Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (10 page)

She frowns, and I swear she’s almost ready to climb off me, grab her phone, and start taking notes. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

She stares at me in horror.

“Oh my God. You’re a
baby
.” Apparently, it’s acceptable that I’ve been winged more than once as an active duty SEAL, but my age is a deal-killer.

“Sweetheart, I promise you I’m no baby.”

“I’m older than you,” she says, and yep… that’s an accusation I hear in her voice, as if I’d deliberately delayed my birth a few years so she could outgun me in the age category. I reach for the platitudes.

“Age is just a number.” I heard that somewhere and it sounded good, although if I were picking between eighty and eighteen I know which body I’d choose.

She narrows her eyes. “If I decided to label your dick five inches instead of ten, would you say length was just a number?”

“Might get you a ruler,” I acknowledge, “So you could do some double-checking. But the fact you can’t count doesn’t make the motion in the ocean any less amazing, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m thirty-four and a cougar.” She hides her face in her hands—but she damned sure doesn’t dismount or get dressed, so that’s how I know that somehow I’m acing this job interview after all. I imagine her riding me just like this, but with far fewer clothes. Maybe just a cowgirl hat and boots. You know—to inspire my too-young, not-old-enough ass.

I draw her hands away from her face and press a kiss into each palm. I’m hard. I’m ready. All I need is the final green light.

“You’re gorgeous. Must be the extra eight years you’ve had to get ready.”

She giggles. “For a man who doesn’t like talking, you don’t do too badly.”

It’s not that I’m anti-conversation—it’s just that most people aren’t worth the time. I’m smart enough not to share this opinion with Marlee. She likes everybody.

“We should practice,” I say virtuously. Marlee eyes me suspiciously. She’s one smart lady—Mini-Marlee had better hope the genetic inheritance comes from that side of the family.

Since she looks like she’s ready to launch into another conversation and I’ve hit my word limit for the day, I take the easy out. I reach up, cup her face in my hands, and pull her down to me. Her chin brushes mine, her lips skimming my mouth. Fuck this easy, gentle, talking shit. I’m not a sensitive guy, and she knows it.

I take her mouth hard, cutting off her words, loving her lips that are never, ever fucking silent. She tastes even better than she looks—like the frozen grapes she produces “as a treat” when we both knew she really wanted ice cream. Sweet, creamy goodness. Vanilla with a hint of pepper. I’ll make a goddamned list later. She drives me crazy, and then she gives me everything. Gives in, gives it up, opens up wide so I’m as deep as I can go, my mouth fucking hers until she moans and bucks in my arms.

She grips me tightly with her hands, her nails digging into my shirt, burrowing beneath to find my skin, and I’m gonna wear her mark for the next day or six. I kiss her and kiss her, driving away the doubts and the questions because she’s invited me in and I know how to hold my ground. How to win a fight. How to kick ass in this sensual war we’re fighting.

She’s
mine.

When I pull back, she’s panting. My own breathing’s none too even and rebar’s got nothing on my dick. I could probably knock her up with one shot.

“So. You wanna get started?” My dick is totally onboard with this new get-Marlee-pregnant plan. It means no condom—and lots and lots of sex.

“Absolutely.” She practically vibrates in place. Unfortunately this turns out to not be sexual. Nope. The words come tumbling out of her kiss-slicked mouth. Lots and lots—and lots—of words. Turns out, Marlee’s got a plan for the next two days, and it doesn’t involve marathon sex, sweaty bodies, or hiding out in my bedroom.

In fact, I don’t get sex at all. Instead, I get a homework assignment. You know that part in Harry Potter where Hermione Granger is unrolling the world’s longest parchment, a never-ending list of words? Yeah. Marlee’s baby daddy requirements look something like that. I have to go and have a “genetic work up.” And a series of blood tests. I’m also supposed to down a fistful of vitamins, stick to a healthy diet, skip the sauce, and get a flu shot.

She hops off me and holds out a hand.

And… what? She wants me to shake on our deal?

Apparently, the answer is
yes
. The kissing was a much better idea. I stand up slowly, because there’s every chance my dick snaps clean in half. God. She’s fucking gorgeous. I’m clearly never gonna understand what goes on in her head, but that’s okay. I’ll just enjoy the rest of her. I slide my hand into hers and shake. A diamond ring might have been simpler.

“You’ll make a wonderful daddy.” She leans up, presses a kiss against my cheek, and dances away.

“We’re gonna get to the sex part soon, right?” I call after her as she disappears upstairs. Her laughter floats back to me and I head back outside. Might as well grab my tools and fix what I can.

B
ravo loves being my co-pilot. The dog bounces up and down in the front seat beside me when I pull up in front of Marlee’s place the day after we strike our deal. Marlee comes flying out her front door, an enormous smile lighting up her face.
Papelier
is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, so we’re kicking off the week with step one in Project Knock Marlee Up. Once again, this is not the step I would have focused on. We’re both fully dressed and sex still does not appear to be on the event horizon.

My first clue—besides the lack of a bed—is her outfit, which would definitely never be mistaken for sexy lingerie. Marlee’s wearing a flowered romper, a pair of canvas sneakers, and carrying what has to be the world’s smallest purse. The bow decorating the front practically exceeds the entire carrying capacity. She’s piled her hair up on top of her head in one of those messy twists, and a ballpoint pen, two pencils, and what might be a chopstick appear to be key structural elements. Little wisps escape in every direction. Honestly? It’s kinda cute.

I get a handful of seconds to enjoy the view, during which I signal Bravo to move his ass to the back seat. He reluctantly complies, and then she’s yanking open the passenger side door and maneuvering herself up onto the seat with a little hop. Fuck. I was probably supposed to get out and open the door. Or maybe that’s just date night behavior? We’re planning on having sex, but other than my putting out, I’m not sure what she’s expecting from me.

“You’re here!” Apparently, she was worried that I would come to my senses. Nope. I’m too stupid—and attracted—for that. I’m hers for as long as she’ll have me.

I put the truck into drive and point us toward the mainland. “Promised you I would be. You got directions for me?”

She fishes for her seatbelt before she says anything. Today’s mission involves purchasing an ovulation kit. Angel Cay is both small and not in possession of a drugstore, therefore necessitating a field trip. And since Marlee would rather that not everyone in a twenty-mile radius be alerted to our reproductive agenda, she’s decreed we’re going to a drugstore on the mainland. One that’s at least forty miles from the Florida Keys.

For the first twenty miles, Marlee tells me all about the latest doings on Angel Cay. There was a cruise ship in port yesterday, and the visitors provided the usual shot of color. Somebody tried to drive a bike drunk and ended up crashed into a coconut palm with minor injuries. A couple was surprised on the beach in the middle of a very creative sex act (I ask for details about this one but am shot down). Mrs. Johnston, Marlee’s neighbor on the right, is putting in a new garden and has a very hot, very tanned young gardener, and everybody comes out and watches while he digs (although there’s a double standard at work because apparently Mrs. Johnston doesn’t merit the
cougar
label). Marlee talks. I listen and nod. The highway’s a straight shot, just two lanes each way that thread over small islands. Plenty of boats on both sides, and little baby islands come and go on the horizon. No dolphins today, but I look anyhow. Bet Marlee would love to see those.

Eventually, she slows down the torrent of words and reaches for the iPod I’ve plugged into the dashboard, thumbing through my selections. I’m a country boy inside and out. I get the idea she’s not so pro-twang, however, because she scrolls, pauses, and moves on.

“This baby better have my musical taste.” She sounds like she’s talking to herself. News flash? She doesn’t get to pick and choose which one of us the mini-us takes after. In case that’s a deal breaker, however, I go for the diversion.

“We should name him or her.”

She gives me the kind of look that you give someone who’s just stepped in dog shit—and tracked it inside your place. “I’ve already called naming rights.”

Like the baby’s a building or a basketball stadium. “A nickname,” I coax. “Something a little shorthand.”

She thinks for a moment. “People stick their names together.”

That has to be the lamest idea ever, but I run with it. “Varlee? Varlet? Var var var?”

“Stop it.” She reaches over and playfully smacks my arm.

“I’ve got it.” I snap my fingers. “Mann.”

“Vee.” She scoots around in her seat, drawing her knees up to her chest. “I like that one.”

“Works for me.” I shrug.

Bravo makes a valiant attempt at storming the front seat. Eventually he gets both front paws and the better part of his body between our seats, lolling against Marlee. Since she doesn’t seem to mind and we’re joyriding rather than training, I decide to allow it. Even dogs deserve a day off, right? When she starts kissing on him and rubbing his fur, however, I decide I may need to rethink my plan. That’s
my
TLC he’s getting, and now I’m jealous of a goddamned (admittedly awesome) dog. Bravo drinks it up, proving he’s no fool.

Time for a change of subject. “You didn’t have any problem getting away for the day?”

Her grin gets wider. “Being part-owner has its advantages—and I hired a high school girl to help out.”

“So you’re exploiting the underemployed,” I say, and she sticks her tongue out at me. I’ve got better uses for it, but our relationship is still more like the tugboat escorting the cruise ship out to sea than a speedboat. We’re putting along in shallow waters, but headed for the deep end soon enough.

She hesitates, and I can practically see the words forming on her tongue. “Do Ro and Finn know about us?”

I shrug. “Finn thinks you’re my girlfriend, but he hasn’t decided yet if that means sex. Whatever Ro is thinking, he’ll keep it to himself, but I haven’t told them anything about the baby-making plans, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay.” She nods slowly. “It’s not like it’s a secret, but I wasn’t planning on advertising, either.”

Not sure what she’s gonna do when I’ve done my part and knocked her up. Surely, the girlfiends will want to know who the baby daddy is—what’s she going to tell them? Still, that’s a question for another day—one that’s at least five or six months in our future. There’s plenty of time to work out our story.

“Okay. First date questions.” I looked this up on my phone last night. I’ve got this.

“We’re not on a date, Vann.” She sounds like she’s trying not to laugh. “We’re driving to the drugstore.”

“Maybe I’d like to get to know you better before you see me naked—and I’m not answering job interview questions,” I point out. “Pretty sure you’re not paying me to knock you up. That’s still illegal in the fine state of Florida.”

At least I think it is. I’ve never understood why prostitution is illegal anyhow. You can rent a room, hire out hourly, clean out your garage and slap a price tag on each and every item. No one has to buy, and it’s no one’s business except yours and the person with the cash. But people get funny about sex.

“First question. Shoot.” She leans back against the seat until she can see my face.

“What’s in your fridge?” It sounds kinda stupid now that I’ve asked, but I do want to know more about her.

“A million Lean Cuisines,” she responds promptly. “Yogurt. Fruit.”

“Sounds way too healthy. And?”

“And ice cream,” she sighs. “That’s my darn Waterloo. I’ve got an extra five pounds waiting for me in my freezer, and it’s all headed straight to my butt. How about you?”

Her ass looks great to me.

“Whatever Vali cooked this week. Milk. Soy sauce packets.”

“No beer?” She throws me an amused grin.

“Not much of a drinker,” I admit and move on to question number two. “Roses on a first date—yes or no?”

“Never. I don’t like cut flowers. I want my blooms to have roots.”

“So you’re a pot lady. Good to know.” I grin over at her. “What superpower would you choose?”

She makes a face. “I only get one?”

“On Mondays. If you’re really good—or bad—I’ll let you pick a second one tomorrow.”

She sticks out her tongue at me. “Spoilsport. Flight. I’d like to be able to fly.”

Flying’s a good one. Would be nice to go wherever I wanted, when I wanted. Just flap my fucking wings and take off. That’s a kind of freedom that might be worth having.