“You know, I’m all for a quick fuck, but that would’ve had to have set records. Lemme guess, he couldn’t get it up?”
When a dangerous gleam entered Smooth’s eyes, my lips twitched. There was nothing I liked more than a little danger to ramp up the adrenaline, and this guy seemed to have a knack for making my pulse go from zero to a hundred in mere seconds.
Oh, he also had a knack for making me shoot my mouth off.
“Ahh, that’s not it? So maybe it was you who couldn’t get it up.” As the word up left my tongue, Smooth took several steps forward until I was forced to back up, and when my ass met the solid wall behind me, I couldn’t stop the smile that curved my lips. Seemed I’d struck a nerve.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
I let my eyes rove over the stunning face now only inches from my own, and took in the sinful body I wanted pressed up against me, then brought my eyes back to his. “Not when I see something I want.”
Smooth placed a hand up against the wall by my head, his eyes now so dark they were almost black. The danger from seconds ago was still there, but it was now coupled with the desire that had been missing.
“And you don’t care if that something has made it clear he’s not interested?”
“Not always. Sometimes that makes it even more fun.”
“Fun, huh?”
“Well, I guarantee you wouldn’t be walking out in less than five minutes. Aaand”—I glanced down between our bodies—“it’s pretty obvious you wouldn’t have a problem getting it up.”
“That was never a problem to begin with.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what was?” I knew the answer to that question already. You took the wrong fucking guy out back. But whether Smooth here would admit it was left to be seen.
“A pair of whiskey-colored eyes, tanned skin, and a mouth I really want to shut up but somehow know I shouldn’t.”
Well, shit, that sounded promising—and surprising, considering I hadn’t expected a truthful answer. I reached for the belt loops of Smooth’s jeans and tugged him in, closing the final distance between us. I needed to feel that rock-hard body against mine, and when he thrust his hips forward, I couldn’t help the moan that escaped my lips. His erection was hard and thick against mine, and I pushed my hips up against his to feel the friction again.
“This is what you want?” he asked, his voice low and husky.
“Feels like it’s what we both want.”
“Maybe.” He brushed his thumb over my lips before trailing his fingers down my throat and over my shirt. I felt him trace the outline of the dog tags I wore, and then he leaned in so close I closed my eyes, expecting his mouth to take mine. Instead, he said, “But I know your kind, and you’re the kind of trouble I can’t afford.”
Then Smooth, or whatever his name was, dropped his hand and stepped back, giving me one final look before turning for the door.
“So that’s it?” I pushed off the wall. “I don’t even get a name?”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What do you need my name for?”
With a smirk playing on my lips, I decided to give him one last memory to think about. “So I know what to call out when I get myself off later.”
Surprise lit his face before the hunger settled in, and he dropped his head and chuckled. Then he started to push the door open, paused, and when he looked back my way, he said, “Grant. That’s the name you can use later.”
3 Mateo Morgan
Call Sign: SOLO
“SOLO, MY MAN.” A hand slapped down on my shoulder as I opened the locker I’d been assigned, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Gucci a.k.a. Pete Carter, my best friend, with a big, goofy grin on his mug. “Can you believe we’re doin’ this?”
“Fuck yeah, I can,” I said, as we clapped hands and went into the special handshake we’d come up with a decade ago, back when we were silly teenagers with big dreams. Now we were just foolish bastards with even bigger dreams.
“You check out your plane yet?” he asked, opening the locker beside mine.
“You know I have.”
“Some dicklicker posted a sign on mine that says Chanel. Fucking Chanel. Can you believe that shit?”
I snorted, unpacking the contents of my bag into my locker. “Gucci, Chanel. Easy mistake.”
“Oh, fuck you, man. It’s your fault I’m stuck with the name for life.”
“That’s what you get for puking your guts in a girl’s handbag right before training.”
Gucci groaned, slamming his head into his locker repeatedly. “Four rounds of three wisemen and you expect me to keep that shit in my body? Why couldn’t I get ‘wiseman’?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You really want me to answer that?”
“Or even ‘lightweight.’ Hell, I’d take that.”
“Could be worse. You could be stuck with ‘vomit.’ Or ‘hurl.’”
“Yeah, yeah.” Gucci haphazardly tossed his toiletries into the locker, muttering, “Chanel…”
With more care than my former copilot, I set each item in its place and ran my fingers over the tan flight suit hanging up—I was already wearing the green one. Ready for day one. The Naval Aviation Fighter Academy, or NAFTA, here in Mesamir, California, would be my home for the next ten weeks. I was used to living out of a duffel bag, going from base to base wherever I was assigned, never putting roots down anywhere. Who knew where the hell I’d end up once I finished the competition here? Guess that’d depend on whether I choked or won the whole damn thing.
“So what’d your ass get up to last night?” Gucci let out a moronic snort of laughter as he added, “Or is it too tired to answer?”
A smirk tugged at my lips as I closed the locker door. “You’re such a class act, Gooch.”
“What can I say, my mother raised me right.”
As I leaned up against the locker, I thought back to last night and Mr. Smooth, and while I wished the slight discomfort in my body this morning was due to being pounded into my mattress by that phenomenal body, the alcohol was what was responsible for my less-than-tiptop condition.
But Gucci didn’t need to know that.
“Your mother’s a wonderful lady who has the unfortunate luck of claiming you as her son.”
Gucci flashed a toothy grin my way. “Whatever. I’m her favorite son—”
“You’re her only son.”
“Exactly. Heather and Holly can battle over who’s the favorite daughter, but I will always be the favorite son.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re avoiding the question. So, lemme guess.” Gucci stroked a finger over his chin. “You went to some seedy bar on the outskirts of town…”
Okay, the fact that he zeroed in on that so quick was fucking alarming. But then again, if anyone knew a seedy bar, it was my man Gooch.
“You perched that sweet little tush of yours at the end of some banged-up bar counter, ordered yourself a”—Gucci paused and ran his eyes up and down my body and then nodded—“a beer to start with, but looks like you hit something harder later, and perused the dimly lit interior for a burning heap of hulking man.”