Cruisin' for a SEAL Read online

  Cruisin’ For a SEAL

  New York Times and USA/Today Bestselling Author

  Sharon Hamilton

  Copyright © 2014 by Sharon Hamilton

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Author’s Note

  http://sharonhamiltonauthor.com/

  I always dedicate my SEAL Brotherhood books to the brave men and women who defend our shores and keep us safe. Without their sacrifice, and that of their families—because a warrior’s fight always includes his or her family—I wouldn’t have the freedom and opportunity to make a living writing these stories. They sometimes pay the ultimate price so we can debate, argue, go have coffee with friends, raise our children and see them have children of their own.

  One of my favorite homages to warriors resides on many memorials, including one I saw honoring the fallen of WWII on an island in the Pacific:

  “When you go home

  Tell them of us,

  and say,

  For your tomorrow,

  We gave our today.”

  These are my stories created out of my own imagination. Anything that is inaccurately portrayed is either my mistake, or done intentionally to disguise something I might have overheard over a beer or in the corner of one of the hangouts along the Coronado Strand.

  Wounded Warriors is the one charity I give to on a regular basis. I encourage you to get involved and tell them thank you:

  https://support.woundedwarriorproject.org

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  License Notes

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Other Books by Sharon Hamilton

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  ‡

  NAVY SEAL MARK Beale searched the buildings and shops along a quaint Italian street barely wide enough for one very small car. Hitching up his jacket against the cold wind only accentuated the chill in his bones. He knew what it was. Grief.

  He would not find her face anywhere in the restaurant and shop windows, or hear her voice up above in the shuttered apartments.

  The rest of his band of brothers were having drinks by the inlet, admiring sailboats and catching conversation with some of the colorful seafaring population of Savona. The team guys had brought their wives and girlfriends because they would be deploying within a month, and not coming back was always a possibility. It gave the ladies some quality one-on-one time with their mates, memories to last a lifetime if it came to that.

  He liked the melodic ebb and flow of the Italian language, grateful he couldn’t understand a word. It somehow reassured him that life went on, that his life would go on, even though they’d laid Sophie to rest four months ago.

  He hadn’t known her well. When his former roommate and fellow SEAL, Nick Dunn, introduced them, Nick’s sister Sophie was in the last stages of cancer, but he instantly recognized that she would have been perfect for him. And he could have rocked her world, given half a chance.

  After she died, Mark went into a self-imposed exile. Just seemed hard to be in the company of men and their life partners. Life partners who were getting married. Having babies. Not that he wanted the whole world to grieve with him, but the constant interruption of happier things only added to his dark mood.

  He’d also tried to hook up with girls he’d previously enjoyed, but even that hot sweaty sex had lost its appeal. He just wasn’t into it, and the girl usually felt terrible afterwards, just like he did.

  He was a shell of his former self.

  His LPO, Kyle Lansdowne, was concerned about him. He kept an eye out for all his men on SEAL Team 3. Kyle had a keen eye for when something wasn’t right. If a guy didn’t go out drinking, spend time with the ladies, or had an especially sensitive streak with the smacktalk among Team members, it was cause for concern.

  In this case, Kyle had reason to be concerned. Mark had seriously considered just checking out completely.

  He decided to sit, have a cappuccino, and watch the passersby. A pretty brunette with long, long, well-toned legs and wearing high-heeled camo boots, got his attention. An older woman who could have been her mother joined her. The two took a table next to him and the Italian flowed all over his body like a gentle rain.

  The coffee was delivered to him and he nodded his thanks without speaking, not wanting the ladies to identify him as American. Not that it would make any difference, of course, because he had no intention of talking to them.

  The heart-shaped design in the foam on top of his cappuccino rammed a fishhook to his chest. He stared down at it for a moment with a pang, but welcomed the creamy taste, and the shot of caffeine gave him the jolt he needed.

  His eyes drifted from the cluster of pigeons dodging scooters and pedestrians to the table next door. The younger woman slipped off her black raincoat, revealing an ample chest delicately restrained by a stretchy black dress that came down low in a dangerous V. She held her water glass in long, elegant fingers with short, red nails. A colorful charm bracelet danced on her small wrist.

  Mark followed as she lifted a glass until it mated with her full, red lips. Her large brown eyes darted in his direction, and then she looked back at the woman who shared her table. But then she smiled. He knew that smile was intended for him, just as he understood his dick was interested for the first time in three months.

  The Italian language was luxurious. No other way to describe it. An Italian love ballad was playing somewhere down the arched tunnel between the piazza and the homes of the locals above. He didn’t know the words, but loved the feeling it imparted to him. He understood some of the words, like amore. He wouldn’t have tolerated this sappy show or sensual drifting before tonight, but he was caught in a fantasy that the lady was rubbing the glass against her bottom lip for him, as she sucked the ice cube she held in her left hand, popping it inside and out of her lips, wrapping it in her pink tongue.

  She smiled at her companion, and he wanted to lick the dimple that dared to peek at him from her left ch
eek. He knew she’d taste good. He knew just a drop of her juices on his tongue would send him places he’d missed. His little head had the pompoms and the little cheering section going. Was already nekked with the young lady with the big tits and the beautiful, full, red lips. His fingers had already found how her silky inner thighs quivered under his touch.

  What the hell are you doing?

  She was a pleasant fantasy, and if he was completely honest and thought she might understand him, he’d thank her for the brief respite, since it was becoming a burden to remember Sophie in past tense. Sophie dead and buried in the ground.

  This beautiful, seemingly full-of-life woman with the flashing eyes and healthy smile had, for the first time in months, distracted him from the heaviness in his chest.

  He wanted to meet her, to actually do some of the things playing in living color inside his head. And, yeah, he was a dog. He was a dog about to embark on a cruise from Italy to Brazil with some of his best buds. He’d never come back here to Savona, and would never see her again. Perhaps that’s what piqued his interest in her after all. In less than twenty-four hours he’d be gone, leaving her behind.

  The older woman left amidst a flurry of kissing the way the Italians do it. He recognized the “Ciao, Mama,” as confirmation this was indeed her mother. She took her place back at the little table and finished her cappuccino.

  He got up and left some coins on the table, then made the mistake of looking over at her. He gave her a crooked little smile. She’d have to be completely insane not to pick up on the fact that he found her attractive. She arched one eyebrow as he admired her rack. Okay, to be perfectly honest, he was actually imagining what they’d look like released to his hands.

  He was normally the gentleman with these types of hot women, when he didn’t know anything about them. It wasn’t proper to admire another man’s lady, and this one was too fine not to be attached. So he closed his eyes by way of an apology and then looked back at her with a small shrug, as if to say Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.

  She did the wrong thing. She rose slowly, tilted her head and blew him a kiss with those red lips. The flirtation was delicious. She slung a yellow Gucci bag over her shoulder, stepped up next to him, slipped her soft arm around his and snuggled against his ribs.

  She said something in Italian. Mark was stunned. His legs felt like lead, unable to move as she unexpectedly squeezed her body next to his. He could feel her full breasts pressing his willpower to the breaking point. His arm suddenly became the second most sensitive of his body parts.

  She was holding him close, but leading him, as if he was reluctant. “Si, si, si…” and then something he couldn’t understand. Well, hell, he was kinda reluctant, because he really didn’t know where she was taking him, but for some reason he followed along anyway.

  She looked over her shoulder, checking out the deserted piazza, maybe looking to see if her mother noticed her leaving with him. Why would that be a problem? On second thought, if he were her father, he’d definitely not want his daughter going off with some stranger.

  But, shit, he didn’t care. Whatever she had in mind, unless it involved something dangerous—well, hell even dangerous would be fine, since he did dangerous all the time. If it involved some dark, underground cellar and beefy guys with lots of dark chest hair, okay, then he’d get out. But he kind of liked how her tits bounced as she walked in those amazing boots with the highest heels he’d ever seen. She had a fresh lime-spice scent and something else wafting up from her hair, too.

  She kept babbling on as they rounded the corner. She gestured towards the apartments above shops lining the cobblestoned street he’d just walked down to the cafe.

  “Honey, this is all real fun, but I’m don’t understand a word you’re saying,” he blurted.

  “Ah, Americano! English? No, Americano?” Then she added some other comments he didn’t follow.

  You promised you’d learn Italian before the cruise, and hibernated instead. Now look at where it’s gotten you.

  “You speak English?” he stopped and asked.

  Her laughter fell like warm water all over him, bathing him in a golden glow. He wanted more. In between her gestures and her giggles, her brown eyes danced. She’d checked out his chest, the size of his shoes and the tent in his pants. Those were things professionals did all the time, or so he’d been told.

  He began to worry he’d made a mistake in being too compliant. It suddenly hit him that he was not behaving with his usual conscious self-control. He dropped his arm and hers slipped out of his grip. He pushed his hands into his jeans pockets and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps you got the impression I wanted—”

  She cut him off before he could finish. His English was obviously not going to be an impediment to her communication, but it sure was to him.

  “Scusi, scusi, signore,” she said, laughing. Then she said something that sounded like tey ammo, and there was all that fluttering around of her hands. Her breasts were bouncing and the little bracelet was damned distracting as it jangled on that wrist of hers. Her brown curls flew in all directions. She could have been Brazilian, Italian, Spanish, or anything, but whoever she was, she was alive and full of fun and, hell, he decided he didn’t care if she robbed him. It might even be worth it.

  He pulled his pockets inside out, as if to say he didn’t have any money. Her reaction was immediate. She slapped him. Hard. She slammed her hands on her hips and scolded him. God, how he loved seeing her angry. She must have called him every name for a dog and no-good boyfriend and dirty American male, because he heard “Americano” several times. He hung his head, nodded as if he agreed, yes, he was a dog. He just shoved his hands back in his front pockets and shrugged a lot.

  He started to walk away, worried about attracting even more attention than they already had. A shopkeeper leaned on a broom nearby, watching them. A wizened older woman with no teeth leaned out of a lace-curtained window overhead and shouted something in agreement.

  “Scuuuusiiii,” the beautiful lady called out, stopping him. She crooked her forefinger and gave him the signal to come back. Well, it was more than a signal, it was delivered with all the punch of a full-throated command.

  She continued with the finger action, unwilling to be deterred. He brought his palms out to the sides of his pants and didn’t shrug, but knew it was useless to speak. He shuffled back in her direction. She pointed to the ground at her feet emphatically. That brought him almost close enough to touch. She made little growling noises with her throat he took to mean approval. The voice got soft, more melodic. He’d have to say chestier.

  She’d dropped her hands but then she raised one again and begged his face to come down to her level. He obeyed. His lips ached to kiss her, did she see it? He saw the soft hairs on her upper lip and the way her nostrils flared as she took in a deep breath, assessing him. He’d stay there as long as she wanted. He never did this, but it became more important than breathing to stay right in the vicinity of her aura.

  Mark was rewarded when she pulled his face to hers, locking her lips on him and sucking his tongue deep. He had never been so scared and excited at the same time. He hesitated with his hands.

  Oh, fuck it.

  He grabbed her waist and pulled her tight against him, holding her butt cheeks, pressing her into his groin and daring to rub against her, squeezing her fine ass. She made little cooing sounds that drove him mad, giving his little head the come-on of a lifetime.

  She arched back and stared into his eyes, whispering something he desperately wanted to understand, hoping it was very naughty. Whatever it was she said, he understood clearly that she wanted him, and it wasn’t about money. It was about pure lust.

  She ran ahead and then ran back to his arms, leading him down and around the nearly deserted alleyway. He was going to say something about the safety of the area, until she stopped at a door and took out a plastic door key.

  “Come, come, come,” she said in clipped Englis
h.

  He had no choice but to follow.

  Chapter 2

  ‡

  SHE SLIPPED INTO the dark foyer, closing the door behind them, then scampered up a narrow stairway to the apartment over the shop. The first thing he smelled was fresh lemon. She had a big bowl of them on the kitchen table of her tiny apartment. Posters from the United States adorned the walls, which were plaster and easily nine feet high. She had one sunny window that overlooked the tiled roofs, with a view that stretched to the blue Mediterranean in the distance.

  He felt a little shy at having been invited to her one-room studio, her inner sanctum. He never brought women to his, but that was for different reasons. There was nothing adorning the walls that said anything about him or what he did for a living. Up until recently he’d roomed with Nick. But Nick was not cycling with the Team this time, even though he had traveled with them to Italy. After their cruise, Nick would stay in the states on limited duty, till he fully recovered from death of his sister, Sophie.

  My Sophie.

  He had his back to the pretty Italian lady who smelled so nice and seemed so willing, because he was embarrassed to be thinking about Sophie when he was about to have sex with another woman. Mark feared if she looked hard enough, she might see Sophie’s face in his eyes. Nick’s sister had been a chance encounter as well.

  His courage restored, he turned and—whoa!—there she was, in black panties and bra, and nothing else. The universal language of sex and lust hit him right in the groin. He took it as a sign from God that, if he were willing, somehow Sophie would be okay with this dalliance, since they both knew nothing would replace her.

  The lady slipped off one strap but stopped there. Just as he’d thought, those breasts of hers plumped out over the top of her bra, and were duly restrained. They looked even bigger than she’d allowed to show.

  Her full lips beckoned him as she threw back her head and studied him with half-lidded eyes. She regarded him cautiously, perhaps realizing something about him wasn’t right. Maybe trying to figure out if he was safe enough?