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

by Anne Marsh

  “You gotta answer a question for me.” I stroke my knuckles over the soft curve popping out of the little fabric triangle. Not like I can see all that much because of the bright orange life jacket, but I’ll take every inch of Marlee I can reach. I bet her tits will be spectacular when she’s pregnant.

  She swats my hand. “We’re in public.”

  I make a show of looking around me. We’re at the dock in front of Search and SEALs. Since Ro and Vann are out and about doing their own things, we’ve got the place to ourselves. Our only company is a bunch of palm trees, a couple of seabirds overhead, and probably a million goddamned fish in the water around us—but people are in short supply. It’s my kind of place.

  “You told me we couldn’t have sex today,” I point out. “So this is just a practical use of our time.”

  Since Marlee doesn’t have so much as a learner’s permit and I’m particularly fond of my truck, we’re starting small. It’s not the same as driving a car, and the ocean’s nothing like a nice, smooth straightaway, but it’s a starting point. Kinda like doing practice jumps at base camp before you go flying out of the ass of a transport aircraft for a twenty thousand-foot free fall.

  She’s still stuck on my no-sex comment, however. “We’re supposed to take every other day off.”

  “Uh-huh.” I roll my eyes. This baby-making business is like trying to assemble a BBQ without the instruction manual—it’s got a thousand fucking pieces and half of them look the same but clearly aren’t interchangeable. Lay it all out nice and slow and I’ll eventually find the pattern. Everything’s gonna fit by the time I’m done. “Which is why we had to find something else to do today—like teach you how to drive.”

  “I have two legs,” she argues. “And a bike. And the number of a taxi service in town. There’s a bus, too.”

  “And those are all good options,” I say agreeably. “Until Mini-Us runs out of diapers at two in the morning or you’re carting a load of baby shit around. You ever see someone trying to wrestle a stroller onto a bus?”

  “They have those buses for the disabled that kneel down or have lifts.”

  I shrug. “And sometimes crap breaks and then where will you be? You gotta be able to get around on your own, so consider this Vann’s Workshop in Fear Reduction.”

  She giggles. “That sounds like a spa treatment.”

  As if I would know.

  “Hold on.”

  She wraps her hands around the grips and frowns. “This thing doesn’t have seatbelts.”

  Right. Because it’s not a car, a truck, or even much of a motor vehicle. It’s got an engine the size of one of those pocket rocket vibrators women carry around in their purses. I’ve never quite understood the need to pack a travel vibrator—do they think “Oh, I’ve got five minutes to kill at the bus stop—let me whip this out and have an orgasm while I wait?” Traffic would be backed up for miles with that kind of show.

  “If you fall off, you land in the water. So you get wet. So what?”

  She leans back against me, or as close as she can get given the life jacket. “I’ve got one word for you: rollover.”

  “Which is why we’re not gonna set new speed records.” I unclip the jetski from the dock and push us clear. Marlee grabs the handlebars more tightly, although we’re being outsped by the coconut bobbing in the water nearby. She so does not have a need for speed. She chews on her lower lip, looking worried. Bet she’s marshaling another million arguments against today’s driving lesson, so I step up my game.

  “You’ve got to stick it in,” I whisper in her ear. Not that I mind spending the rest of the afternoon wrapped around her like this. It’s just that eventually I’m gonna get ideas, ideas that involve her bikini bottom and my fingers.

  It’s like she reads my mind anyhow. “You have a filthy mind.”

  “I’m pleading the fifth on that one.” I hand her the key and attach it to her life jacket with a springy plastic coil. If she falls off, the key pops out and the jetski stops. “Now stick it in, baby.”

  She rolls her eyes but pushes the key into the ignition and turns it. The motor roars to life and she flinches. I brush another kiss over her ear just in the interest of distracting her and move on to step two.

  “Get a good grip with both hands.”

  She immediately acquires a death hold on the handlebars. “Are you really sure this is a good idea?”

  “Trust me?” My mouth’s close enough to her ear that I feel her shiver.

  “I’m still not convinced,” she mutters, but her hold eases up just a little.

  “Now squeeze. Gently.”

  We’d gone over the mechanics of operating a jetski earlier, on one of the machines parked on the sand. Jetskis operate on a squeeze for speed principle. It’s the same principle as a dick and a vagina. The harder you squeeze down, the faster it goes. Too much, too fast, and your machine bucks. Maybe throws you off, too, because the ride is over.

  Marlee squeezes like a pro. I had the foresight to start us off pointed in the right direction, so for the first minute or two we simply head out into the ocean. Between the spray kicking up from the ocean and the sunshine (not to mention the company), it’s the best kind of day.

  Marlee shifts, the movement rubbing her bikini-clad ass against my dick. Since I’m wearing a pair of swim trunks, that means there’s not a whole lot of fabric between us. I lean into her back, kinda smelling the soft strands of hair that fly around my face and escape from the ponytail shoved through the back of one of my ball caps. As usual, she smells like a fruit bowl. Strawberries, kiwi, and something flowery. I don’t need names—I just breathe her in. She feels so good in my arms that I squeeze her just a little tighter.

  “You ready to go faster?” I rub my thumbs over her bare stomach.

  She squeaks and squeezes too hard. Then she lets up and the jetski bucks. That’s okay. I cover her hands with mine, increasing the pressure. Jetskis are counterintuitive. You gotta give them more power, more juice when you need control. Otherwise the pump’s dying of thirst, not getting the water it needs because the whole thing works by sucking in water and blasting it out the back. Which pushes you forward.

  “I’ve got you,” I tell her. “You hear me?”

  I’d never let anything hurt her.

  “Okay.” Her fingers relax beneath mine, letting me drive.

  There’s a little lighthouse about two miles away. It sits on a small slice of sand that’s mostly palm trees and pelicans. You can’t get there from the highway—the road’s chained off and nothing but catastrophic, Martian-crater-sized potholes. From the ocean, though, it’s a whole different story. The water’s smooth and blue, nothing but sand beneath us. The birds flap and squawk as I bring us in hot, but Marlee’s whooping and hollering and I’m laughing, too.

  I had a calendar with a view like this when I was overseas in Iraq. Up to my ears in hot, dry sand, that strip of American beach and ocean was a fucking miracle. I’d stare at it and imagine diving into the water, losing myself in all that blue. Didn’t imagine then that I’d be doing it on a jetski with a beautiful woman in my arms, but that just goes to show you that reality can trump fantasy.

  When we’re feet from the shore, I reach over and kill the engine, letting the jetski bob quietly up and down. I’m full of shit more times than not, but this is my spot. Feels right, sharing it with Marlee.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she says, resting her arms on the handlebars. I run a questing finger up her spine and she giggles.

  “I like it,” I admit.

  We sit and bob some more, then go for a swim. She splashes, trying to dunk me, but that’s a losing battle. I’m a SEAL and I outweigh her almost two to one. Eventually, though, we’re gonna have to head back. Once Marlee’s back on the jetski, I swing onto the seat behind her.

  “You ready to learn how to turn?”

  She sighs, sounding less than enthusiastic. “I guess I can’t go in a straight line forever.”

  “You’d run out of
gas before you got back home,” I tell her, enjoying her smile.

  I explain the principles again, and then I show her. The secret is not to go hard and fast when you’re new to the game. Marlee needs to make a big, smooth arc—nothing tight. Soon we’re riding in big, swooping, lazy circles. The sea gulls fly by overhead offering their color commentary and fish flash beneath and around us.

  Most of the time we’re quiet, just enjoying the ride back. Marlee doesn’t seem to mind if I’m not non-stop talking. She breaks up the silence occasionally with stories about the paper store she owns, the buyers who come in, and where she goes treasure hunting for new stuff to sell.

  In exchange, I tell her a little bit about what called me to the ocean. I didn’t choose the Navy by accident—I’ve always loved the sea. Maybe it’s the lack of boundaries. I can go anywhere I want, including straight to Cuba (although Mr. Fidel would likely give me a meet-and-greet I wouldn’t forget).

  She’s silent for a moment after I explain all that, and then she nods. “This is what you fought for, isn’t it?”

  “I signed up for a dozen different reasons.” And honestly? I didn’t do a whole lot of soul-searching or thinking. Serving in the US Navy just felt right, and then when I got through my training, it became clear that the job mattered, too. Someone had to do those things, had to keep people like Marlee safe, and why wouldn’t that someone be me?

  She searches for a moment, and I think she’s trying to come up with something else to say—except then she blurts out something I didn’t see coming. “What happens if I can’t get pregnant after all?”

  “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I point out. “You might have to put up with me for months. Maybe years.”

  She tilts her head back, staring up at the sky. Still feels like she’s looking inside me, though. “Vann… you’re a good guy. I’m enjoying our time together.”

  I tighten my hands around her waist. “That makes two of us.”

  “But seriously, what happens if we can’t get me pregnant? Or if it takes a long time? Some people take one, two years. Or it just never happens. Right now you’re okay with helping me out, but someday you’re going to want a real relationship and I can’t stand in the way of that.”

  “I’m happy if you’re happy,” I say carefully. “And I’m not really a relationship kind of person.”

  She opens her mouth, like she might protest that, and she’s not wrong.

  This is plenty real.

  I know how she likes it. The it in that sentence being sex. She’s amazing in bed and out of it, but when I get her naked, it’s like all her inhibitions get stripped away along with her clothes. She likes it long and slow, and usually it takes her half of forever to come, but when she does, it’s phenomenal. It’s like the rocket blasting off from the space shuttle launch pad—hard, fast, and furious. You know it’s coming because she starts narrating, telling me she’s closer, closer, and now we have lift off and ohmygod I’m coming and then it’s all VannVannVann as she chants my name. Yeah, I fucking feel like a deity, and it’s the best sensation in the world.

  I’ve made her happy.

  I’ve done that.

  And my plan right now? To do it all over again tonight.

  “Let’s go home,” she says, and I nod.

  Yes, please.

  The knock on Marlee’s front door is polite, unrelenting, and annoying as fuck. It starts out with a steady beat and escalates to a rat-a-tat rhythm, as if the knocker is banging out some kind of secret code. After two tours of duty with Uncle Sam, I wake up fast and ready for action. Marlee has already announced I’m on night duty with the Vee. You know, if I want to be.

  Fuck, yeah.

  Gonna be my and my baby girl. Good times.

  I sit up and look at the blanket mountain to my right. Not only does Marlee sleep like the dead, she steals the covers. I’m half-surprised she hasn’t elbowed me off the mattress, too. Just the top half of her head is sticking out, despite the way-too-balmy Florida weather. Little pieces of hair go every which way, and she snuffles into her pillow. I’m definitely on door duty.

  I pat the approximate area of her ass. “I got this,” I promise. It’s seven in the morning, which is practically late, but I kept Marlee up most of the night, baby-making. Then when we were done with that, I convinced her to go for lovemaking, followed by a round of dirty sex. Just so she could compare. We didn’t fall asleep until a few hours ago.

  The knock repeats. Mother. Fucker. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grab my jeans from the floor, and yank them on. I may have the social skills of a Neanderthal, but even I know answering the door naked causes problems.

  A few moments later, I’m opening the door. Gotta remember to drill Marlee a peephole, in case people come knocking when I’m not here. Not that the guy standing on the porch is particularly terrifying or even remotely built. He looks like a professor or an accountant—lean and not particularly tall. He’s wearing goddamned chinos and a short-sleeved button-up shirt—and he’s clutching an enormous bouquet of red roses in his hands.

  Bet he didn’t bring those pretty things for me.

  I prop my hip against the door, cross my arms over my chest, and stare at him. He’s not a big guy, so I can definitely take him.

  Message received. He clears his throat nervously. “I was looking for Marlee.”

  His eyes skate over me, trying to look into the room behind me, as if now he’s not entirely certain he’s got the right place. That’s right, buddy. Turn around and head for the curb. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars—or whatever piece of ass you think you came here for.

  “Uh-huh.” I have zero incentive to help him out. Those flowers sure as fuck aren’t a platonic gesture—fucker might as well have come knocking with his dick out.

  “I’m Rhodes.” Swear to God, his chest puffs out when he announces this. “I’m Marlee’s husband.”

  I nod slowly. “Not quite the story I heard, because I heard you were past tense. Over. Dead and buried.”

  And I could help with that oversight. Killing him holds unexpected appeal. Sand’s not a good place to go digging, but Ro and Finn would help me dump the body out at sea. I could definitely get away with it.

  “This is my house,” he says, proving he doesn’t mind skirting the truth. This is the “small” place he passed on in their divorce settlement. It’s where he banished Marlee when he kicked her out of their cozy mainland life.

  His eyes narrow, as if he’s just realized it’s way too early for me to be here. “Who the hell are you?”

  He’s the one who doesn’t belong here.

  I wink at him. “I’m the boy toy, Rodster.”

  Roddy’s reaction is fucking gratifying. His mouth falls open and he examines me from head to toe. There’s plenty wrong with me, but none of that shit’s on the outside. I know exactly what he sees—and why he shuffles back a step or two. I’m bigger, my reach is longer, and I’ve got at least forty pounds on him. My dick’s bigger too, but I’m not in the mood to play show and tell with him.

  The footsteps behind me are my first heads up that Marlee’s awake. Should have slammed the door on lover boy and his flowers sooner, because now I’ve missed my chance. Kicking ass was so much easier when I was a SEAL and the enemy was on Uncle Sam’s official shit list. Plus, I got my choice of weapons and we had some pretty cool toys. Pointing a rocket launcher at Roddy appeals. He hurt Marlee—so I should get to hurt him.

  Marlee leans into my side. “If you boys get in a pissing contest on my front porch, the neighbors are going to complain.”

  “I’ve met your neighbors. They’d love a chance to see my dick.”

  True story.

  Marlee huffs. “Be serious.”

  I take a second to consider if she sounds seriously pissed or not. Since I’m pretty certain she’s not unduly upset, I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into my arms. Kiss her too, partly because the Rodster is still standing there with his mou
th open, but mostly because I’d never pass up a chance to kiss her. When I lift my head, she’s glowing.

  Take that, Roddy McFuckup.

  When I left her in bed, she was naked. Apparently, she subscribes to the same theory of front-door-opening that I do, because she’s now wearing a pink tank top and a pair of white cotton shorts. These are the kind of clothes best peeled off—slowly—and deposited on the bedroom floor. I make a mental note to take care of that as soon as I’ve kicked Lover Boy’s ass to the curb.

  “Boy toy?” Roddy croaks. I can practically hear him looking up the words in his mental dictionary and then realizing that Marlee’s been getting some. From me. Yeah, that’s right.

  Seriously? This is the man Marlee thought was keeper material? She could do so much better.

  Marlee thumps me on the back. She’s sensitive about the eight-year difference between us.

  “Vann’s teasing,” she announces.

  I nudge her way more gently than she whacked me. “He’s seen your birth certificate. I can show him mine. You’re robbing the cradle.”

  Roddy frowns. “Can I come in?”

  I’m the one who answers first. “Why?”

  Because I can’t think of a single reason he needs to be standing here.

  Marlee pinches my ass, and I don’t think it’s a love bite. “What’s up?”

  “You gonna formally introduce us?” I slide my arm around her waist. Roddy’s gaze tracks the move, and I waggle my fingers at him. Possibly with my middle finger extended.

  Marlee scowls as if the request is downright unreasonable. “Fine. Vann, meet Rhodes Carlson. Roddy, meet Vann O’Reilly.”

  I can’t help but notice that she doesn’t give either one of us a label. He’s the ex, the screw up, the past. I’m the friend, the sperm donor, and her present. Who gets to be her future is clearly still an open item. Except… I’m just the baby daddy. The guy who has the equipment to knock her up. There’s no long-term us.