Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6)

by Anne Marsh

  “You don’t have to stay,” she continues, as if she somehow thinks the only reason I’ve been coming around is for the sex. As if she’s my booty call, my friend-with-benefits, my hook up. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe that’s all I am to her—sperm in an attractive package, but right now she can’t sample the goods, so she doesn’t need me.

  She stares at me. I stare at her.

  A lightbulb goes off in my head. “What if I want to?”

  She gives me a mischievous grin. “In that case, mi casa es tu casa.”

  Maybe it’s just because we’ve spent so much time together, but I don’t want to miss out on today. Marlee’s smile is warmer, brighter. I could watch her all day and all night, too.

  I go back to my truck and grab the cooler. There’s no point in wasting perfectly good food—and besides, Vali cooked it all, so it’s bound to be good. We end up picnicking on the floor of the living room, while we squabble amicably over which movie we should watch. Marlee wins, of course, because I let her.

  We’re twenty minutes into Steel Magnolias (thank God Finn’s not here to give me crap), when I notice she keeps rubbing her stomach and wincing. Fuck. I have a bad premonition of what labor’s gonna be like.

  “What’s up?” I want to pull her into my arms, to promise her I can fix what’s wrong. To see her smile and her face light up. The part of me that’s committed to baby-making suggests that there are plenty of ways to accomplish this, starting with an orgasm. And honestly? That would be my first choice, too.

  “Cramps,” she says. Her tone announces that she’s providing no more details and she’ll kill me if I ask. Conveniently, I’ve spent years under fire—and I’ve lived to tell the tale.

  I slide my hand over her stomach. She glares at me, but her eyes look just a little less hostile. Maybe she’s still considering disemboweling me, but the death sentence is now off the table.

  “How do we fix that?”

  She gives me a look. The one that says I’m such a guy. The one that says I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. “We don’t. The cramps will go away by tomorrow.”

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been around a woman with her period, but this is the first time anyone has discussed cramps with me. We live in a country that’s put a man on the goddamned moon. Why the hell can’t we fix cramps? It’s downright barbaric if you think about it—I don’t even have ovaries or any related parts and I’m wincing in sympathy.

  I borrow Marlee’s phone and do a little Google action. Most of the home remedies for cramps involve pumping yourself full of various vitamins. Tea. Heating pads. Vigorous exercise. And orgasms.

  “I could be just what the doctor ordered.” I turn the phone so she can see the screen.

  She makes a face. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “You got a heating pad?”

  She nods and gives me directions; as soon as I’ve got the thing plugged in, I tuck her into bed and transfer our movie to the television on her dresser. Then I pull her closer and do the only thing I can. I rub the small of her back and I pay attention. When she sighs and moans, I know I’ve found a good spot. The right spot. I have one job—taking care of Marlee—and I won’t fuck it up.

  “It’s silly to be so disappointed,” she says. “About the baby.”

  “We’ll try again,” I promise her and run my hands up her spine. She’s got knots there that would make the Gordian knot look small.

  “Yes,” she breathes.

  She exhales.

  I inhale.

  Fucking perfect.

  “Why a baby now?” As admittedly awesome as Roger is, I can’t imagine being this desperate to make one of my own. Or maybe it’s a girl thing. A chemical thing or a desire that gets passed out with ovaries and a vagina. All I know is that I’ve never had it.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know if I can explain it.”

  “Try?” That’s my mouth brushing over her ear.

  “You know how you’ve got the SEAL team?” she asks instead. “Those guys, they’re like your brothers. Part of it’s the fighting and the shared purpose, but there’s another side, right? You spend all that time together. You know each other. I know it’s not a guy thing to say, but you love each other.”

  “They’re family,” I agree. I’ve never thought about my team in that way before, but she’s not wrong. Ro, Finn, and the rest of them? They’re not like brothers. They simply are.

  “I want that,” she says fiercely. “I’m ready to find my family, to fight for it, to earn my right to belong. This baby and I, we’re going to be a unit, a team. We’re going to be together.”

  Baby and I. That’s a mighty small version of we.

  “I think that’s why I married Roddy,” she continues. “I thought he and I could be the start of that new family. My parents and I have drifted apart over the years. No fighting—nothing like that—but it’s like there was nothing holding us together. Roddy seemed like my perfect do-over. I thought we’d be a family of two, and then we’d add kids when we were ready. He always stayed close with his own family and spent time with his sister’s kids. He was solid, loyal, and dependable.”

  So are the dogs I train.

  I find the remote and turn off the TV.

  “So what happened?”

  “In fifteen years, we didn’t grow closer. We didn’t really make a home—we just bought bigger and bigger houses. He didn’t care enough and we weren’t really a team. We tried for a baby a few times and it didn’t happen and when it turned out we couldn’t—” she shrugs. “The house just seemed even emptier and bigger. Now here I am, and I’ve got you as my wingman.”

  Great. I’m the prop, the guy who closes the dating deal for his friend and talks up his more sterling qualities. If I’m really Marlee’s wingman, it’s my job to make sure she goes home with her number one man. And it sure sounds like she’s not over Roddy. So why is she here with me?

  Marlee’s drifting off on me now, sleep claiming her.

  “I’m gonna stay the night,” I say.

  “Okay,” she agrees, but she’s already buckled in and braced for landing on Planet Lala Land.

  I’m not the right man for this job. I’m nothing like Roddy, right down to the inescapable fact that I’d never let her walk away from me if we were married—and yet I’m more than willing to give her a baby. What we have is just sex. Hot, sometimes dirty, always mind-blowing sex.

  Just sex.

  Which is definitely more than Roddy the Super-Fucking-Awesome is getting from her. And which is small comfort, because I have a bad feeling I’m starting to want more—and that was never part of our deal.

  We hang out on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. We watch all of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies back-to-back, and Marlee asks if I can do beads and braids (for her, I’ll consider it). I show her what’s wrong with the fight scenes. We both agree that only an idiot would try to commandeer an English ship by walking underwater with a rowboat over his head.

  Friday night, we cheat and head over to the Tiki Hut. The place has live music and dancing—which seemed like a good idea until we’re pulling up and all that light and sound comes spilling out across the sand. Fuck. This is date night central. The only non-couples are packs of guys and gals—all checking each other out.

  We go in, I commandeer a table, and we listen to the music. Which is getting harder and harder to hear over the incessant laughing and public foreplay happening on the dance floor.

  It’s raining, which means we’re all huddled underneath the palapa roof like we’d melt if a little water touched us. Kind of funny, really, seeing as how we live yards from the ocean. You ever see a video of the capybaras that live in some Japanese park? It rains and they pile up in a little wooden house like they’ve never seen water before. I love the rain. Always have. It’s the perfect time to run—or maybe convince Marlee to come back to my place where we can hear the rain and the ocean at the same time. Even if we’re not having sex, she’s go
t to sleep, right? Might as well be with me.

  “You don’t talk.” She elbows me hard and interrupting my thoughts.

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  She shrugs. “Whatever you’re feeling. Anything that pops into your head. Tell me a joke or about the cute panda video you watched on the Internet instead of picking up your place.”

  “You really want to know what I’m watching on the Internet? Because I’ve got one word for you: capybara.”

  She makes a face. “At least it wasn’t internet porn.”

  “That’s two words. Maybe I should cut you off.”

  Marlee stares down at her margarita as if it’s sprouted spiders. “Drink this for me,” she hisses.

  Wait. What?

  “I can’t drink if I’m pregnant. What if my period was a false alert? What if I’m actually pregnant right now?”

  If I want to eat strawberries, I’ll eat strawberries. Not this pureed slushie thing. Still, I take the glass—and immediately look around for a place to dispose of the contents.

  Suddenly my heart is pounding in my ears. “Did you pee on the stick?”

  She has her period. Is this an immaculate conception? Fuck, but I should have paid more attention in health class.

  “No.” She bites her lip. “But I could be. We’ve been having unprotected sex and sometimes women get their periods even when they’re pregnant. I should stop drinking just in case.”

  I take one for the team and knock back her drink. Jesus. The teeth that don’t freeze on the spot curl up and die from the sheer sugar content.

  “Problem solved,” I whisper roughly and she smiles.

  “You’re too good to me,” she says.

  I’m a fixer. Break it, and I stick it back together. Moving parts, mechanical pieces—life’s one big fucking jigsaw puzzle and I make the edges match. Machines are predictable, reassuring in the way Tab A fits into Slot B. There’s only one right way, one easy fit—until the whole assembly breaks and then you go MacGyver on its ass. Nothing’s insurmountable with a roll of duct tape. Marlee, however, has to be the exception to my rules. She makes no fucking sense.

  “Dance with me?” She ignores my silence and bellows the words to be heard over the driving beat.

  I lean over and whisper the words right against her ear, drinking in her shiver. “Not a fucking chance, sweetheart.”

  She laughs and bounces away to join the mass of writhing, seething, gyrating bodies packed in the square of beach doubling as a dance floor. Pretty sure most of those people should consider dance lessons. The guy nearest me flexes his knees up and down, his feet firmly fixed to the sand as he waves his arms over his head with a singular lack of dignity. He says something to Marlee as she bounds by. She waves at him but keeps on going.

  Marlee dancing is a sight. I don’t dance—never have, never will. One of my deepest, darkest secrets is the tap-dancing lessons my mother dragged me to when I was six. I was the worst dancer ever, and not just because I didn’t want to be in Mrs. Bolivar’s classroom wearing tights and shiny black shoes.

  Marlee wouldn’t have a career on any stage but a strip club’s. She’s off the beat. She throws her arms up and around like she’s imitating an out-of-control windmill, and her fellow dancers are forced to move out of her way more than once. But Christ, she’s alive. You can’t not watch her. Her smile lights up her face, her eyes glowing. Her curls go left, right, up, and down. Her tits do too, bouncing and shaking with each move she makes.

  Don’t get me wrong—watching her is better than TV, but I never know what she’s gonna do next. She’s like the ball in one of those crazy pinball games they stick in pizza parlors to suck all of your quarters out of your pocket. She bounces here, she bounces there, and mentally I’m always one step behind her.

  This feels like the first time I HALO-jumped. I’m fucking falling, falling hard, and the air’s too thin to breathe so it’s a fight to not pass out and hit the ground. You have to trust your training and your gear.

  When she drops back into her seat, I’m the one who’s breathless.

  She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Vann?”

  “Yeah?”

  She leans in and whispers the next words against my ear. “My period finished this morning. You’re good to go, sailor.”

  We barely make it inside. Right now, any place works for me. The beach, up against a palm tree (which is probably too rough to actually be fun), in the bed of my truck? Yes, yes, and now fucking please. The bed works for me too. I shove the door to my place open, walk her through, and slam that fucker closed. Flip the lock, too.

  Her gaze skates over the mostly empty living room, a smile curving her pretty mouth. I know what she’s going to say. I’m minimalist. Not big on furniture. Too lazy or too something to go pick out furniture like an adult. A couple of paddles and a pair of fins lean against the wall; my running shoes are lined up by the door.

  “You—” She gets one word out before I scoop her up and get her back to the wall, arms stretched over her head.

  “Am fucking crazy for you,” I growl.

  “The feeling’s mutual,” she whispers, her fingers curling around mine. She hooks a leg around mine, rocking up against me. Trying to touch me.

  I can help her with that.

  She moans as I run my mouth over her cheek, licking and tasting and sucking. She’s like the best kind of candy, a sensual rush that makes me want more.

  “Can we move on to the fucking part of fucking crazy?” she asks, and those dirty words coming out of that sweet mouth undo me, especially since the last part ends in a whimper.

  “Anything you want,” I tell her, and those three words are a promise. Whatever she likes, I’ll give it to her.

  Brown eyes look into mine. Her gaze is slightly unfocused, her breath coming faster. “Then do me now, Vann.” She tugs at her hands. “Or maybe you need some encouragement. Maybe you’re the one who should come first.”

  Holy. Shit. Yeah. No. Ladies first.

  But she tugs hard, popping her wrists out of my hold. Not like I want to hang on and hurt her, so I let go. She drops to her knees in front of me, her sundress billowing out around her, and her fingers find the front of my jeans. I shouldn’t let her do this, but my willpower vanishes with each button. One. Two… By four, I’m already panting. By five, I’m totally exposed.

  She cups me with her hands, drawing me out with a greedy sigh that just makes my dick harder.

  “Think I can make you beg?” She rubs her fingertips over my head and down, playing me like I’m some kind of goddamned flute. I feel each light strike of her fingertips, each soft caress. Fuck. Me. Her eyes meet mine as she lifts her hand to her mouth and licks her palm. Wraps her slick skin around me and squeezes. Tightens. Yanks every fucking sensation straight from my balls to my head.

  “Marlee…” I bark her name, desperate for control. Possibly, I am begging. Not that I’m admitting to it, but she’s so close, her breath teasing me, her fingers working some kind of wicked, sexy, Marlee magic.

  And then her mouth is on my dick, thinking’s impossible, and her lips close around me. I fuck her pretty, pretty mouth, driving my dick in deep. Pulling back and ramming in again. She feels so goddamned perfect—wet heat and sweet, seductive suction. She lets me take her mouth, following my lead and my pace, sucking me harder, stroking her tongue over me as I move harder, deeper, trying to put this piece of myself in as far as I can.

  Those are my fingers twisting in her hair, holding her in place so I can drill all the way to her throat and possibly further too. As if there’d be room for my dick in her heart. I’m the boy toy, the baby-maker, the friend with benefits. Her heart’s off-limits.

  Her hands grip my ass, shoving my jeans further south, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere. She’s got me by the balls and I’m loving it. I fuck her mouth, feeling every inch of her giving, tasting, taking. She whimpers when I pull back, almost popping free of her sexy lips, and then groans when I drive back
in.

  I’m fucking coming.

  I try to channel unsexy thoughts to hold back my orgasm, but it’s like trying to stop the water from pouring through Hoover Dam with duct tape and a couple of wine corks. It’s so not happening. All I can do is tear myself away before I come down her throat, in her mouth, on her.

  Christ, I’d like to do that.

  Instead, I rip her panties off. Hope they’re not her favorites, because now they’re my new favorite souvenir.

  “My turn,” I growl and lift her. Her back slaps against the wall, her head falling back. I part her with my thumbs, dragging through her soft, swollen flesh until she moans.

  “Yes?” She needs to tell me this is okay.

  “Give it to me,” she whispers, yanking my head toward her.

  I know I should tell her how much I enjoy her company. Let her know that what’s between us isn’t just sex. But… I’m not good with words. I’m way, way better with my hands—so I’m letting my fingers (and my tongue and all the more talented parts of me like my dick) do the talking for me.

  I bring her down on my dick, and I give her exactly what she’s asked for.

  “How fast does it go?”

  “No faster than you want it to.”

  “I’ll fall off.”

  “Not if you hold on tight. Just spread your legs and ride it like a cowgirl. You can pretend it’s me.”

  Marlee blushes, which is so goddamned cute. She’s also hesitating. I reach down and scoop her up, depositing her on my lap. Hello, happy place.

  Three days after our Tiki Hut not-a-date-but-we-fucked-like-crazy night, I finally convince Marlee that it’s time to confront her fear of speed and driving head-on. Or in my lap. I’m not above working the situation to my advantage, which is why we’re currently bobbing up and down in the water on a jetski. It’s not the most PC activity out there, but I love ripping across the ocean—and it’s also a great excuse to hold a nearly-naked Marlee. She’s rocking a particularly awesome bikini today. The top is pink and there are ruffles on her tits.