SEAL My Home: Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 2 (SEAL Brotherhood Series 9) (2 page)

He felt how nervous she was, but also how needy. Her minted breath was punctuated by little catches and faint squeaking as if she tasted forbidden fruit. It sent waves of arousal down his spine. When they parted, he licked his lips to taste what she’d left behind. “Mmmmm. Nice, Megan.” He meant it.

She hesitated, then carefully placed her fingertips just below his shoulders, as if it was the first time she’d put her hands on a real man, and then allowed them to travel lazily across his pecs. He inhaled and let his chest cavity go huge which caused a flutter in her eyelids. No longer a skinny orphaned boy, he let her see how proud he was of his physique, how hard he had trained, how disciplined he was as a powerful killing machine. He could feel her heart thumping in a dull cadence. He let his right hand slip around her waist, barely touching the top of her ass with his fingers, which got the tiny reaction he was hoping for, the little inhale that told him she was afraid of him, but couldn’t stop herself. He pressed her thigh into his groin, maneuvering around the large Santa belly he wanted to get his hand under, loving the way they fit already, even with the costume. But mostly loving how she let him lead her.

He saw realization spread across her face that his body was hard and lean and he wasn’t afraid to show her what he intended to do. He smiled and said with his eyes on her lips, “You ready?”

She gave a nervous shrug, but allowed him to pull her backpack from her, sling it over his own shoulder, and tuck his other arm around her waist. She fit well next to him like the missing piece of a puzzle.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

She pointed to her small red VW convertible partially obscured by a large white van. “You want to follow?” She was all pink and timid again as she removed her Santa hat and started to remove her beard.

“Hold on, sweetheart. I’ve been watching you read to those kids for the past hour, and I definitely have some plans for that outfit.”

She tented her eyebrows and shot him a questioning look. “Seriously?” She took a step backward and he followed, meeting her, not letting her get away, and whispering in her ear.

“You have no idea.” He kissed the side of her neck just under her ear and he heard her purr like a kitten.

So far so good.

As he followed behind Megan’s little VW, Rory recalled their first awkward meeting on a bright Saturday morning about three weeks ago. It had been a beautiful warm and cloudless winter day, so the chirping little birds had gotten an early start in the bright San Diego sunlight at 6:30 AM. The night before, he’d been at the Scupper, their local Team hangout and site for operations of the female kind, the pre-planning for something local or for discussing something happening overseas in the theater. But mostly it was to get shit-faced, talk smack and let off steam with several of his team buddies. Tyler and T.J. told him the early Saturday morning yoga class almost never had men in it. But it was loaded with frustrated, nubile young women who twisted themselves into some pretty suggestive poses, and who sometimes went out for coffee afterwards.

As he continued to follow her car down the narrow streets lined with old palm trees and modest stucco and red tiled homes, he smiled and a warm glow traveled all over his body as he thought about how it had gone.

He hadn’t been prepared for the tight yoga pants hugging their little asses, the colored toes and scrunchies holding up their hair with the special fluffed “come fuck me” look he loved. Coop’s father-in-law, the renowned psychiatrist Dr. Austin Brownlee, had diagnosed his itch to catch someone as being due to a lack of intimacy. Rory called it a failure to fuck. He was going to fix this before the weekend was up.

The nut-brown yoga instructor the girls all called Baba Omar, hid behind a salt and pepper beard, his large almond shaped eyes scanning every one of the lovelies. Rory was sure he too was surveying for his next sexual partner. He and the instructor were the only two males in the class.

Rory didn’t understand the terms, but soon understood by watching others what he was supposed to make his body do. This was sometimes difficult because he was looking right into the back of Megan’s ass, and God, did he wish the thin black seam that held her two butt cheeks together would fail. Her ass and thighs were encased in thin yoga pants with bright flowers down the leggings. He was praying for a major clothing malfunction. Something of epic proportions, and him right there to benefit from it. But God wouldn’t grant him that wish. Not yet.

With arms entwined in bent elbows, barely hooking thumbs together, backside of palms touching, he did the breathing exercises the little Indian man had shown them, but he felt like he was tied in a knot. Occasionally someone’s shirt would ride up and he’d get a view of the creamy midriff of one of the lovelies. Megan’s peachy complexion and her rose-colored lips were shockingly intimate on this Saturday morning as she closed her eyes, married her palms together and inhaled, her moist lips in a puckered “O,” sending her chest out toward the front of the room. He knew her nipples would be the same delicate shade of rose as her full lips, and that she would blotch on her chest when she got embarrassed or overly heated.

Rory noticed one of the ladies at the end of his row was using line of sight to get his attention and he pretended not to notice. The woman was very beautiful, and judging from her enhancements and careful efforts to hide her advanced age, she was obviously well off. He was not in the least bit interested in being a rich older woman’s date for coffee, no matter how much fun it would be and how well put together she was. He admired her for her efforts, but Megan’s naïve aura had snagged him completely. She simply enchanted him.

The instructor ended all his classes with a cow-cat breathing exercise, the class in a circle. The little brown yogi took the center, moving to face each student briefly while the warm-up breathing began. Once the powerful poses from rounded back of the cat to the swaying back of a cow intensified and the breathing became deeper and sucked the air out of the hot room, he began to get a boner. Instead of next to him on all fours, in Rory’s mind Megan was beneath him, begging to be penetrated. Each thrust of his hips got him harder and harder as he imagined plunging into her soft moist pussy and then out, only to plunge in again. This went on for nearly five minutes.

The teacher asked them to hold their breath and he gulped in air like it would be his last on earth, hoping his lungs would explode so he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself with what he knew was coming next. As he exhaled, his cock erupted and would not stop. He collapsed on himself, thinking that would abruptly end it.

But he was wrong.

She had leaned forward, palms to the ground, her third eye pressing deliciously on the rubber mat of the studio, her breathing quieting down as in his mind he filled her cavity with everything he had. He grabbed the large green towel he’d brought to freshen up afterwards and pulled it to his pulsating groin area, rolled his neck to the side and looked at her. Her repose was sweet. The natural rhythm of her chest rising and falling, her knotted nipples daring to softly fall, barely grazing the mat. It was a thing of pure Michelangelo beauty.

At last, her blue eyes opened and, with a smoldering look, she viewed him, a question there he was sure.

“I just made love to you,” he whispered before he could stop himself, his voice cracking like a schoolboy. He watched her frown lines develop as she pretended not to hear. But he knew she had due to the blush streaking her cheeks. Her reddish-brown hair was piled high, nearly escaping the tightness of the scrunchie. At last, a trace of a smile started coming on, but she turned her long neck to the side and faced the other direction while her shoulders revealed a giggle she was trying to mask from him.

Perfect.

They headed for the co-ed lockers. The showers were occupied but he was able to get inside the men’s restroom in time to get a stall and wipe himself clean. He had not brought a replacement pair of pants, only a clean shirt, which he donned afterwards.

He thought perhaps he’d taken too long. The hallway was bustling with people, but Megan had already exited the studio, headed toward the parking lot, and he watched her drive away in her cherry red VW convertible. He hoped she was a regular and he would see her again soon.

That had been one heck of a way to meet a lady. Now, he watched her little VW pull into a shared driveway between two single story bungalows. She veered off to the left into a garage. Rory parked at the curb, stiffly got out of the car, and tried to walk casually toward the woman in red velvet, suppressing every dirty thought he didn’t have a right to think. He was thanking his lucky stars he’d managed to stay patient. The night was just coming on, the brilliant colors of dusk adding a peachy glow to everything, including her cheeks. He was on a mission after all. The plan had worked. He’d executed it about as well as he could, giving her time to decide to choose him.

Because he knew, the woman always chooses. He just had to wait until she did.

‡

M
oustafa could not
believe his eyes. The sandy-haired military man was in the bookstore, and he was looking at a woman. Perhaps
his
woman. What luck! Allah had indeed granted him his wish. This soldier was one of the bearded ones he wanted to stay behind to help kill. Now the man was here, feeling safe at home, standing practically in front of him and had no idea that his enemy stalked him. This dirty golden-haired man was responsible for killing three of their top commanders with a well-placed bomb.

He recalled that day several months ago when he nearly lost his bowels as he saw his wife’s face amid the pile of rubble that was her body. Her guts and brains splayed across the hot dusty street. Perhaps this
Infidel
would like to experience the same. Moustafa would watch this soldier’s face while he peeled this woman’s flesh from her body, watched her soil herself and scream to the uncaring ears of his fellow Afghan brothers.

Today, he considered himself Warrior for the Prophet, in a suicide pact. His mission had been to find people to kill in the United States. This woman, and certainly the soldier, needed killing to avenge his wife and family. He believed what the mullah told him; that the more blood he seeped his hands in the cleaner his soul would be.

Chosen because he had a student visa, he was sent to San Diego through a multi-faith ecumenical humanitarian group that wanted to help aid his country and the growing refugee problem. It was designed to give him a fresh start in the U.S.

He recalled how he didn’t want to do it at first, wished he could stay back in Afghanistan to fight in the war. Finally, reluctantly, he accepted his role. Now he could see the wisdom of this decision. He’d been destined to achieve a higher purpose.

He knew something of the California town where he was headed because he’d been an exchange student in Stockton, a large village in Northern California, back in the day when his father had a thriving medical practice. But all that was gone now. Because of this, however, the choice to send him was an easy one.

He’d played the card right. Complained the same enemies of the U.S. and coalition forces had destroyed his family, which was partially true. Half of them were killed by the Americans and half by the tribal leaders who used the war as an opportunity to gain more power and wealth.
Impatient violators
he called them. The Christian group believed him. Sponsored him and gave him an apartment.

He reconnected with his first American teacher in Stockton who said he was pleased to see him, but seemed reserved, asking questions of his intent. Moustafa decided he did not trust this man any longer. His years of living in California had made the man soft. One of his sons had even married an American girl, but though she converted, she didn’t wear the traditional headdress to show proper respect to her husband or the Prophet.

Americans were so gullible, so trusting in the face of superior strength. They couldn’t believe the worst in people, and sent those who did off to prison or the institutions for people not right in the head. California would be a perfect breeding ground for younger trainees, and they would be welcomed with open arms.

So here was the Mustard captain, he called him that because of his sandy hair. He stood out because in the sunlight on those days back in Kabul, his hair almost looked like a red flame poking out from his shemagh. It reminded Moustafa that all infidels needed to be burned to purge the world of their evil and their debauched soft god.

He hid behind one of the large square pillars in the old building and could tell this man lusted after this woman and would take her soon. He crossed and uncrossed his arms and legs, relieving himself of the tent in his groin. Moustafa was careful to take pictures without anyone eyeing him.

He photographed the woman, dressed as some red child-devil with a beard, reading to little children, filling their minds with fanciful stories of lightness and goodness while their fathers went off to war on Moustafa’s people. They would all come to understand. Actually, it wasn’t understanding he sought. They would submit and be forced to give up their way of life at the point of a sword. Fat, sloppy with their logic and loose with their morals, they had forgotten what pain and hard work was all about.