4: Prickly and Dickly Rhyme
Brenneth
After I witnessed her panic, I decided to let her off the hook. So before she could even respond, I jumped in again. I felt the need to protect her somehow. I could tell it was a painful subject. It was almost like we could both sense each other’s pain. Weird.
“So my sister just had a baby. My niece was born on Valentine’s Day. She’s a cutie,” I offered.
Her tense face relaxed immediately, and I knew we were treading in safer waters. She smiled back at me. I couldn’t help but smile when I talked about Em. I think she also seemed surprised. I know I don’t look like the baby-loving type, and I wouldn’t want one myself, but I love my family to death—plain and simple.
