BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance

by Alana Albertson

  She just looked away from me. For the first time it occurred to me that she might be in as much pain as I was. I had nothing left to lose—I’d lost my best friend, my career, I’d almost lost my life—twice. Once from a grenade, and another time from my own hands. I would lay my heart open for her sake.

  I raised her chin with my thumb. “Fine, I’ll go first. I need to thank you for taking that bullet out of my gun. A few days after we met, I found out I was getting kicked out of the Corps. It was really dark for me. I’m in so much fucking pain all the time, I miss my buddy who died in the attack. I felt worthless. So I tried to end it. You’re the reason I’m standing here today. Thank you.”

  She gripped the side of her head, as if she was covering her ears. “Oh my God, Grady. I’m so sorry you were suffering, and I’m so grateful I took that bullet. Suicide is never the answer. You’re such an amazing man. Your life is so valuable.”

  I didn’t want to hear her fake platitudes. She didn’t know anything about the true darkness that lurked within me. “I’m fine now. Don’t worry about me. Now it’s your turn.”

  She pulled her knees to her chest, her voice choked with tears. “My mom. She wasn’t murdered. She killed herself. I was the one who found her, her brains splattered everywhere.”

  Bile rose in my throat. So that was what she was hiding from me. And my dumbass had just told her I’d attempted suicide. She’d never want to continue this relationship with me. I was just like her mom. “Man, I’m sorry.”

  “I couldn’t deal with life, the press asking questions about my mom, so I quit the show, hoping the truth wouldn’t get out. The tabloids printed crazy rumors that I had some drug problem and that I went to rehab. To this day, I don’t know where that rumor started. So that’s why I took your bullet. You . . .” Her eyes were teary. “You remind me of her.”

  Fuck.

  I looked in her green eyes, really looked at her, and allowed her to look at me. I didn’t turn my head when she stared at my face. If a woman this beautiful could stand the sight of me, if she stood by my side, maybe I could face the world again.

  Maybe not.

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t in pain. The skin grafts are brutal. And my brain is fucked up. I have triggers, and I can’t control myself. If I see something that reminds me of that night, I lose it. You saw me.”

  “It’s hard, I know. Just take your time.” She put her hand on my thigh and pursed her lips. “I wish I’d never run out the night we met. I was scared. And the truth is, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About that night.”

  Her soft touch immediately invigorated me. “Me either, baby.”

  I reached around her waist and pulled her closer to me. A lock of hair fell in her face and I brushed it back. She looked up at me through her long, black eyelashes, and I couldn’t resist a second longer. My lips covered hers, and her warm, sweet tongue danced in my mouth.

  Last time I fucked her with the faint hope that it might lead to something more. Tonight, I would fuck her, praying that it would last forever. I could keep her safe, I could love her.

  Her delicate hands rubbed the back of my neck as we kissed. We didn’t rush our lips. I had some time alone with this girl—I could take all the time I wanted.

  Her fingernails scraped my scarred skin, and the sensation sent chills through my body. She lightly kissed my neck, then she nibbled on the nub where my ear used to be. I resisted the urge to shove her mouth away, not wanting her to be disgusted by me. But her lips found a way back to my tortured flesh, and the comfort of her kisses was more soothing than any creams that I had ever applied to my wounds.

  My hands gripped her tiny waist. I loved her curvy hips, her round ass. She was perfection. I wanted to pleasure her, worship her, show her that I could be the man to protect her from anyone. If only she’d let me.

  She lifted off my shirt, her eyes widening at the sight of my chest. I undressed her beautiful body, slowly, savoring the unveiling of her flesh. The previous times we had sex had been laced with lust. Tonight, I wanted to make love to her.

  I had nothing left to say. Scooping her in my arms, I carried her into the bedroom. Her eyes widened, and she bit her bottom lip. I’d fantasized about this very moment for the past few months, and I was in no rush.

  I placed her on my bed and we knelt facing each other. My hand pushed her hair back, and I planted a kiss on her neck. Her skin was so soft and tan. Her lips parted and my mouth took hers, indulging in every sensation of her hot tongue probing my mouth. These kisses were so much better than yesterday’s kisses, which were shortly after my PTSD attack, when I was so afraid of losing her.

  I was afraid of nothing now.

  I cradled her head and urged her closer to me, pressing her clothed body against mine. She kissed my face tenderly as she began to undress me. I removed her white tank top and kissed her cleavage. Her head dropped back and she gave out a sweet sigh. My hand unhooked her bra and then teased her nipples with my fingers, pinching and tugging until her face was flush with pleasure.

  “Grady, you’re torturing me.”

  I grinned. Taking her buds, I sucked on one while my hand squeezed the other. She moaned causing a jolt of pressure to my already hard cock.

  Her hands dug into my shoulders and she began kissing my chest, licking my nipples, straddling my waist. I was so desperate to be inside her.

  She undid my belt and removed my shorts as I pulled down her sweatpants. She was wearing a mesh lace thong. I teased her with my tongue, tasting her sweet wetness. When I couldn’t resist anymore, I pushed her panties down and devoured her pussy.

  She writhed on the bed, gasping, moaning, every sound making me want her more. I could eat her pussy for days, forever.

  I grabbed a condom from my nightstand, pulled off my boxers, turned her over, and climbed on top of her. Her round ass mesmerized me. I took off her thong and wrapped my arm around her.

  “Ready for me?” I whispered into her ear.

  “Yes, baby.”

  I grabbed my cock in my hand and slid into her warm pussy.

  The softness of her ass as I pressed deeper heightened my desire. She moved in sync with my thrusts. I rubbed her clit until she was moaning, almost gasping for air. I could feel her pussy clench tight around my cock and I was desperate to release. I pumped faster, harder, deeper, out of my mind in pleasure. She let out a long cry and I came with her.

  We collapsed onto the bed, my mind completely blank. I was about to get up when she turned toward me and cupped my face.

  We lay in silence and I listened to the pattering of rain falling on the roof.

  “Grady, I need to tell you something.”

  Great, here it goes. I care for you but this isn’t going to work. I was ready. “What?”

  “I love you.”

  29

  Isa

  I told Grady I loved him. And he hadn’t said it back.

  But I wasn’t freaking out yet. He asked me to be his girlfriend—he opened up to me about his depression.

  Though honestly, knowing that he had been suicidal filled my heart with more fear than love.

  Grady gave me a wicked smile the next day, and told me he had the perfect plan for us. I reluctantly agreed—even though I hated surprises.

  Grady and I sat in his truck in silence as we drove on the freeway. This entire setup felt so surreal. I wanted a crystal ball so I could read our future. I wanted assurance that we could make some type of relationship work. I had never navigated an adult relationship and I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. The tension hung thick in the air, and even the view of the beautiful mountains did little to ease my nerves.

  We pulled off a dirt road, and I saw a sign: “Shooting & Safety.”

  “Are you taking me to a gun range?”

  “Yup. Since you’re an expert and all at disarming weapons.”

  I shuddered. “You’re kidding me. I hate guns. I told you my mom shot herself. Not to mention you confessed to me th
at you tried to shoot yourself. Nope, not going to happen.”

  He placed his hand on my thigh and looked at me. “You don’t have to shoot, and if you want to, we’ll leave. But you’re the one always talking about therapy. One of the methods I was taught was to desensitize yourself from the experience. This is a safe place. I want you to take back the power.”

  “And this from the guy who claims that therapy doesn’t work.”

  “I was blown up by a grenade. I can’t really do that again to desensitize myself. But I’m working on other ways to deal with it. Talking to you helps. So does fucking you.”

  “Funny.” I exhaled, happy he could admit that keeping his feelings bottled up was futile.

  At the shooting range, my fingers tingled and it wasn’t from the cold. I’d been raised shooting with my dad. After my mom killed herself with my father’s gun, I’d never had a desire to be anywhere near a weapon, though I had made an exception when I stole Grady’s bullet.

  “Wait here.” Grady walked around the truck and opened my door. Swoon. He hoisted me out of the car.

  Once inside the building, he introduced himself to the range owner.

  The older gentleman shook his hand. “Sergeant Williams, I assure you that you do not need an introduction. It’s an honor to meet you. Thank you for your service.”

  Grady posed for a few pictures, and I realized that in this environment he was a celebrity. This man was in awe of Grady.

  The man placed his arm around me, in a fatherly hug. “Well, ma’am, you’re a lucky young lady to have a man like Grady Williams by your side.”

  The fear pulsed through my veins as the owner pulled me aside to ask if I’d ever shot before.

  “Yes, sir, I have but it was years ago. I’ll be honest, I’m pretty scared.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have a better teacher. Grady is a legend.”

  We were led into the shooting area that kind of resembled a really secure bowling alley, long lanes separated by partitions.

  Grady fitted me with goggles and ear protectors. His face turned serious. “Okay, Isa. We have some safety rules. First rule, treat every weapon as if it were loaded. Second, never point a weapon at anything you do not intend to shoot. Third, keep your weapon on safety until you’re ready to fire. I will walk you through each step. Carefully pick up the pistol.”

  I hesitated to grab the gun, my heart beating rapidly. Grady had brought his own pistol, which he informed me was a matte camouflaged-colored Colt M45.

  What had my mom felt before she retrieved my father’s gun from the safe? Why had he given her the code? Did she think of me before she blew her brains out?

  I choked back tears.

  Grady leaned into me. “You okay, baby? You don’t have to do this.”

  I swallowed hard. “No, I’m fine. I want to.”

  Picking up the gun with my right hand, the cold metal imprinted on my palm. It felt heavy, its deadly steel haunting in my hands. I shivered, I didn’t know if I could go through with this. I made sure to keep pointing the gun down range.

  “Good, baby. Now load the magazine.”

  With my left hand, I loaded the magazine, careful to not pinch my fingers.

  “Great job. Your stance is good, keep your legs parallel, arm extended. You will feel recoil when you shoot. Let it happen. Don’t tense up, and keep your weapon pointed in a safe direction.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, his hands steady, his hard body pressed into mine. He took the weapon and placed my hands around it, his hands around my own, as if he was protecting me from the gun.

  “You got this, babe. Now just aim and fire. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  The target was one of those paper bodies with a red heart. My hand slowly pulled back the trigger, and I fired and let out a yelp. The recoil surprised me, but Grady held me firmly in his grasp. A huge wave of relief swept over me.

  “Good job, baby. Keep going.”

  I pressed the trigger again, this time more confident. Bam, bam, bam, bam. Electricity pulsed through my veins; my heart beat fiercely. I felt alive, in control, strong, and powerful.

  I placed the weapon down.

  Grady picked up the gun. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

  I took a step back, and Grady fired that weapon. With precision.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  Every shot dead center. His face was calm, centered, focused. No hesitation.

  My mouth dropped. I was so turned on despite myself. How hot was this guy? I’d never had a military fetish, never been attracted to a man who shot guns. But being around this man, this superhero, for once in my life, I felt completely safe.

  He unloaded the magazine and we walked out of the range.

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and kissed me sweetly. Kisses have different purposes in life—some are for lust, some are for pity, some are for love. This one was for comfort. It was tender, dare I say loving. It was an amazing kiss. I had so much to say to him, desperately wanting to tell him more about my mother, but once again I was at a loss for words. Grady always rendered me speechless.

  30

  Grady

  Being back on the range today rattled me. I loved shooting—I’d been a rifle coach, had dreamed of being a sniper. The power, the rush, the thrill. It was completely addicting.

  But these days, the sound of gunfire brought me back to Iraq. When I’d been over there, it wasn’t about the politics, it wasn’t about the war, it was about protecting my brothers. One goal, getting them out of there alive.

  I focused on why I loved shooting: the precision, the power, the skill. I refused to allow myself to think of the men I’d killed in combat, refused to picture their faces, and the way their bodies slumped when they hit the ground.

  There were some things I’d done that I would never tell Isa.

  It was bad enough that I looked like a monster, she would never love me if she knew I was also a killer.

  When we returned to the cabin, we relaxed for a bit. After an hour Isa came over to the sofa and sat on my lap. “I’m going to just teach you some fundamentals of dancing. Nothing too intense today.”

  I grimaced, but I refused to go back on my word. My dance knowledge consisted of doing joke moves to make my Marines laugh—lawn mower, the fishing pole, the hammer. But once I committed to something, I put in one hundred and ten percent. “Sounds good.”

  “Okay, I’m going to run upstairs and change really quickly. Luckily, you bought me dancing shoes.”

  Yeah, what a stroke of luck. I’d just wanted to see her dance, not to have to dance myself.

  I made a fresh pot of coffee and waited for her.

  Five minutes later, she walked down the stairs and I almost dropped the coffee pot. She wore a loose purple shirt that had a strappy sports bra sewn in and multicolored yoga pants that seemed painted on her curvy ass. Instead of tennis shoes, her feet were strapped in the sexy little dance heels.

  We cleared the living room so we could use it as a dance floor, and she turned on Sam Smith from her iPhone. The song was soothing and melodic, definitely not like my usual listening choice of heavy metal.

  “So, we’re going to start with the basics—rumba walks. They’re also used in cha-cha and bolero. Keep your toes on the floor, chest up, straight back, and push off of your standing leg.”

  Her hand adjusted my hip and all I could think about was having her hand drop lower to my cock.

  “Good. Okay, that’s a good start. Keep your legs straight, when you bring your right leg to your left, settle your hip, and then stick your right leg forward and transfer your weight.”

  Fuck, this was hard, though she made it look easy. Her hips seemed to be flowing back and forth, as if they were making love to the floor. I was used to drill—precise steps with my feet, syncopated with my fellow Marines.

  She taught me a basic rumba, a dance of unrequited love, and a bit of the foxtrot, a dance of happily-ever-afters. Isa had drilled me with t
he steps, feet on the floor, shoulders down, chest and chin up.

  After an hour of me following her around the floor like a lovesick puppy, I’d had enough, but I wasn’t about to quit. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of my fellow Marines who would no doubt be egging me on.

  “So, I think you have the moves down. But you’re still missing something.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to work on our connection in the dance. Our dancing depends on our ability to get our audience to feel our spark.”

  I thought I had it down, but she was right. There was still something I was missing.

  Emotion.

  Intimacy.

  I had to feel something, something toward Isa, something toward the dance. She’d told me she loved me. Did I love her? I craved her, I was addicted to her, I wanted her to be mine. But I was comfortably numb. I had been disconnected for so long, I didn’t have a clue how to bond.

  She moved her body into my space. “We’re going to start with a game. In dance, the man is always in control.”

  I liked this more and more. “Keep talking.”

  “I need you to lead me, take charge, own me.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “Fuck, baby, if I knew dancing was this hot, I would’ve started years ago.”

  She gave me a playful glance, untied her hair, which was wrapped up in one of those weird scarfs, and handed the silky fabric to me. “Here, blindfold me.”

  What the fuck? “Don’t have to ask me twice, sweetheart. I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing, but I’d be happy to tie you up and lick your pussy until you can’t stop coming.”

  Her mouth widened into a cautious smile and a nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Maybe later, Hulk. But for now I need you to blindfold me and lead me around the room. When we’re dancing, we can’t speak. We can only communicate through movement. And we need to build trust. Though I may be your teacher, on the floor you are always in charge. Make me submit to you.”