Military Maledom: An Officer And A Dom by Erika Masten Page A

in time for a coil of heavy rope to fall on me from
an upper shelf, pulling my hair loose. When I try to untangle
myself, I trip, pulling down a couple of boxes I catch as I flail
for a handhold.
    And this—on my hands and knees under a
tangle of rope, dead center in a blast radius of office debris,
with my tousled hair hanging over my eyes and down my back—is how
he finds me. There’s something about Commander Logan West. Over the
last three months, ever since the naval intelligence officer pulled
shore duty with one of our SEAL teams, the handsome, dark blond,
thirty-something commander is always there to witness my most
embarrassing moments.
    When I jokingly wondered aloud to my
best friend, Abby, whether the SEALs fucked as hard as they
trained, guess who was standing behind me in the doorway? Not
putting much effort into hiding his smirk, I might add.
    When I unwittingly sat on a broken red
ink pen—again, in summer whites—and walked around for at least a
half hour looking like it was that time of the month, it was West
who came up behind me, wrapped a jacket around my waist, and
quietly suggested I check myself out in the bathroom mirror. I
still shiver thinking about how soft and intimate he sounds when he
whispers.
    When I was sprinting across the base
to catch the last mail run and darted right in front of the
captain’s car, it was West who caught me by the waist and hoisted
me out of harm’s way. Don’t think that wasn’t a wet pussy
moment—panting and hopped up on adrenaline, pulled tight against
West’s long, firm body, staring up into those pale eyes that aren’t
quite blue, aren’t quite gray.
    Bless the man for being my impromptu
guardian angel, but fuck him for being one of those guys. You know,
the SEAL’s, the NIO’s, the special missions units. They’re always
sexy as hell, flirt like mad, and end up with women with long
acrylic nails, pierced navels, blond extensions, and an extensive
collection of stripper heels. It’s such a cliché. When Abby and I
got plastered last summer, we both got our navels pierced as an
inside joke. At least, that was my motivation. I think Abby might
actually have her eye on one of the guys from the SEAL team West is
attached to. I’ll smack her if she even considers bleaching her
gorgeous dark brown hair.
    “Are you alright, Lieutenant Crosby?”
West drawls from his spot leaning in the doorway, summer cap tucked
under his crossed arms. Whenever that little half-smirk he’s
wearing appears, the sexy cleft in his chin gets deeper.
    I try to smile and laugh off my
predicament and my reaction to the sight of the lithe but muscular
commander. We meet this way so often, I have the urge to tell him
to call me Eva. Flushing, I push away the thought. No use
cultivating the illusion of intimacy or indulging the crush I have
on the man.
    “Just fine, Commander, thank you,” I
lie, trying not to look distressed at my inability to find my way
out of the coils of rope draped over me. At least I’m in slacks
today and not a skirt.
    West amuses himself for a moment
watching me wriggle, before he saunters over to stand directly over
me. I grow still when he’s right beside me, gazing down at me. Fuck
if Navy uniforms don’t look better on men, with maybe the exception
of the aviator suits. A handsome man in summer whites has the same
effect on me as one in dress whites. I feel my cheeks heat, and I
look away, my gaze skimming down his body as I do. Is it my
imagination, or is that a slight bulge in his crisp, creased
trousers? Just a matter of angle? My face is right at crotch level
to him, the perfect position for unzipping his pants and sucking
his cock, which I’m sure I’ll be doing later tonight in my bedtime
fantasies. One where I get rescued by the intelligence officer who
then cannot help ravaging me himself.
    West tosses his cap down on a sorting
table in the middle of the room and crouches to help me out of the
ropes. His warm, firm hands guide me from