Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (12 page)

Uh-huh. “Only if I get to watch. Or you’re sharing with Hindi. Right now, I’m available for sexual objectification for one woman only.”

That shuts her up. Hell, that shuts
me
up. Since when am I the personal property of one Hindi Alvarez?
Since you swapped
I do
s
taunts the annoying voice of righteousness in my head. Lilah’s silence doesn’t last long.

“I might actually like you, Soldier Boy.” Her smile gets bigger and more real.

“Navy.” If she’s gonna give me nicknames like I’m a pet, she can get it right. “I was a sailor.”

“Duly noted.” Her smile gets deeper—and meaner. I’m glad Hindi has someone this strong by her side. “And because I’m running short on time today and hiding your body would be a pain in my ass, I’m going to tell you that if you hurt her, I’ll Photoshop your head onto the first naked body I find and the whole Internet will be discussing the size of your goodies—and not in a good way. You hear me?”

“Not my intention to hurt her,” I say slowly. “Divorce isn’t fun and games, though. Bound to be some unpleasant moments.”

Lilah lowers her camera, thank fuck. “Give her good ones,” she says fiercely. “She’s good people. She deserves some happiness, okay?”

“The TV gig not working out so well?”

She shrugs. “It’s working, but it’s a constant sell. The network always wants new material, so she never gets a break. If she doesn’t deliver, she’s out.”

I frown. “So why’s she down here?”

Lilah actually reaches out and pokes me in the chest. “Hello? Divorce?”

“She doesn’t have people to take care of the stuff she doesn’t want to do?”

Lilah actually groans. The woman’s a total drama queen. “She can take care of herself, and she’s got a team of people—including me—who has her back. But that’s industry stuff, Sailor Boy. We don’t go home with her at night. She cries, I offer Kleenex, but I’m not there twenty four/seven and the industry will eat you alive if you let it.”

“Then she walks away,” I say, leaning against the door. Don’t think Hindi’s gonna be opening it anytime soon. “When her contract’s up, she can not renew.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Lilah asks. “You did multiple tours of duty, right? When were you ready to walk away?”

“When the job was done. When there was nothing more that I could do.” When I had nothing else left to give and I was so tired that I started making mistakes. Small ones—not the sort of shit that gets good men killed—but I knew an exit cue.

“Hindi thinks she still has something to prove,” Lilah says softly, and I’m not sure she’s talking to me now. “She won’t stop until she feels that she’s good enough.”

The fuck?

“She doesn’t have anything to prove to me,” I say.

Lilah sighs and pats my chest. The woman has no personal boundaries. “Which is why I’m gonna tell you the second thing, pretty boy. She’s out back. You walk around the bungalow, you’ll find her.”

I officially like this girl.

I make my way around the bungalow. The ocean whispers in the background. The water’s calm today, just a whispered shush as the waves hit the sand a few hundred yards away, and I hear Hindi before I see her.

“Such a big guy.” The words are throaty and low, bedroom words in a fuck-me-now voice. I revise my opinion of Lilah downward because clearly she’s fucking with me. She never said that Hindi was alone.

“You like that, don’t you?” Hindi sweet-talks her man in the same voice she used to talk to me. The shit she used to say when we were having sex was the best. She didn’t hold back, just told me exactly what she was feeling—and where to touch her next. My dick springs to insta-attention, certain
we’re
a step up from whatever guy she’s fucking in the backyard. Yeah. Probably true, but it’s all lady’s choice. I have to remember that.

I scuff my feet as I clear the corner. Some stuff you can’t unsee, and I don’t need to watch Hindi getting it on with my replacement. Except—she’s alone. Almost. She’s perched on the top step holding out a Styrofoam plate of food to a mangy-looking tomcat. Given my ass-view of her companion, I’m one hundred percent certain he’s a boy, uncut, and the owner of an impressive set of balls. Bet all the lady cats are lined up to appreciate him, too. He inches toward her as she croons.

I’m jealous of a cat.

The cat butts her hand cautiously with his paw and she croons something happy-sounding. A smile twitches Hindi’s mouth and my dick gets harder.

I’m out of practice, because I step on something as I ease forward. The cat skitters back a few steps. He’s clearly jonesing for his dinner, but now here I am. Bet I smell like bad-ass dog, too.

“Hey,” I say, deciding now is a good time to announce my presence.

Or not. Hindi startles, the plate goes airborne, and she starts to fall off the step. I move, getting my arms under and around her before she can bite it. The cat bolts, hiding under a low-hanging palm branch where it glares at us.

“No falling,” I tap the end of her nose with my free hand.

Okay. So I’m not supposed to be catching her. I’m out of the rescue business, except… this one really is my fault. I startled her. My dick twitches, enjoying the feel of her pressed up against me. She’s wearing a pair of cute little pants that billow around us like she’s some kind of harem dancer. She even has the fucking bells on her ankle, because Hindi loves to accessorize. Better yet, she’s wearing a battered white T-shirt.
My
battered white T-shirt.

She kept that much of me. And since I’m cradling her against my chest—strictly in the interests of preventing broken bones and abrasions—I have an awesome view down the front of my shirt. The cotton has faded from frequent washing and it clings to her curves. Fighting, fucking, fucking, fighting—it all gets mixed up in the desire burning through me. It’s not pretty or civilized. I want to hold her closer and then carry her inside, lay her out on the first bed I find, and fuck her raw. She feels so damned good, and I’ve been alone for way too long. My dick’s voting we end our dry spell right now, and I see no reason to object.

I need her.

I need her
now
.

Yep. That’s my cue to set her back down on her feet. I should put a good twelve inches of space between us. Lots of
should
—and I don’t. I keep right on holding her.

“You scared him.” Hindi glares at me. Yeah, I prefer her smiles. Seems like she’s always pissed off at me, as if our last real happy moment was when we said our
I do
s on the beach and had crazy just-married sex in my tent on the beach. I want that back again. I don’t care that somehow we’ve let six years go by, that I’m more stranger than not, because I’ve got my Hindi back in my arms and I’m damned certain there’s a bed far too close by.

“Hey.” She smacks me in the chest. “Neanderthal man—I’m talking to you.”

“You’d rather I dropped you on your ass?” That doesn’t come out right, either. She makes another bid for freedom, but we’re not sitting in Ava’s office. I’m not feeling civilized—she’s not so far off with her comment. If I owned a cave, I’d totally drag her there and take her. Make her mine, make her care.

She’s not feeling my mood though. Guess I should drop her a few mission-critical inches, and my thoughts on our current situation will be clear. Downright pornographic.

She answers my question with one of her own. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t have your number. Tried calling first, but I got some random guy in New Jersey and he’s not the one I want to talk to.”

“You want to talk?”

“Sure.” I set her down on her feet carefully and then dance her backward. Just a few feet, just until her back hits the bungalow and the only place she can move is forward—and toward me. “I’ve got a list.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is husky and there’s the start of a smile curling her mouth. Christ, she’s something else. “You always did.”

“Nothing wrong with being organized.” I brace my hands on either side of her head. Yes, this puts me in the dominant position. Sue me, but I like being in control. It’s a guy thing, a me thing. She knew what she was getting when she took on this SEAL.

She tilts her head back, making eye contact. A smile teases the corners of her mouth. “So are we starting at the top or the bottom of said list?”

I love it when she plays with me.

“Top,” I reply, knowing I sound rough. I’m nothing like the New York pretty boys who walk in her shows. Not like I’m New York powerful either, but in my own world, I’m the one in charge. I own my island, own my life. Hope to fuck that works for her. I breathe her in, and she smells so goddamned sweet. Like strawberries and something fruity. Kiwi. Nice to know I’m going to get a hard-on every time someone serves fruit salad from now on. Does she taste like that everywhere? I plan to find out soon.

“You stole my shirt.” I slide my hands up her ribs slowly, giving her time to protest as I take the shirt with me. I’m not really bitching about the theft—she can keep the shirt and that’s
before
I find out what she’s hiding underneath it. My wife’s a goddamned genius. The bra she’s wearing is a work of art. It’s pink-and-white squares—at least the straps and the sides are. The cups are gold-medal material, made out of see-through gauze that does absolutely nothing to hide her tight, hard nipples. Somebody’s glad to see me.

“Yours?” I run my thumbs over the soft skin beneath her tits, follow the line of her rib like it’s my own personal happy trail. Got a whole new appreciation for Adam and Eve. Always thought it sucked that Eve got made out of Adam’s leftover, like God was making it clear she came second, but now it fucking makes sense. Knowing some part of me was inside Hindi? Huge fucking turn on.

Her fingers curl around mine, stopping the upward tug of her shirt. “You want it back? Maybe I plan on keeping it. Maybe we should put it on Ava’s list.”

“Maybe I should just take it back now.” I lower my head until my forehead brushes hers. “Isn’t there a saying or something about possession being nine tenths of the law?”

Her grin gets wider. She knows I’m full of shit. “You came here just to repo your lucky shirt?”

Honestly? Fuck if I know what I’m doing here other than jonesing for the sex I’m not getting if Hindi’s as smart as I know she is. Christ, maybe
she
can tell me because I know we’re supposed to be getting divorced, but I like the idea of yanking her closer. Making her mine and never letting go. Part of her—particularly her nipples—is onboard with that plan. We always were awesome in bed together—shit just happened after we got up and that’s the truth.

“We should spend some time together.”

That erases the easy smile from her face. “We’re getting divorced, big guy.”

“No reason we can’t be nice to each other.”
Nice
here having the meaning of
having sex at least twice a day
. I stroke my knuckles over her skin.

There’s no missing the flash of hurt on her face. Fuck. Me. “I’m not your booty call.”

“You think that’s why I’m here?” Because it is, but not entirely. I have a bad feeling that’s the truth, too, and not me just trying to rationalize my insane desire to get naked with my almost ex. Right now, though, I don’t want to look at those reasons too closely. I just want to enjoy our moment.

She snorts and flattens her hand over my teasing fingers, trapping me against her skin. “You sure like touching.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” I could touch her all night.

There’s a long pause and less humor in her voice when she responds. “Yeah. Most guys do.”

Okay. Evidently, she’s acquired a few painful experiences since we split up. I don’t like thinking about what she did or didn’t do when we were apart, but now that we’re back together—at least until we get our dissolution—I’m discovering that Neanderthal is my middle name. We may not have a future together, but I refuse to share my
right now
with nameless, faceless memories.

So I try again. “You think this is about sex?”

“You bet I do,” she says. “If I got naked right now, what would you do?”

Get down on my knees. Worship her right.

“No sex,” I tell her. “That’s not in tonight’s plan.”

Because you don’t really have a plan, moron.

The look in her eyes is confused and that makes two of us.

“I thought good sex was the main reason behind our marriage.” See, the wry twist to her lips as she utters those words just makes me want to kiss her. Maybe some guys like to hear a woman rhapsodize about their awesome sex life, but it’s the words she’s not saying that I’m hearing.
Sex instead of
me
. Sure, I enjoyed her tits—but I loved the whole Hindi. Somehow, she never got that message.

“We should be clear.” I brush my lips over hers, keeping it friendly. No tongue, no biting, and definitely no licking. It’s the kind of kiss you could give your fifth grade teacher when you go back to middle school twenty years later, all grown up. And if you’re still reliving teacher fantasies, she’ll never know. “You were the hottest woman I’d ever met. Still are.”

“Okay. So no sex.” She nods vigorously, hair dancing everywhere. Wait, what? She radiates enthusiasm, entirely onboard with this crazy-ass, sex-less plan she just came up with. She can’t plan worth shit. Mine is so much better. My dick chimes in with its own alternate ending for tonight, and it’s way too easy to remember that if we’re in Hindi’s backyard, her bed isn’t too far away, either.

“We’ll be friends,” she continues.

Friends with benefits
could work for me. It’s the covert op in the relationship hierarchy and not something I’ve tried before, but I can give it a shot.

“Everything will be easier if we’re friends.” I mean it, too. What? You thought I didn’t. I absolutely do. You’ve never had any fantasies about a girl you’re just friends with? I’ve got a great imagination and I’ve seen her naked. It’s just that I’ve also had more, or thought I did. I do want to be friends with Hindi. Fighting isn’t making any of this any easier—so the logical thing is to kiss and make up.