Read Online Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) by Anne Marsh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Marsh
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work for it.
She leans forward, pinning a second, lacy bit onto the board. Her shirt rides up and her denim cut-offs head down, stopping barely south of the Promised Land. The material stretches, gaping teasingly over the soft, shadowy hollows where her legs meet other, more interesting parts of her body and the edge of her very pretty panties.
Danger. Imagine me and my divorce plans as a squad moving down a trail. I’ve got eyes on my surroundings, scanning for enemy movement because I’m not going in unprotected. Hindi shifts, her shorts riding down, flashing me a baby blue thong. Derailed, my dick immediately aborts today’s mission, because the only position it’s interested in is missionary. Or cowgirl, pole position, doggy style, or a little stairway to heaven action. Any and all work for my dick—and overtime is definitely on the table.
Stick with the plan.
“I’ve set up an appointment for us with a family practice lawyer,” I say, deciding to ignore said dick.
“What if I want my own lawyer?” She stabs another cloth square.
“Feel free to make your own appointment,” I tell her. No more rescues for her. She’s used up her lifetime quota and then some. “But I want to find out exactly where we stand legally and what we need to do to finalize our separation. Then we can start moving forward.”
My dick promptly suggests that a course of in-and-out action would be fan-fucking-tastic. Yes. I’m discussing my divorce with the same woman I’m having dirty fantasies about. I’m not sure why everyone insists I’m such a goddamned hero. It’s like they take a look at my outside and hear SEAL and decide that means I’m good on the inside. News flash. I’m not even all that interested in being a nice person. Hindi’s still hot. I can look but not touch. And as long as I keep my mouth shut, I refuse to feel bad about it.
I expect her to thank me. To ask who I’ve retained as my lawyer. Maybe demand references or ask about the costs (yes, I’m planning on footing the bill, but it would be polite for her to offer to split the costs). Instead, Hindi scoots around and leans back on her arms so she can see my face. She doesn’t look pleased.
I definitely remember what her O-face looks like, and the tight smile stretching her mouth isn’t happy, grateful, or pleasured.
“You don’t think that’s a conflict of interest?”
“This is fact-finding. Recon.” I’m trying to be patient, but time’s wasting. I would have texted her, but I don’t seem to have her current number. The one in my phone went to some stockbroker in New Jersey who now has an unhealthy interest in my sex life and promised I’m rooting for you, man . “There’s no conflict.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. Yes, in case you were wondering? That does do spectacular things for her tits. My eyes promptly glue themselves to the vee of her shirt. Pretty sure her bra matches her panties.
“We’re getting divorced,” she says, emphasizing the last word. “I think that pretty much guarantees conflict.”
Right.
“We want the same thing.”
“Uh-huh.” She purses her lips. This is either an unfortunate or clever move on her part, because the look on her face reminds me of our last afternoon in New York. She’d eyed my dick the same way. She’d read something about lip gloss and blow jobs in a magazine, and naturally I’d volunteered as her test subject. I’m not sure what was supposed to happen, but she’d sucked me in slowly, cherry-slick lips parting over my dick. I’d smelled like fucking fruit for the rest of the day, but it had been worth it. Christ, she got me going.
“You don’t believe me?”
Now it’s her time to shrug.
I go on the offensive. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“Somebody promised forever,” she points out. “I got more like ninety days.”
“You made promises, too.”
“Yeah.” She has the nerve to sound wistful. It doesn’t last, though. Surprisingly, Hindi
She leans forward, pinning a second, lacy bit onto the board. Her shirt rides up and her denim cut-offs head down, stopping barely south of the Promised Land. The material stretches, gaping teasingly over the soft, shadowy hollows where her legs meet other, more interesting parts of her body and the edge of her very pretty panties.
Danger. Imagine me and my divorce plans as a squad moving down a trail. I’ve got eyes on my surroundings, scanning for enemy movement because I’m not going in unprotected. Hindi shifts, her shorts riding down, flashing me a baby blue thong. Derailed, my dick immediately aborts today’s mission, because the only position it’s interested in is missionary. Or cowgirl, pole position, doggy style, or a little stairway to heaven action. Any and all work for my dick—and overtime is definitely on the table.
Stick with the plan.
“I’ve set up an appointment for us with a family practice lawyer,” I say, deciding to ignore said dick.
“What if I want my own lawyer?” She stabs another cloth square.
“Feel free to make your own appointment,” I tell her. No more rescues for her. She’s used up her lifetime quota and then some. “But I want to find out exactly where we stand legally and what we need to do to finalize our separation. Then we can start moving forward.”
My dick promptly suggests that a course of in-and-out action would be fan-fucking-tastic. Yes. I’m discussing my divorce with the same woman I’m having dirty fantasies about. I’m not sure why everyone insists I’m such a goddamned hero. It’s like they take a look at my outside and hear SEAL and decide that means I’m good on the inside. News flash. I’m not even all that interested in being a nice person. Hindi’s still hot. I can look but not touch. And as long as I keep my mouth shut, I refuse to feel bad about it.
I expect her to thank me. To ask who I’ve retained as my lawyer. Maybe demand references or ask about the costs (yes, I’m planning on footing the bill, but it would be polite for her to offer to split the costs). Instead, Hindi scoots around and leans back on her arms so she can see my face. She doesn’t look pleased.
I definitely remember what her O-face looks like, and the tight smile stretching her mouth isn’t happy, grateful, or pleasured.
“You don’t think that’s a conflict of interest?”
“This is fact-finding. Recon.” I’m trying to be patient, but time’s wasting. I would have texted her, but I don’t seem to have her current number. The one in my phone went to some stockbroker in New Jersey who now has an unhealthy interest in my sex life and promised I’m rooting for you, man . “There’s no conflict.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. Yes, in case you were wondering? That does do spectacular things for her tits. My eyes promptly glue themselves to the vee of her shirt. Pretty sure her bra matches her panties.
“We’re getting divorced,” she says, emphasizing the last word. “I think that pretty much guarantees conflict.”
Right.
“We want the same thing.”
“Uh-huh.” She purses her lips. This is either an unfortunate or clever move on her part, because the look on her face reminds me of our last afternoon in New York. She’d eyed my dick the same way. She’d read something about lip gloss and blow jobs in a magazine, and naturally I’d volunteered as her test subject. I’m not sure what was supposed to happen, but she’d sucked me in slowly, cherry-slick lips parting over my dick. I’d smelled like fucking fruit for the rest of the day, but it had been worth it. Christ, she got me going.
“You don’t believe me?”
Now it’s her time to shrug.
I go on the offensive. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“Somebody promised forever,” she points out. “I got more like ninety days.”
“You made promises, too.”
“Yeah.” She has the nerve to sound wistful. It doesn’t last, though. Surprisingly, Hindi
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