Which posed really big fucking problems. We weren’t in the Middle East any longer. We weren’t on gripping, hellish missions where a sweaty bout of sex released all the excess adrenaline.
She’d avoided me like the plague while I sniffed around her for months when I saw her around missions. Then she finally gave in to what we both knew was between us, and it was beyond spectacular. It had been the heat of post-mission that made her cave–that sexual affirmation of life that was so damned necessary after coming close to dying. It probably stemmed from some deep biological survival instinct–reproduce before it was too late that ensured the survival of the species.
Whatever the reason, after that night, I wanted to survive just to get between those sweet thighs again.
Our chemistry had been off the charts.
Still was. And that was the issue.
Now we were out of the Navy, living in close quarters in Sparks, Montana. Population… less than what filled a major league ball stadium. Hell, half that. We’d worked together before but only in passing, and that sure as shit hadn’t been long enough.
Her job had been to shuttle whomever and whatever. Wherever. That included SEAL teams in and out of tricky and dangerous situations. She’d done it with precision, focus and integrity. And full of threats.
Now the most dangerous situation the two of us faced was bumping into each other in the bunkhouse in the middle of the night. Me seeing her in skimpy sleep shorts and a tank top that did nothing to hide her perfect body, those lush tits that were topped with pert nipples I remembered licking and sucking on and went hard every time I was around.
I knew this because I couldn’t help but look.
Every fucking time.
Which wasallthe time. Because this new team we were on was small. So far, besides Ford, it was me, Hayes, Taft, and now Quincy.
Which meant it was nearly fucking impossible to keep from grabbing her from her bed and tossing her over my shoulder, carrying her back to my room and giving her round two. Or tossing her over my shoulder after she finished the obstacle course, her skin slick with sweat.
Yeah, I wanted to toss her over my shoulder 24/7.
Because she might be a badass in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter, but I wanted to be in charge when it came to her orgasms.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t happening. She’d set a clear boundary after the first time we had sex and reaffirmed it when she got here.
“Not. Happening,”were her exact words, each delivered with an index finger poke to my chest. “Find another hookup. I’m not your FWB.”
My forehead had scrunched up at that, and she had to explain, “Friend with benefits. Find someone else.”
I’d expected that stance to change once she realized how slim the pickings were around Sparks, but it hadn’t.
Yet. Besides, my dick seemed to only want one woman. The one who didn’t want anything to do with me. Quincy.
“Dude, you having a stroke?”
I stirred and blinked at Taft, who’d come into the industrial kitchen in the bunk house. I had been Ford’s first hire, and we’d designed this space together. Eight bedrooms, each with its own full bath. A common family room and kitchen combo with a dining area that seated twelve.
Mrs. L, Ford’s grandmother, always cooked in her kitchen in the house, enjoying feeding us all. But at five in the morning when I got up–not something I could break after years in the service–no one expected her to have a full breakfast spread. She got up early but not this early.
I’d made the coffee and had been pouring a mugfull when I heard Quincy’s shower kick on. Which meant she was naked and wet and soapy.
And I was staring at the steaming brew without doing shit.
I gave Taft my signature grin as he went to the mega-fridge and pulled out a carton of OJ. “Debating adding sugar or if I’m sweet enough.”
Who was I kidding? I liked sugar with everything.
He chugged directly from the carton, which had a sticky note on the side that had his name on it. Now that he’d just contaminated the whole thing, I didn’t need the reminder.
“It’s those lollipops.”
I didn’t reply because he was right. I had an oral fixation that was constant–and not only for Quincy’s pussy… fuck, I was mental–that I’d had since I was a teen.
I’d gotten into drinking and smoking in ninth grade. A rebellion against my parents’ stiff rules and proper etiquette required of a rich, social climbing DC family.