SEAL My Home: Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 2 (SEAL Brotherhood Series 9) (22 page)

I
t was still
black outside. At first, Megan was alarmed as a hand snaked up her backside. She’d been sleeping on her stomach, clutching the pillow that had the aroma of the man she was missing already. His touch was careful, letting his fingers travel down her thigh by just grazing her flesh. She heard him removing his clothes and in the dark room, smelled that familiar scent of her only real lover.

She turned her head on the pillow, moving her hair from her eyes. “Hey, you’re back. Did I sleep for a week?” She started to turn, but he held her in place.

“I didn’t finish saying goodbye.”

God, she wished it were a hello.

His lips and tongue found her core as she hugged the pillow to her chest and raised her rump to his hungry mouth. His sucking and tasting was loud. He was mumbling something to himself.

“What are you saying?” She smiled through sleepy eyes, seeing his white teeth in the early morning moonlight but not able to see the rest of his face.

“The guy who fucked you last night made you all swollen, honey. I’m sorry, but this looks like it hurts.”

“Try me,” she said as she balanced on her forearms. “Let’s take it slow and make it last all day. Maybe then I won’t be sore anymore.”

“Ah, honey, I can’t do that. I don’t have much time. And we gotta talk.”

“Can’t you talk while you fuck? I want you inside me right now, Rory Kennedy.”

“No.”

“Then tell me how it feels to taste me.”

“Honey. It’s like honey. Smooth and slippery,” He inserted his forefinger inside her and twisted. She felt the pang of swollen lips and little friction cuts.

“Oh,” she moaned into the pillow. “You have to relieve me. Can you do that, Rory?”

He took a big inhale, and she felt his sheathed penis root up the cleft in her behind, finally settling on her swollen sex. He hesitated.

“I’m so sorry this is gonna be quick.”

“See? I was right.”

“Right about what?” He was poised at her opening, pressing just a little. His thumb pressed but did not enter her anus.

She was flushed with the electric anticipation of what would happen next.

“You can talk—” her words were cut off as she felt him ram into her, one hand splaying under her neck, supporting her head, while the other hand and strong arm covered her belly from the underside, lifting her pelvis up off the bed, pulling her onto his shaft.

“See? You can’t.”

“Ow.” His size was splitting her delicate folds.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Yes.”

He started to pull out but she reached around, grabbed one of his butt cheeks, and pressed him into her again. “Don’t stop.”

“Megan—”

“Fuck me, Rory.”

He angled and then pushed deep, pressing against her muscles inside as she moved her lower body back and forth, changing the position, pulling him in as hard as she could. He grabbed her shoulders from underneath. She rose to seated position, riding his lap. His callused palms traveled up from her navel, over her breasts, and he twisted her nipples. She jumped at how flushed and sensitive she was all over.

“I want to wake up every morning like this, Rory. I want to watch the sun rise just like this.”

“We’ll see if we can’t make that happen, honey.” He continued his relentless rhythm.

“I want this, Rory. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

“Yes, baby.” He thrust deep, and she could feel his spasms. Her orgasm had just begun. She held her breath, hoping she could fall into oblivion, and then it hit. She leaned forward, and raised and lowered her body on him, smoothly gliding over his throbbing member until she too was throbbing. Her spine tingled, her nipples ached, and her lips were ravenous for the side of his face as he planted another hickey on her neck. She dug her nails into his buttocks pulling him deeper still as her body was racked with waves of pleasure.

He was massaging the back of her neck as her body settled, as their breathing slowed in tandem. He tenderly kissed each vertebrae of her back, then led them to lie down, while he spooned behind her.

As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was filled with grief that they’d be separated again. “How do they do this, Rory?”

“How do they do what, honey?”

“Let you go. How do the wives—” She stopped, unsure if she should have mentioned that word.

“If you were my wife, you’d wait for me, wouldn’t you, Megan?” He’d whispered it in her ear, which sent an erotic tickle throughout her body. She needed to see his face.

She turned, inserting one knee between his, the other on top, pressing her breasts against his chest as she played with the stiff light brown hair that sat scruffy in all directions, and then folded over his ears. Lastly, she placed the fingertips over his lips, acknowledging he said something perhaps he did not mean. After all, it wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

It was a true statement.

‡

G
athering back at
the hangar, Kyle searched, counting heads. The military transport was waiting like a big grey moth on the runway. Since Gina and Armando were up at the snow and couldn’t get back in time, they’d been ordered to stay put and be vigilant. Luke and Julie were visiting Nick and Devon up in Sonoma County, working in the vineyard for a week’s leave that had been preplanned.

Rory had had second thoughts about going on the flight. He’d halfway convinced himself he’d just go bust and stay behind to watch over Megan. He was in a sour mood. The waiting was taking its toll. He had to put his trust and faith in people and organizations he didn’t even know. He knew what kind of training they had. He knew they could handle anything that came along. He had no such confidence in the FBI or even Naval Intelligence.

“You can’t stay behind, Rory. You gotta do everything you can to keep with the team. You bail, and I can’t save you. Ask yourself. Is it worth it?”

“Hell yeah, Kyle, it’s worth it. I don’t like this little cat and mouse game. This dude wants me. I can feel it. And I get the funny feeling he knows about her.”

“But you don’t have any evidence, Rory. Give them a chance. If they screw it up, then we jump in, and I’m right alongside you. No one will stop us.”

Reluctantly, he agreed, but every other word in his vocabulary was fuck, and T.J. had to ask him several times to tone it down. He was making them all nervous.

“You don’t question what they tell us to do over there, Rory. You stop your second-guessing and bellyaching over here, Rory. Kyle’s 100% right.”

Tyler arrived late. “Sorry, boss,” he mumbled. “We just found out we’re pregnant, and Stephanie is having a hard time in the mornings.”

“Gotcha, and congrats. Everything goes right, you’ll get back before the birth.” Kyle’s comment drew chuckles from the group.

Fredo and Cooper were the first to enter the plane. Rory watched Kyle search the skyline, which was beginning to pink up to a bright winter day. T.J., Ollie, Brady, Mark and Tyler climbed the metal stairs as Rory followed. Kyle took one last look at the horizon, something he’d always done on every mission they’d been on, and then the door was latched in place.

They sat in uncomfortable metal seats, facing each other, spaced out so there was room for their loose gear. All the firepower was fully secured, strapped into place safely. Rory saw on the faces of every one of them that they didn’t like to leave their loved ones behind, and then settled back for the long six-hour flight to Alaska.

‡

M
oustafa was angry
the warrior’s Hummer wasn’t in the driveway. He glanced at the glossy photographs on his lap, including the one he liked to finger. What kind of a man makes love to a woman, leaves her before morning prayers and does not come back to her bed afterwards?

Panic set in as he wondered if the man had been deployed. Perhaps that was why he didn’t stay over. Would this mean he would not get his revenge?

His first teacher had told him The Prophet provided everything he needed, and to relax. That was good advice. He missed that teacher this morning.

He decided to go back to the coffee shop where he’d seen the woman and her friends. No one looked familiar to him.

He next visited the yoga studio. As he was pulling away, he saw the little red vehicle enter the parking lot across the street. She was running in her flip-flops, her hair held up in a clip or some other device. From her disheveled appearance, he figured she was late.

Indeed, he does provide.

He watched the tempting morsel melt into the darkened glass of the studio door.

Suddenly, he had an idea. He had his training bag in the trunk of his vehicle, the black shirt and MMA Kickboxing shorts washed and ready for his next workout. He grabbed the bag, locked the car, and stopped at the front desk.

A cheerful Asian woman dressed in pink workout clothes greeted him. He inquired if there was a class being conducted right now.

She checked her watch. “You’ll have to hurry. We lock the doors in four minutes.”

“Lock the doors?” This was unbelievable, locking women in an exercise class.

“This is a Bikram yoga class. Hot yoga. The room gets to over one hundred and five degrees. Whenever the door opens, it lets in cold air. We prefer to leave it hot.”

He thought it was strange anyone would pay to take a class in the heat he was accustomed in his country. “I’ll be quick, then.”

“That will be four dollars. You can take a locker there and use the men’s room around the corner to change, if you wish.”

Moustafa paid the fee, raced to the men’s room, stripped, putting on his boxing pants and the long-sleeved black shirt. His hair was pulled back in a plastic band. He stowed everything carefully, positioning his knife, handcuffs, and zip ties at the bottom of the bag, and then placing his street clothes on top before carefully closing the bag. He set his bag in a locker and left his shoes in a row near the other class participants. He glided like a gazelle to the pink beauty guarding the doorway, and she ushered him inside.

The class, taking no notice of him, was in the middle of a breathing exercise, sitting in lotus position with eyes closed, led by an attractive young woman in all white. He found a spot on the firm wooden floor, the bones of his rear smarting as he sat, watching the others and taking the same position with knees crossed, forefinger and thumbs touching with his other three fingers flared outward as his hands rested on his knees. The voice of the class teacher was liquid and sexy, and it moved about the room, coming closer to him. He felt a gentle nudge at his shoulder and looked up to see she had brought him a rolled up mat.

He could be very quiet. He’d perfected this. Without alerting anyone else, he spread the mat and assumed his position, again checking with his neighbor on his right and left. That was when he saw her. She was in his row, about five students down to his left. She sat with her perfect spine, a white towel draped around her neck. She was inhaling, as the teacher was instructing, holding one palm against her stomach, making herself concave, holding her breath. He forced himself to do the same, focusing toward the front.

The heat was beginning to send him into a trance like what his grandmother used to talk to him about. She’d told him it was possible to work one’s self into a meditative state where one could levitate, like the ancient dancers. Her people had practiced a form of Sufism that had been banned since the early part of the last century, and for good reason, Moustafa thought.

But as he sweat in the small locked room, the only male there, he felt he touched the hand of The Prophet himself. A showering of jewels fell over him as his eyes closed. He felt the cool facets as they tickled his skin. He felt them spill out over the wooden floor. He opened his eyes but saw no jewels before him.

Closing his eyes again, he felt The Prophet speaking to him again.
These will be your sacrifices to the honor of your God. This would be a good death, a worthy death. A death that would mean pain and heartache to many others who loved these young women.