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

the tangle, fingertips
brushing my shoulder and my bare arm under my short sleeve. I’m
surprised at the intensity of the shiver this sends through me, and
I bite back a gasp. When I’ve straightened up onto my feet, he
leans over me, making my heartbeat skip at the smell of soap and
marine air coming off him and at the silly thought that he’s about
to kiss me. I can’t keep my anxious lips from parting just
slightly.
    Instead, his hands slip into my long
hair, and he tilts his sandy head to watch what he’s doing as he
pulls my barrettes out of tangled strands. “Turn around,” he
mutters, with just a hint of a southern accent slipping into his
deep voice. When I do, he gently combs out the snarls with his
fingers and binds my hair back up, not perfectly, but well
enough.
    His warm breath swirls against the
back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine, when he tells me,
“You’re going to have to find a way to thank me one of these days
for looking after you.”
    I clench my teeth and hold my breath
to keep from sighing out girlishly, foolishly. What was it I said
about these guys being shameless flirts? I’ve been here before,
though, getting all knotted up over an alpha male who winked and
hovered over me. It didn’t take me long to find out he was still
running after the on-again, off-again stripper girlfriend, heavy on
the borderline personality disorder. These guys will put up with a
lot for raunchy stripper sex. Us mere mortal girls make due with
desk jockeys—accountants and MBA’s, maybe a lawyer if we’re
lucky.
    Stepping away from the tall, tempting
commander, I turn and flash a broad girl-next-door smile. “Right.
I’ll send you a fruit basket.”
    I’m a little surprised when I see his
tanned lips twitch with the suggestion of a grin, then break for a
deep, warm chuckle. He tilts his head and shrugs. “I like
fruit.”
    Hands down, best reaction I’ve ever
seen from a man to getting shut down. It’s hard not to like Logan
West…but I’m certainly trying.
    ***
    Celaya's is a nice little bar with
cheery Mexican tile, fresh tortilla chips and salsa, and cheap
beer. It also lacks two things I avoid when I’m off duty: tourists
and sailors. Still, Abby seems a little too eager to get to
Celaya’s tonight. She’s tugging nervously at her unusually short
skirt and wiggling her ample curves as soon as we slip through the
door into the air conditioning.
    I lean in to mutter,
“What’s up with you and the micro-mini and fuck-me heels? And why
did I have to stuff myself into this dress for a couple of
weeknight drinks at Celaya’s?” I do look good, though, I must
admit. My long hair loose and tousled from the wind coming off the
ocean tonight, eyes lined, deep red lipstick, simple gold hoop
earrings that wouldn’t pass muster on base, and a little black
dress, emphasis on little .
    Abby clasps her hands together in
front of her and beams. “You’ll see.”
    “Oh, shit,” I sigh. “You really have
planned something. Please tell me you didn’t set me up on a blind
date with the brother or best friend of another one of your weird
crushes.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” She
puts her hands on her curvy hips, a bit more voluptuous than mine,
and frowns. “Oh, never mind. I see someone we should say hello
to.”
    And she proceeds to lead me across the
teal and terracotta orange tiles, around the small dance floor, to
a table near the back of the cantina.
    “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as
soon as I see them. Tucked into a booth behind a row of beer
bottles and shooters are Hank Grey, the SEAL Abby has been mooning
over, and Logan West. “Abby, I’m going to get you for
this.”
    She shoots me a bright grin over her
shoulder. “You can thank me after the great sex.”
    “Welcome, ladies,” Hank greets us as
we arrive at the blue vinyl booth. Both the cut, raven-haired SEAL
and West stand to meet us. I notice Hank’s hand sliding along
Abby’s bare arm as he steps aside