Stepbrother UnSEALed (7 page)

Having him as my pet project will do more for me than finding out how hard he can slam me into the mattress. He's going to help me grow up, jump start my life, and not by getting my panties off.

I'm a vibrant young woman, and I can do this. I won't buckle to Chris Cleveland. I'll show my warrior stepbrother who's in control once and for all.

E
very time I turn around, there's a fucking landmine.

I head for base early that morning, grabbing all my crap and hoisting it into my truck. I fight not flip off the prissy shithead in the mansion's guard shack when he opens the gate, giving me another one of those looks that tells me I don't belong here.

Base is supposed to be my safe haven. It's cramped, spartan, but I've lived with it for almost five years. Enlisting makes you appreciate any warm bed without the threat of some evil bastard sneaking up in the dark and blowing out your brains with a quick, silent shot.

And compared to all the bullshit drama at home? Staying on base sounds pretty damned good.

Mom's shown her true colors for about the thousandth time. Marriage hasn't changed her a single shade, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna crash in that god forsaken house while her and sugar daddy beat me up about my career.

Delia's feelings are crystal clear, too. She threw her hands at me last night like I was carrying the plague when I shoved my lips on hers, grabbed her incredible ass. I was ready to bed her over the bed and pick up right where we started on the beach.

Today, with less whiskey in my veins, I couldn't totally blame her for being such a bitch.

I'd almost fucked up royal. Bitch or beauty, she's my stepsister, and she's got a point about all the inevitable hangups that'll come from getting nasty.

I don't do drama. It's been my policy since my balls dropped and I learned to make women moan.

Love? Give me a damned break. I only do casual, worry free fucking, and there are a million chicks out here in the Bay Area who'll be happy to ride my cock, without worrying about entangling myself deeper into this twisted family.

I'm planning to hit the bar tonight after I workout and get my bunk set up. Then I get down to the wing, and I see the notice. It's big, bold military script with a three day date range, starting today.

FUMIGATION, 18:00 HOURS. ALL ACTIVE DUTY MEN, SEE YOUR COMMANDING OFFICERS ABOUT OTHER ACCOMODATIONS.

I slam my bag down on the ground and look around, grateful there's nobody else to see me blowing up. I can't believe my horseshit luck.

Something needs to go right after Kirkuk. The universe fucking owes me.

A man's supposed to get a break after watching three of his own men cut to pieces. I close my eyes for a second and it all comes rushing back, the screams and explosions. We'd just finished off Abu Alhazred and his guards, flattened him like the terrorist piece of shit he was. The last thing we expected was to see were the Iranians surrounding us, trying to get their hands on all the shit we'd flown in with.

Commander Jones called their bluff. Who the hell knew to this day if it was the right choice, but it saved our asses, and protected American goods from falling into rival hands.

They made a move before we blew up the gliders. We protected our assets with deadly force.

We shot our way out of there. The Iranians balked in the end and opened up an escape route, but only after they'd slaughtered three of our finest while the SEALs were busy planting demo charges on our gear.

I had to see the commander about other accommodations off base. Knowing Uncle Sam's budget, we'd probably get a crappy two star hotel, tucked away from anything exciting around the city.

Whatever, anything's better than heading back to that joke of a home. Until I decide to settle down one day, I don't have one, and it doesn't phase me.

I'll hump it and bring a tent out to the park if I need to. Nothing beats avoiding the freak show, especially watching that little minx with the long black hair tease me with all her charms that are suddenly off limits.

An hour later, I'm running along the docks, looking out at the submarines peaking up above the water. One of them I'd jumped out of a week ago for drill, my boys behind me in an inflatable raft, swimming toward a small island strewn with barbed wire for the live fire drill.

The new recruits were on their way to earning their full colors. They'd never replace the guys we'd just lost in Iraq, but fresh blood meant everything in a SEAL Team like ours, always a heartbeat away from a new assault to stamp out some foreign brushfire.

The commander kept it short and sweet. Jones set me up with a room at a mediocre motel, surprised I wasn't going to crash at my family's place.

He also reminded me we're always on call – as if I needed to hear it. Anybody with eyes in their skull knew about the Korean situation simmering in the background, ready to go hot the instant their potbellied Dear Leader decides to test his new missiles, which are going to shoot over Hawaii and stretch to California if the President doesn't do something.

The Norks can't afford another full blown war. They'll never win. But if things go hot, and they're stupid enough to lob rockets at US territory, they'll have to fight when the South and her allies punch back. It's our job to slap their pride before it gets really wounded, and prevent a total meltdown, destroying the sixty year truce that's held along the DMZ.

I can't wait to get the hell outta here. My boots pound cement, faster and harder than I normally run, trying to scorch away all the blue ball frustration Delia's left me with. If I have my way – and I
will
– it'll be the last time she riles me up.

After the workout, it's late evening. I stop for a burger and then hit the bar next door, only a few blocks from the motel. It's nothing fancy, but it's the perfect place to haul some bar girl for the night.

Nothing's getting to me tonight. It's not the first time I've used sex to purify my skull, and it's a helluva lot more fun than whiskey and hangovers.

I'll fuck away the disaster tonight, and forget about everything. Kirkuk, Evie and her billionaire boy toy, my tease of a stepsister with the perfect little ass. With the way shit's going, I'll be sent overseas before I know it, too busy to worry about any of this.

I work hard enough busting butt for Uncle Sam, and now it's time to play the way I like – hard.

The loud, half-smashed blonde chick sits on my lap in a corner booth, already moving her hand down my abs, dangerously close to my dick. I'm hard, but I'm not sure why the fuck I don't have my hand up her skirt yet.

She's a beach girl, all right. Laura, or something. She likes her martinis double strength and her men rock hard.

She's hot. Skimpy, glaringly bright summer dress, bleached highlights in her hair, fake tits, and a laugh that sounds like a strangled hyena.

She's the kinda girl I'm used to hauling into bed for the night.

Too bad I can't stop thinking about Delia, goddammit it. She's a wicked little tease, and having this slut wrapped around my neck reminds me how rare it is to find a party girl in this town who's not just trolling for tonight's dick.

“Baby, what'sa matter?” she purrs, stopping to push a desperate kiss into my throat. “You act like you just dragged yourself off a long flight. I thought you said you've been here for a few days? Talk to me!”

I force a thin, fake smile, and run my fingers up over her ass. They move swiftly, giving her goosebumps as I run my hand all the way up her neck, grabbing a fistful of her hair and giving it a tug.

“You're not my shrink. I don't need to talk. Do you want another drink, or is your pussy wet and ready for me?” Finally, I reach up that skirt.

Her skin feels warm and dry, probably from too much sun. Fuck.

My dick jerks – only because I'm remembering Delia's soft thighs, the feel of her cream trickling down her legs after I thumbed her clit into overdrive.

She moans, refusing to answer me. I shove her lace panties aside and push my fingers into her pussy. Growling, I try to imagine it's just as hot as
sis,
but something tells me Delia's a helluva lot tighter. And I'll never get a chance to find out either.

Fuck! Why the hell does she have to be my stepsister? What god did I piss off to make the hottest chick I ever tasted like cyanide?

Blondie's eyes pinch shut, and she starts to shudder. I haven't even started on her clit, and she's in high heaven. There's no way I'll ever be as hot for her as she is for me, but it wouldn't be the first time I've done a chick without equal sparks flying both ways.

Pussy's pussy. Tonight, I need some under me, get my dick soaked, fuck 'til dawn tomorrow if that's what it takes to get Delia's little whimper out of my head.

“Come for me right here,” I growl, nipping at her earlobe.

She shakes, resisting me, trying to moan something about how naughty it is. Like I give a shit.

My other hand shoots behind her and smacks her ass. Laura shifts against me hard, surprised and drunk, sending her half-filled margarita glass flying off the table.

Shit!
Even I'm freaked out by all the eyes on us after the tremendous clash.

I pull my hands back and she scurries off me, wide-eyed and apologetic. A waitress rushes up to deal with the mess, and I realize I've gotten splashed too. The sugary crap feels sticky, and it's all up my arm.

“Baby, damn, I didn't mean it! I'm such a klutz. Let me help clean you up.” She smiles, pulls out a napkin, and starts patting me down.

I push her away, sliding out and standing up. “I've gotta hit the men's room anyway. Give me a minute.”

I head into the bathroom and wash my arm, then smooth cool water across my face. My stubble feels edgier today, like my whole damned body's on edge, the same intensity I always feel before a mission.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why's it so hard to settle down and do what I've always done best – giving one stranger the night of her life?

I want to punch my own reflection. Delia's hot little ass has me screwed up, yeah, but it's my own fault for letting her get underneath my skin.

She's nothing special. She's a hot, responsive spitfire who just so happens to be off limits. She's –

My phone dings and I rip it out of my pocket, tapping the screen. Speak of the fucking devil – or should I say the succubus?

YOU BUSY? I REALLY WANT TO TALK ABOUT LAST NIGHT.

Adrenaline spikes through my blood. It's the same superhuman focus I get with my rifle in hand, except there's no life or death on the line here. Only egos.

WHAT DO YOU WANT? I send back.

I work my way out of the bathroom and lean against the wall, waiting. Her next text hits a couple seconds later.

MORE LIKE WHAT I DON'T WANT, CHRIS. I DON'T WANT BAD BLOOD. I WANT YOU TO COME HOME SO WE CAN TALK. EVIE AND DAD ARE GONE FOR THE WEEKEND – OUT ON THE YACHT.

Is she serious, or just yanking my dick? She wants to talk to me...alone? I gotta wonder if this chick's much crazier than I thought.

It takes me a few seconds to ignore the fire throbbing in my balls to write back. I tell her I'll think about it – no guarantees – and then shove my phone back in its place.

One thing's for sure – I've lost interest in blondie, still waiting for me at our table, wet and drunk as ever. I walk up and tap her on the shoulder. She smiles up at me with her fat glossy lips, the same look I know she'd have before taking my cock in her mouth.

“I need to run. Something's come up.”

“Don't go!” Her smile melts. She leaps up and grabs my arm, and I hear her breath catch. “Did I do something wrong? Don't tell me it was the spill.”

I shove her off me and I only slow my way out of the bar to bark back. “Duty first. Stop following me. I'll pick up the tab.”

I stop and handle it with a waitress on the way out, grateful blondie's too pissed to moan begging for my number. I'd have to shoot her down the hard way then.

On the drive to the estate, I pound my fist on the wheel, wondering what the hell I'm doing. Did I just give up sane, guaranteed pussy for a talk with my prissy little stepsis?

My last text told her to tell the guard I was coming. He gives me the same shitty look when I roll up to the gate. I floor it up the hilly driveway after I'm through.

The place is just as pretentious and alien as the first time. I'm standing underneath the big chandelier by the staircases when I text her.

I'M HERE.

Delia comes sauntering down the staircase in about thirty seconds, and my eyes pop out of my fucking skull. The sleek, conservative crap I've seen her in before has given way to a short red dress, cut in all the right places.

My dick hammers in my pants, begging for release, howling for her tight, wet warmth. Something about the dress accents her curves even more than her tank top and shorts did on the beach. I don't know whether to throw on the only suit and tie I've got to take her out, or rip it all off and fuck her right here in our parents' grand entryway.

She lights up with a smile when she sees me staring.

It's too much. All the shit I haven't been able to control since Kirkuk takes hold. As soon as she's next to me, I grab her, spin her around, and fling her against the wall.

“What's going on here? Really?” She whimpers with more than surprise, and I realize too late I've shoved my fingers through her hair, pulling too tight. “Sorry.”

She backs away from me when I give her a chance, a sour look on her face. “Jackass. Would a hello kill you?”

I shrug. “You're the one who wanted to talk, and you come out dressed like that. I'm warning you right now – head games and cockteases aren't my thing, babe. Unless you want to go upstairs and spread your legs for me, you'd better start talking, because that's looking like the only reason I'm here.”

She flushes bright red and holds up her hands. “No, no, you've got the wrong idea. I'm not that kind of girl.”

“Yeah?” I shoot her a dirty look. She's not entirely wrong – I haven't been able to figure out what the fuck she is yet, or what she's up to.