Read Online Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) by Anne Marsh - Free Book Online

on her and I seriously outweigh her in all but the tit department—where she’s world-class—so all she can do is thrash her head while she calls me every name in the book. That’s okay. I know how to wait. Her hair half-tumbles out of that ridiculous little knot and I dodge a flying pencil and some other unidentified object. She’s got all this money and success and yet she still anchors her hair with whatever’s closest instead of some designer doohickey. Rebellious curls spring out in all directions, and for a moment I lose my focus, imagining what would happen if I slipped those last few anchors free. Her hair would come down, frame her face, kiss her shoulders.
    Hindi is not an organized person. This quality can be charming or drive me bat-shit crazy; I’ve always secretly admitted it was a good thing we never actually lived together, because I’d have come home one day and discovered we had no power and no water because she’d forgotten to pay the bills. It’s not intentional oversight on her part, but mundane details are simply not part of the Hindi-verse.
    Case in point? Her bungalow. I’m pretty sure the rental came with a floor and the usual complement of furniture, but the place looks like a fabric store mated with Aladdin’s cave. Or exploded. Bits and pieces are everywhere. I pick something pink and silky off the side of her head while I wait for her to calm down. Talking to her now wouldn’t be effective, plus my dick’s plenty happy where it is.
    Combat is all about winning. No one goes into battle fucking intent on losing—but the army who focuses best is the one with the edge. I ignore the colorful chaos and target my bride.
    “We need to talk,” I tell her.
    She sticks her tongue out at me. Pretty sure that’s a fuck me that comes out of her pretty, wicked mouth.
    “Is that an invitation?” I ease up so she can suck in a breath. This has the added bonus of shoving her tits against me when she takes her window of opportunity.
    And then she hesitates. Right. As if she really wants to have sex with me, her should-have-been-ex. There may be some leftover chemistry between us, but that’s apparently because we’ve both got a thing for hate sex. Or maybe a hidden dark side that’s into BDSM or other painful shit—because there’s absolutely no way we could have a normal relationship. Or any relationship at all. And before I can ask her if she means it, if she’s really thinking about sex with me, I roll off her. Distance right now would be prudent.
    “Bastard,” she mutters, slapping me on the chest as she eases into a sitting position. As if she could hurt me.
    “Talk,” I remind her.
    “Or what? You’ll put me in a chokehold? Time out? The naughty corner?”
    Jesus. Yes. She has no idea how much that last option appeals. I can work with the fantasy of her bare, upturned ass bouncing on my knee. My hand making sexy contact with her skin, not to hurt, but because it’s one hell of a fucking game and Hindi definitely needs someone to take her in hand. She’s always been just that little bit lost and sex makes for one hell of a road map.
    She shuffles some of the colored squares in front of her. If there’s a pattern forming, I don’t recognize it. “About what?”
    Already this operation is not a success. Focus .
    “Our divorce,” I tell her. There’s a beat of silence and then Hindi stabs a square of hot pink fabric onto a gigantic poster board. From the way the pin slices through the material, I infer that Hindi isn’t feeling particularly friendly—so score one for me.
    Military tactics are simple at heart. You hit your opponent hard, you hit him fast, and you don’t hold back. You get bonus points for hitting the spot most likely to hurt and if you do it when he’s least expecting it. Yesterday, Hindi ambushed me on the beach, so today I’m switching things up. I’m bringing the war to her. If her objective is to win a divorce from me, my new objective is to make her