Daring Her SEAL (6 page)

“Keep your penis to yourself,” she snapped, reluctantly rolling away from him. Or trying to. His arm tightened, keeping her pinned in place.

He grinned down at her. “And here I thought you were checking to make sure I wasn't cheating.”

“Not a chance in hell,” she bit out. Her brain didn't get that memo, however. Oh, no. Her stupid, sex-deprived, overactive imagination immediately played her a full-color porn flick in which she slapped a hand on said penis. Squeezed. Ran her palm up and down the hard length until he was slick and they were both moaning. The fantasy was a little high school but God, it worked for her.

“You gonna spank me if I'm bad?” The rough rumble in her ear just made her melt further. Holy gods, but the man was trouble. From the smile in his voice, he knew it, too. There was a lesson in that.

“In your dreams.”

“I do have great dreams,” he allowed. She didn't need to see his face to imagine the grin stretching it. He was impossible.
Shameless
and
irritating
were two other equally apt adjectives that came to mind, but getting into an argument with Levi while they were sharing a bed was a recipe for disaster. Their arguments had always been heated, and her brain happily, gleefully reminded her of the one time they'd shared a little more than close proximity on a stakeout. He'd kissed her in the alley in back of the bar and she...needed to stop thinking. Attraction had always lurked beneath the surface of their encounters, and she suspected he knew it as well as she did.

“Why are you here?”

“You forgot already?” He nipped her ear again and that did
not
make her want to squirm. “Somebody demanded a divorce. I was just giving her what she wanted, because I'm such a giver.”

“In. My. Bed.” Levi had always loved to get her going. Not in the bedroom, but verbally. She'd say something, he'd counter, and before she knew it words were flying like tennis balls at Wimbledon, and the rest of the SEAL team had been captive spectators. She couldn't make so much as a simple statement about the weather without Levi turning it into a sexual innuendo.

He sighed dramatically. “Because you've got a mattress and I'm banking on Belize being a community property state, which means you have to share?”

Case in point.

“Belize isn't a state,” she pointed out.

“Details. You're too damned picky.” He bit her ear for a third time—although she had no idea why—and then rolled away from her. Right. But...was she really too picky? Someone had to call him on his crap, didn't they? And since he regularly said the most ridiculous things, it was practically a full-time job.

He bounded out of bed with cheerful good humor, the mattress shaking as he left. She'd forgotten how much she hated his early-morning perkiness.

“It's too early,” she groaned, reaching for the pillow. If nothing else, she could drown him out. Or smother herself.

“Are you getting up? Or is that an invitation to join you?” Levi moved like a ninja. Somehow he'd made it around the edge of the bed and now stood over her, hands on his hips. At least he'd had the decency to wear something to bed—either that, or he'd collected his boxers on his round trip to her side of the mattress. The navy blue boxers hung low, exposing way too much SEAL for her peace of mind and highlighting ripped abs and an intriguing pair of hip bones. Holy God, the man had muscles. All sorts of delicious lines and ridges—and that was
before
she gave in to temptation and eyed his junk. Her Navy SEAL Ken had impressive...accessories.

He waggled his hips. Jesus. Had he gotten larger? Was that even anatomically possible? Because she was fairly certain he was already in the top percentile when it came to penis size.

“I'm happy to perform my husbandly duties. Just say the word.”

She bet.

“Give it up,” she advised, rolling over and burying her face in the pillow. No. No superspectacular, too-big-to-be-believed penis for her—especially when the penis in question was attached to one pain-in-her-butt SEAL. She must have been tired last night, though, because that was the only way a man that fine looking could have crawled into bed with her without
some
piece of her noticing.

A short, sharp smack on her butt had her lifting her head. She'd like to think he wouldn't dare, but this was Levi. There was
nothing
the man wouldn't do. If she was smart, she'd double-check the cocktail menu and make sure it contained no
Fifty Shades of Grey
-inspired drinks.

He rocked back on his heels and raised a brow. “Did you like that?”

“I'm not having this conversation now.” Or ever.

Her refusal didn't stop her traitorous brain from immediately supplying an image of Levi spanking her. Her bare butt. His big hand rising and falling in a series of erotic slaps. Nope. No way. Kink was not her thing. She liked to be in control. So it was a big-time problem that, around Levi, she was
out
of control.

“Later?” He actually sounded hopeful.

His optimism should be illegal. She gave him a look. He could infer
when hell freezes over
for himself.

“If you're saving yourself for marriage, it's your lucky day,” he said brightly.

“You'd make a terrible husband,” she mumbled into her pillow.

There was a moment of blissful, wonderful, Levi-free silence. Since she didn't think she'd actually managed to hurt his feelings—the only sensations Levi seemed to entertain centered around his cock and his guns—she lifted her head. He stared back at her. Mr. Inscrutable had replaced Mr. Playful.

“The worst,” he agreed, a shadow crossing his face. “I'd be awful.”

For once, he didn't sound like he was joking.

“I'm not sure I'd be good at marriage, either,” she admitted quietly. “My parents got divorced, and I'm really fond of my career. Maybe too fond. I mean, I'm not a commitmentphobe like you, but I'm in no rush to settle down either.”

Levi made a rough noise, a sound she hadn't heard from him before. “I'm not afraid of commitment.”

Apparently she could drive him crazy just by talking to him. Good to know. If the marriage turned out to be real and they couldn't score an easy divorce, maybe she could have him declared insane.

“Give me a for example of this much-vaunted commitment of yours.”

He glared at her. “I'm a US Navy SEAL, babe. That takes commitment right there.”

“Not to a relationship,” she scoffed.

“The guys on my team are family,” he said, and she believed him. He might not be into dating women long term, or marriage, but he'd made promises to the SEALs and he intended to deliver. If she hadn't been trapped in a fake marriage with him—a fake marriage she needed to undo ASAP before she jeopardized her own commitment to her career—she would have taken a moment to appreciate what he'd said. Her big, bad, playful SEAL had a soft spot. For his
team
.

“Maybe I've used up all my commitment being a SEAL,” Levi continued. Apparently he was determined to hammer his point home. “So maybe that means I've got nothing left to give when I'm off the field. Most of the guys who try BUD/S drop off. That's not a slam on them, because it's a hard thing. You don't get in just by asking. You have to earn your spot in the training class, and then you have to earn it every single day thereafter. There's no easy pass, no shortcut.”

“So you're married to the SEALs,” she said. It made sense. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but he'd committed body and soul and he wasn't the kind of guy who shirked on a responsibility.

“We started out with a hundred and twenty guys in our class and six months later there were less than thirty of us. You have to be the right guy and it has to be the right job. I won't make a promise I can't keep, and I can't promise to be the guy who comes home after work, who hugs his wife and his kids, and who they can count on to be there. Because I'm busy being a SEAL.”

Who had replaced devil-may-care Levi with this passionate, earnest soldier? Sometimes a strategic retreat was a girl's best bet.

“I call dibs on the bathroom,” she announced and ran for the shower.

The faster they got their divorce, the better.

* * *

S
HARING
A
BED
with Ashley shouldn't have been any big deal, even after their awkward conversation the night before. Levi had bunked down in plenty of strange places, and with more than one team member. Limited space, enemy fire, temperatures cold enough to require the sharing of body heat—he'd done it all. It was all part of that married-to-the-SEAL-team thing.

So he'd had morning wood. He wasn't going to apologize for recognizing that she was one beautiful woman and a big improvement on his usual hairy, sweating, cursing teammates. Even when she was half asleep, hair standing on end as she threatened to cut his balls off. Her aversion to morning was kind of cute, and she'd calmed down when he'd fetched her some coffee after she'd finished her shower.

The wedding coordinator had agreed to meet with them at eight o'clock. While he appreciated the early time, he had to wonder if she'd misunderstood the purpose of their meeting, because she'd arranged to meet them in the resort's wedding chapel. The place was over water and was all light, airy shit with views of the surf and the lagoon below. At least the glass panels set in the floor guaranteed that if the ceremony got boring, guests had options.

He didn't recall meeting the coordinator during his previous visit. He was sure he'd have remembered someone so...
pink
was the only word he could think of to describe Ms. Megan Hartly. From the pink dress hugging her skinny body to the pink ribbons on her shoes and the pink nail polish decorated with some kind of sparkly pink flower things—the woman was a pinkapalooza. Hell, she probably pooped pink, and he couldn't begin to imagine the kind of weddings she organized.

She plunged straight into talking, not giving them so much as a second to explain their purpose in meeting with her. The weather, the shore, something the resort had recently done to the wedding chapel. An endless stream of blah-fucking-blah poured out of her mouth. Levi zoned out and let the words wash over him. She'd stop when she was done.

And sure enough, eventually the wedding coordinator skidded to a verbal halt and eyed the two of them. “How can I help you today?”

Ashley inflated beside him like a puffer fish. He was tempted to check her for spines, but he wasn't that stupid. She might have been staring at his dick earlier, but she hadn't been happy about her view—or his completely involuntary, purely biological reaction to her proximity and their shared bed. Which was all it was. So what if Ashley's morning grumpy was kind of adorable, and the way she'd glared up at him sleepily made him want to crawl right back in bed and find out if she enjoyed morning sex? It was Fantasy Island and he'd had a fantasy. Big deal.

Shoot. The wedding coordinator was staring at him, clearly waiting for an answer to her question. Normally this would be when Ashley took over, barking orders and “suggestions” that were actually more orders, just couched in slightly politer language. He slid her a sidelong glance and discovered her staring at Pink. She looked shell-shocked.

“Do you need more pictures? Do you want to re-create your special day? Vow renewals?” Pink looked expectantly between the two of them.

Ashley choked out a laugh and cut the woman off. “God. None of the above.”

Prayer probably would help right now, but he figured the wedding coordinator definitely required them to spell it out in plain ole English, because the woman clearly hadn't gotten the memo about why he and Ashley were here. Explaining would be awkward as hell. Since Ashley looked like she was choking on her tongue, however, he guessed it was up to him.

“Ashley and I were here about three months ago. We helped a photographer friend out by posing for some wedding pictures and going through a fake ceremony.”

The wedding coordinator blinked. “I can assure you, there's nothing fake about our weddings.”

Yeah. Hearing that three months ago would have been awesome.

“That's precisely the problem,” Ashley snapped. “We did not intend to end up married. Let alone to each other.”

The wedding coordinator looked kind of like a rabbit facing down a snake. The poor woman knew she'd never win going up against Ashley when Ashley had that intent look on her face. Plus his “doting” bride also managed to make marriage to him sound as though she'd stepped in dog shit, so her unhappiness was abundantly clear.

“You got married...by accident?” The words clearly did not compute in Pinky's universe.

“Exactly,” Ashley huffed. “We thought we were just posing for some pictures for a mutual acquaintance—not actually getting married. We didn't mean a word of what we said, and we were expecting an actor instead of a legitimate minister.”

The ensuing silence stretched out a little too long. Yeah. Said out loud, the whole thing sounded shady to him, too. Levi took pity on the coordinator.

“How do we verify that we are, in fact, married?”

“And if we are, how do we end it?” Ashley added.

Her eagerness to get rid of him was damned unflattering, although it wasn't as if he wanted to be married, either. Most married SEALs he knew were on rocky ground at home. Years of war damaged a man. The guy would drink too hard. Struggle with post-traumatic stress disorder. Or bounce between anger and emotional numbness.

Sleeping six hours or more a night didn't happen anymore for most of them, himself included, and it didn't help that talking to a spouse about what he'd seen or done on a mission was off-limits. Add in spending eight to nine months a year away from friends and family, and the military life took its toll. His avoidance of the married state was actually a kindness.