Sandra Hill (24 page)

“No, open your eyes. I want to see your orgasm. I want you to see me enjoying your orgasm.”

Meanwhile, he was still embedded in her, to the hilt, trying his best not to move, because to move would mean instant, way-too-quick ejaculation.

When her body stopped its delicious squeeze on him, he leaned down and kissed her parted lips. “Babe” was all he could manage to say.

But she said nothing.

He soon found out why.

She spread her bent knees wider. “If you do not start moving, I am going to smack your arse to get you moving.”

He would have laughed if he could have. Instead, he began long, slow strokes against her friction. Sweet torture. He kissed her as he moved. He caressed. He murmured his appreciation of all she did to make this better for both of them. When he came, she came with him. They shattered apart but at the same time seemed to melt together.

Every time he made love to Britta it was different.

Every time he made love to Britta it was better.

When he was able to breathe without gasping for breath, he raised his head, still half limp inside her. She stared up at him, wide-eyed, with parted lips. She looked stunned.

“That’s what I call ringing your bell.”

She remained dazed, gazing at him. “Is it always like this betwixt a man and a woman?”

“No.” He traced her lips with the tips of his fingers, then kissed her softly. “No, it’s not. It seems you and I have something special going on. I’m not sure what it is. Chemistry. Emotion. Probably both.”

She frowned, not understanding a word he’d said. “Can you do it again?”

“What?”

“Ring my bell.”

“Oh, Britta, you are priceless. No, we don’t have time. I’ve got to get back to the—”

She rocked her hips against him, which of course caused his half-limp cock to come to life inside her again and protest in manly sign language,
Who doesn’t have time?

Then she did something so uninhibited, even a little kinky, that caused him to almost swallow his tongue.

He checked the glowing face on his watch.

“Maybe a little ring,” he said.

A short time later…a
really
short time later, Zach was dropping Britta off in front of the Wet and Wild.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you back to the base when I report for duty?”

She shook her head. “Nay, I must needs return with my comrades. We made a pact afore coming here that we would stick together. Unless one of us got lucky.” She was deep in thought for a second. “What does ‘getting lucky’ mean?”

He was about to say, “Getting laid,” but figured she wouldn’t understand that, either. “Getting their bells rung.”

Her mouth formed a perfect O, then she giggled. Zach realized then that he’d never heard Britta giggle. Hell, with the childhood she’d had, she’d probably never ever giggled before. He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

“Don’t go away, Britta,” he blurted out.
Where did that come from?

“I must go back to the base.”

He shook his head. “Not there.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I may not have a choice about going back.”

“Just don’t. Please. Wait till I get back, and we can talk.”

Her friends were coming out of the tavern now. Britta called to them out of the open window, telling them she would be with them in a moment. Then she turned to him, and there were honest-to-God tears in her eyes.

Tears? From Britta? What next?

“Be safe,” she whispered huskily, kissed him quickly, and was gone.

Zach sat behind the wheel, unmoving, trying to fathom what had just happened. His heart felt funny, sort of achy. There was a buzzing in his head. He wanted desperately to call her back and ask what she’d really meant, because what he was thinking was impossible.

One thing he did know. There was no way that little sexercise in the back parking lot was Britta taking notes to com-pare him with other guys. Nope. Britta had been telling him in her own way that she cared about him.

He had a lightbulb moment then, the kind that makes a guy wonder how he could be so dense.

As he drove home to pick up his gear and make last-minute arrangements, he was alternately smiling and frowning about this particular epiphany. And it wasn’t related to Britta turning the tables on him sex-wise, or not entirely.

I’m falling in love.

No, no, no! I can’t be falling in love. Falling in love is a bad thing. Bad time. Bad in every respect. Bad, bad, bad!

Like love waits for the right time. Like love is bad.

I. Am. Not. In. Love.

But what if…what if, for the first time in my friggin’—literally friggin’—life, I’m falling in love?

It’s just lust, and some mind-blowing sex. That’s all.

Ha, ha, ha!

Commander Ian MacLean glanced at the memo in his hand and passed it to Floyd, whose face immediately turned red.

“This is just great! Now they expect me to be the sex police.” He glared at Floyd, who didn’t have the sense to keep his skivvies under lock and key. Too bad the Navy didn’t make chastity belts…for its men.

“It’s not really fraternization. It’s just that I’ve known Britta for a while, and I feel responsible for her. Like a brother…or something.”

“That doesn’t even pass the giggle test, boy.”

“Yeah, it
was
pretty lame.”

“What next?” He threw his arms out in disgust.

He found out the next day, just before the team went boots up, when he got another blasted note from his female ombudsman.

“WHAT?”
His outraged exclamation could be heard down the corridors of the command center.

Luckily, a certain SEAL was out on assignment and was not expected back for several days. Otherwise, a certain SEAL might be minus a certain body part.

From the Dennis the Menace book of tricks…

Samir was bored. He was scared. He was pissed. And, yeah, he might be five years old, but he knew what pissed meant.

His father had been gone for almost a week. And he had had eight…EIGHT…babysitters so far. Not family members like his grandmother or Uncle Danny, not even family friends, except for once in a while the witch Madrene. Nope, these were big ol’ scowling giants with arms the size of Frisbees and grumpy voices…even the women. They didn’t let him do ANYTHING…not anything fun, anyhow, like play blood-and-guts video games…or play catch outside. The only thing they would let him watch on TV was
Sesame Street
or
Noggin
.
Like I’m ever gonna play with someone like Dora the Boring Explorer! Or Ernie the Dork!
They wouldn’t even let him have Pepsi and Twinkies for breakfast.
They probably give prisoners that shredded hay stuff with milk and no sugar.

The only visitor he was allowed to have was a tutor…that was the name for a teacher with bad breath who forced him to read silly books, like
See Jane Run
.
If I was Jane, I
would run, too…right out the door.
And numbers!
My brain hurts from doing all those numbers.
He liked studying geography, though, especially when he could see on a map how far away Afghanistan was. And history, he liked that, too. That Ben Franklin was a cool guy; he wrote a book called
Fart Proudly
.
Farts are awesome.

Mostly, though, he was scared. They wouldn’t be having all these big goons watching him if they didn’t think that his grandfather was close by.

What would Grandfather do if he got me? Would he lop off my head like I saw him do one time to Taj’s cousin’s uncle? Probably not. But he would beat me. I am certain of that. Maybe with a whip this time.

And he was scared that his father would not come back. Just like his mother. She had gone on a mission, too. And got killed.

Samir needed to do something, but he was only a little boy. He needed help. From someone who could be coaxed into stuff.

Suddenly, he knew.

Britta.

From caterpillar to babysitter, all in one day…

A week had gone by since Britta had made a harlot of herself…and, yea, that was how she increasingly viewed her performance on the metal frame of an automobile with Zachary.

Not that she had not enjoyed herself.

Not that she would not repeat the exercise, if given the chance.

But Zachary and some of his cohorts had been gone for almost a sennight now, and not a word about their whereabouts, or even if they were still alive. She’d tried to ask the commander about the mission on several occasions, but he’d merely glowered at her, muttering something about stupid men and stupider women.

“Okay, snuffies, I think it’s time for a new game,” the chieftain named F.U. said with an evil glint in his eye, mostly directed at her.

For some reason, he had taken a dislike to her and picked on her constantly. No doubt because she had dumped him on his arse that first day, but he had more than deserved his comeuppance. Since Zachary and some of the other instructors were away on a mission, Chieftain F.U. was in charge, backed up on occasion by Commander MacLean.

The performance that the WEALS had given for the visiting law persons five days past had gone well. In fact, one of the female governing persons—a senator, just like the ancient Romans—had taken her aside and asked, “How are they
really
treating you?”

Taken aback, she replied, “Our training is difficult, but less so than SEALs. No need for complaint.” Britta was being generous. She would have liked to tell her of the incessant running, the incessant surf passages, and all the other incessants, but she had held her tongue. “Choosing battles” was a tactic she’d learned this week in battle theory class, and a good lesson it was, too.

“I like your attitude,” the white-haired woman had said. Then she had put a small parchment item in her hand. “That’s my telephone number. A private line. If there’s ever a problem, just call me.”

Now, five days later, they were deep in physical training…again. Incessantly.

She and the other WEALS had just returned from a five-mile run on the sandy shore carrying that heavy rub-her boat. To say they were hot, tired, dirty, odorsome, and in pain would be like saying that boars had bad breath…a large understatement.

“Okay, snuffies, here’s the deal,” the commander told them. “Next week we go to San Clemente Island again for survival training and Sims. The week after will be rock portage, the gateway evolution for SEALs and WEALS. Doesn’t mean you’re on easy street after that, but it is a major hurdle. Now I’ll turn the program over to Instructor Uxley, and I’ll see you early Monday morning.”

“Yes, Commander, sir!”

Chieftain F.U. waited till the commander was out of hearing range, then yelled, “I’m thinkin’ it’s time to play caterpillar, sweet things, and guess who’s gonna give head…I mean, be the head?” He winked at Britta. If ever a wink could be construed as malicious, his was.

No doubt this would be another exercise in torture designed to make the women ring the quitting bell. Her assumption soon proved true.

In truth, everything they did these days was torture. And the hollered orders all ran together. “A-ten-shun!” “Listen up!” “Run, run, run!” “Recover!” “Hydrate!” “You weak-as-piss maggots!” “A-ten-shun!” “Fall in!” “Fall out!” “A-ten-shun!” “Drop!” “Drop and give me twenty…thirty…fifty!” “Hydrate!” “Recover!” “On your backs, scruffies!” “On your feet!” “A-ten-shun!” “Up boats!” “Down boats!” “Hydrate!” “Hit the deck!” “You can always ring out!” In between, they kept hearing that blasted whistle and must needs react in the correct manner.

Now they were going to be bloody caterpillars.

Wearing heavy life vests and helmets, the trainees were forced to sit in the water in a line, breasts to backs, snugly placing the legs around the person in front, thus becoming a water-going caterpillar. They could paddle out to deeper waters with their hands but not kick their legs. The vests kept them buoyant, but they were nigh drowned after a half hour in this position. When they staggered back to shore, vomiting, several instructors helped those in greatest need. Chieftain F.U. just smirked. Three women wobbled up to the bell to ring out. Leaving only thirty of the original ninety-five, a number that did not surprise those in authority.

The caterpillar nonsense was a not-so-great ending to a not-so-great week, with a two-day liberty looming ahead, but all Britta could think about was sleep. That plan was cut short when Commander MacLean intercepted her on the way to the women’s quarters.

“Madrene wants to talk with you,” he said, handing her a telephone.

“Greetings!” she said.

“Britta, how do you fare?” Madrene asked. In the background, she could hear Sammy clamoring, “Let me talk, let me talk.”

“How do I fare? I am sore. I am tired. I am dirty. I am hungry. And I smell. Other than that, I am just wonderful.”

Madrene laughed. “Well, I can take care of one of those. Wouldst join me and Hilda for dinner tonight? Ian could drop you off here at Pretty Boy’s on his way home. I am watching Sammy today, but one of the guards will be taking over.”

The thought of getting into a small vehicle space with the dour commander was daunting, but Britta relished the idea of meeting with these two old friends. Plus she yearned for news of Zachary, and going to his home might provide the information she wanted.

Several hours later Britta braved the guards surrounding Zachary’s keep, whilst Madrene brought her two children out to the automobile for the grumbling commander to take home so she could enjoy a “girls’ night out.” She noticed that the commander kissed Madrene sweetly afore leaving, which made her think that mayhap he was not as bad as he appeared.

Besides, on the drive there, the commander gave her news of Zachary and his comrades-in-arms. They might be home in a few days, she was told. Plus, she found out that they had not left the country but instead were fighting terrorists at a football stadium. Football was a ludicrous game in this country where grown men threw a leather ball and tackled each other with great force, often causing serious injury. Viking men would love it. In any case, Zachary could not be in such great danger at a game, she told herself.

The second Britta entered Zachary’s keep, Sammy launched himself at her, arms wrapped tightly around her neck and little legs hugging her waist. He was sobbing and talking a garbled message that seemed to indicate he was lonely and scared and wanted her to stay with him.

Madrene, who had been watching him that day, just shook her head with dismay. “I don’t know what to do with the boyling. The longer Pretty Boy is away, the more frantic he becomes.”

Madrene went to open the door for Hilda, who had just arrived. Britta sat down on a soft fabric, cushiony chair and pulled Sammy onto her lap, drying his eyes with the hem of his tea-ing
shert
. At the little-boy scent of his skin and the feel of his tightly clinging arms, Britta fought to control her tears…and a yearning for something she had never thought possible for herself: motherhood.

“Stay with me,” he wailed.

“I cannot, dearling. I must needs do my military training.”

“All the time?” His words were alternated with hiccups.

“Well, not all the time. Most times.”

“Stay now.”

“I am going out to dine with Madrene and Hilda.”

“You’re leaving me here…alone.”

That set off a new round of crying. And more aching in the region of her heart. “You are not alone. There is always someone here with you.”

“But they are different all the time. The only one who’s the same is Madrene, and she’s a witch.”

She and Madrene exchanged glances and grins.

“Come into the scullery, my little man,” Hilda said, taking him by the hand. “I brought you a surprise.”

She thought she heard Sammy mutter something odd—“It better not be more stupid underwear”—as they left the room.

“What was that all about?” she asked Madrene once they were alone and her friend sat in a chair next to her.

“The poor kid is distraught over his missing father. Thinks he’s never coming back.”

“Has he not been told this is his father’s job? That he has every intention of returning?”

“Yea, but the little boy has experienced much loss in his short life. He is convinced that Pretty Boy is going to die and leave him alone in this country. Plus he has had a parade of guards here to watch over him. They are good people but strangers. In time, I am sure Pretty Boy will find help that is steady and reliable, but for now at least the child is safe.”

“How about you?”

“I help when I can, but I have my own home and children to care for.”

“And Zachary’s family? I have met Danny.”

“They help when they can, but they all have jobs, too.”

“And danger looms still from the grandsire?”

“More so than ever with Pretty Boy gone.”

“Why does he cling to me? I am almost a stranger, too.”

“Methinks he senses your common backgrounds. Both lost in a new country. Both stumbling with the language. Both a little lonely. Both facing some danger. Both caring deeply for Pretty Boy.”

Britta was about to argue the caring for Zachary bit but held her tongue. Instead, she pondered Madrene’s words and offered hesitantly, “I could stay with him tonight and mayhap tomorrow night. Try to calm him down and explain things to him. But then I would have to return to the base.”

“Would you?” Madrene asked with great enthusiasm. “Praise the gods, would you, please?”

“I would.”

“I will be so appreciative, and so will Pretty Boy. I know this is cutting into the little free time you have.”

“’Tis no bother.” And that was the truth. “I have no inclination to join my women friends in shopping for clothing I do not need. Who needs more than two pairs of braies and two pairs of shoes? Dost know, my friend Terri has twenty-five pairs of shoes back at her home? How can any one woman wear that many shoes?”

Madrene smiled, no doubt having been as dumbstruck as her on first arriving in this country. “You will learn to love shoes, believe me.”

“Nor am I inclined to go clubbing again ‘to get lucky.’ I have been lucky enough, thank you very much.”

At first, Madrene’s eyes went wide, then she flashed her a huge grin. “Now this is a subject we must discuss over dinner.”

“Getting lucky?”

“Sex.”

“Ah. One and the same, am I not correct?”

“Holy Thor, mayhap I could learn a thing or two from you.”

“Mayhap,” Britta said, with a surprising lack of humility. She leaned toward Madrene then and whispered, “Dost know about multiple orgasms?”

Madrene blinked at her, then burst out laughing.

They were both laughing when a puzzled Hilda and Sammy returned to the solar.