Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (18 page)

Right now, that clearly works for Ro. He clears his throat roughly, dragging his gaze back to my face. He nudges the cardboard box of chocolately goodness closer to me. We’ve always had a thing for Twinkies, him and I. It’s the only junk food I’ve ever seen him eat, and I once made a meal of them when we first met.

“I brought a peace offering,” he says. The box inches closer. How am I supposed to resist? “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about what happened on the beach.”

Actually, he totally should have.

I have no desire to tell him this, though. I’d really rather be the hot almost-ex he thinks of in the same breath as Twinkies. “I’m not perfect.”

“I’ve noticed.” He nods. Ro won’t lie to me. You know those stupid get-to-know-you games where you pick three adjectives that describe you? Ro’s adjectives are honorable, candid, trustworthy. Yowly bumps his head against Ro’s knee hard. He’s marking Ro as his, and it’s an urge I completely understand.

Still, I try again to make Ro understand without resorting to a full-blown confession. “I make a lot of mistakes. I’m kind of like the bumper cars at the fair—I go full-speed and ram into a lot of shit.”

“Okay,” he says, more slowly this time.

“So we’re way too different for anything between us to work.”

He snorts. “I’m not the tea cup ride, sweetheart.”

“You want me to be blunt?”

“Please,” he says, and of course he means it.

“You deserve someone perfect because you’re a goddamned hero. And me? I’m just me, smashing into shit and breaking it.”

He nudges the box of chocolately goodness closer to me. I pick them up because someone should take them inside. You know, because otherwise they’ll melt in the Florida sunshine, and that would be wasteful. No other reason. I’m definitely not having some very naughty fantasies about where I could frost Ro with the Twinkie icing.

“We have a motto in the SEALs. The only easy day is yesterday.”

Am I sure what he was getting at? Absolutely not. While I appreciate the SEAL share, it wasn’t particularly helpful, so I fall back on sarcasm. You know—ye olde standby. “You mean it’s gonna get
harder
?”

He gives me The Ro Look. He needs to patent that sucker. Or trademark it. Chalk it up to something else I don’t know, because I don’t understand the difference between the two.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he says. “I’d just like you to give this thing between us a shot. I want
us
to have a shot.”

That’s such a lovely sentiment. I’d like to say I give the man a standing ovation, but if my father taught me one thing, it’s that perfection is always desired. Sure, I don’t
have
to be perfect, but that’s like saying I don’t have to lose ten pounds, make more money, or do cardio three times a week. Even brushing your teeth is optional, as long as you’re okay with your dentist’s extreme unhappiness and dentures at the early age of thirty.

So no, I don’t have to be perfect.

“Good thing.” I pat him on the back, which is a nice, friendly gesture. At this point, grabbing the Twinkies and holing up in the tub seems like my best option. “Because my screwing up perfection is guaranteed.”

He gives me a long, slow look. “You always such a Debbie Downer?”

“I’m honest. That’s a good trait.”

He honest-to-God sighs, like I’m being the difficult one here, with my insistence on telling shit the way it is. “Then we’ll start again until I fuck up. I promise you, baby, I’ll fuck up.”

In the last six years, I’ve done more than my fair share of starting over. I’ve learned a few lessons along the way. The first? It’s way easier to achieve a do-over and reinvent yourself when you don’t give a fuck. The potential that I feel something for Ro is way too great for this
shot
of his to not scare me. Committing to him feels like taking a step—off the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Everyone applauds the athletes from the small countries who run in the Olympics, right? It’s like the Jamaican bobsledders or Nigerian ice skaters. They’re completely, totally out of their league because they just don’t
do
snow and ice where they come from. They’re always going to come in dead last unless someone else screws up. No one ever thinks about the hours and the training and the hopes they might have had that this time they’d really do it. Come out on top. Go home with the medal.

No matter how much time and effort I put into this thing with Ro, I’m still not going to be standing on top of the medal podium at the end of the day. I don’t come from a place that does feelings, at least not the happy, loving kind. Thanks, Dad. So I don’t pretend that I want to join a team or give things a shot—at best, I’m standing in the stands, enjoying the show. And when I explain this to Ro, he totally fails to understand.

He listens quietly as I explain in great depth about tropical climates, bobsledding, and ice skating, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I don’t need perfect.”

“You don’t need anything,” I snap. “You’re Mr. Perfect. You do your own thing, get by on your own.”

Yowly shoots across the yard, gunning for cover. Smart cat.

“I need you,” Ro says.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the ocean. The wind in the palms. A sea bird hollering for its mate. These are good sounds, but they can’t quite fill in the silence hanging between us.

“You have to stop running, baby girl.” His voice is all rough and growly, snarly with a side of tender. “You have to try.”

Fuck him. Since when did being my almost-ex qualify him as my shrink, too? I’m the queen of do-overs and starting over is never as satisfying as knocking the ball out of the park on your first swing. The anger starts slow, but don’t worry. I’ll pick up steam fast. Getting angry is familiar—and it is way less scary than the other feelings Rohan MacCarthy stirs in me. Today, I’m going with lust and anger for two hundred bucks.

I stand up and hook my finger in the collar of his T-shirt. “Step inside my office.”

He looks down at my finger, amusement curling his pretty mouth. “Am I in trouble?”

One of us is. I haven’t decided which of us is the lucky party, but the answer will come to me. I step backward into the bungalow, drawing him with me. He lets me do it, moving with me with all the grace of a ballroom dancer. I don’t want to cha-cha-cha him—I’m craving something entirely different. Anger. Angry sex. There’s a fine line between the two, as Mr. Temporary-Alvarez is about to find out.

I drag him so close that his front’s pressed up against mine, his boner digging into my belly. Guess Mr. Tall and Grumpy gets off on arguing too. Wish I’d known that years ago—but I’ll make up for lost time now. Reaching around him with my free hand, I push the door shut.

“You definitely feel like trouble,” he smirks at me. His hands find my hips, steadying me, rock solid in their strength. Fuck this. I want to shake him up like a bottle of soda, make him erupt in a glorious, messy, unplanned cascade of sweet, sticky goodness and yes, I know exactly how dirty that sounds.

I’ve been so lonely these last few years and he seems to feel the same way. If before we were fucking islands in two different oceans, now we’re tectonic plates crashing into each other. I want to slow this moment down, to stop rushing even if the destination is so impossibly sweet.

“Shut up,” I order. Possibly, I use my outdoor voice. I’m sure not too quiet about it, but he doesn’t look fazed. Typical. I’m sure Ro marches into battle with the same look on his face. Calm, cool, collected, walled off—take your pick. He doesn’t get riled, doesn’t yell, and, yes, sometimes, I wonder if he feels anything strong at all. Let’s find out, shall we?

I jump him, arms around his neck and legs cinching his waist, and pull his mouth down to mine for a kiss. He’s not getting away from me this time. He groans something, but I’m no lip-reader, so I shove my tongue in his mouth and show him silently how I’m feeling.

His hands cup my butt, taking my weight like it’s nothing. His chest presses against mine and I rub my boobs against all that ridged muscle. God, he feels good. His thumbs rub, tracing the curve of my cheeks, dipping unexpectedly lower, deeper. My man has a dirty side. And the way he kisses… the man should be a national monument. Some kind of park where everyone can come and stare and take pictures because… holy fuck. His teeth nip my lower lip and then his tongue sweeps inside my mouth, taking and tugging and trapping me in a maelstrom of pleasure.

When one big hand dips into the back of my panties and then lower, I whimper. “Take it out.”

Have I mentioned that Ro’s
it
is particularly impressive? He teases me with his fingers instead, sliding through my slick folds and finding a million nerve endings I didn’t know existed. I want to pull his hair. Scream his name. Chain him to the wall of my bedroom and never let him out.

He leans back so he can see my face, but his fingers don’t stop working their magic. “We should talk about what happened last night first.”

“Fine,” I groan. “I jumped you on the beach and there were paparazzi in the palm trees. Dirty pictures ensure and your ass is now an internet legend. Is that enough? You wanna try this in the bedroom?”

His fingers still. Shit. Maybe he is mad. Maybe the photos upset him more than I thought. Maybe…

“I need you to be honest with me,” he says in a low, rough voice. “No more hiding stuff.”

“Gotcha,” I pant. “Bedroom?”

I love hard, dirty, slightly rough sex. There’s no time to worry about perfection. It’s all about fast and faster, bodies slamming together like out-of-control racecars. I rub against him, pulling his clothes as I try to execute the next step in my master plan. The drive-Rohan-crazy plan, aka make-him-pick-the-pace-up plan.

He peels me off his body and sets me down on the floor.

So
not part of the plan.

“Are you teasing me?” Toss me onto the ground, have your wicked way with me? I’m totally on board with that variant of the plan. Fully dressed, orgasm-less, and standing on my own two feet? Not so much.

“I’m doing this your way,” he says, sounding perfectly calm—except for that delicious, rough hitch on that last word. He grabs my hand and leads me over to the closed door. He hauls his shirt over his head. Okay. This is promising. Better yet, he strips off my shorts and panties. I help him, wriggling and shimmying out of all that stuff because who needs it? Why not rip the paper off the best Christmas present ever? The packaging’s pretty, but the contents are a dream come true, and Ro’s chest? A work of art.

I don’t get long to admire the view, however, because he pushes me up against the door. This particular plot twist works for me. Even better? His hand goes between my legs where I’m soft for him, where I don’t have to be tough, or better, or even good enough. Heat burns through my body, making everything seem perfect.

Ro unbuckles, unzips, and shoves his cargo pants down just far enough to free his huge, spectacular, long-lost dick. Yes, I am feeling sentimental. I reach down between us and palm him.

“Somebody’s missed me,” I whisper up at him.

“No shit,” he groans. See? He’s not so calm and collected
now
. Right now, he’s all about me and the heat building between us. I fist him tightly, moving my hand up and down. Pumping him harder, faster as his breathing roughens and the tension builds in his beautiful, built body. I’ve missed him, too.

“Lick.” He holds his palm up to my mouth.

I smile and lick, dragging my tongue over the work-roughened skin. His breath hisses through his teeth and then his hand replaces mine, lubing up his dick. He’s so thoughtful—it’s like he’s just the perfect man.

“Shit. Condom,” he breathes, sounding pained.

“On the pill,” I gasp back.

“Thank God,” he says and yanks my left leg up until I’m half-wrapped around him. Then he bends his knees and holy depths, Batman. He pushes into me, deep and deeper, grabbing my butt and shoving me up. My back hits the door, my head goes back, and then he
moves
. He doesn’t hesitate. No betraying tremor, no grunt of effort. It’s like my not-inconsiderable weight is butterflies and dandelion fluff, because the man drives in and out of me, hard and fast just the way I like it.

His face is sexy as hell. He looks intense, fierce, a SEAL on a mission and since there’s not much I can do to control the ride in my current position, I give into temptation and watch him because I need to see him come. My foot brushes the floor. Should I keep it there in case his legs give out? In case I weigh too much?

His hand hitches my knee, lifting me higher. “Remember our rule.”

Right. Rules.

“Trust me,” he says harshly. “I won’t let you fall.”

And it’s like his words are the key to my lock, because I do what he asks. I let go and let him take over. He pushes deeper inside me, pounding harder, hips and stomach slapping against me with each thrust.

It’s exactly perfect.

I moan with each push. The door digs into my back and it’s hard in a way that’s far from pleasant, but he’s giving it to me the way I asked. Hard and dirty and a little rough. He’s everything I needed and wanted.

Hard and sure. Take charge. In control.

He pushes his hand between us and finds my clit. I wrap my fingers around his because it feels so good and I need something to hang onto. He gives me everything he has, moving faster and deeper. Neither of us is quiet now. The sound of wetness, skin slapping on skin, moans and gasps—the room holds it all.

“Yes,” he gasps, and I feel him tightening beneath me, in me.

“Yes,” I yell back, moving harder, faster on his dick. God, yes. So many times, yes. We’re singing our very own song and we hit the final chorus together, voices getting louder, and I let it all out, the anger, the fear, the goddamned, wonderful, too-intense pleasure. I fall apart all over him and into ecstasy.