Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) Read Online Free

take the weight she’s slammed into me. Her heels dig into my ass hard and this is one sneak attack I never saw coming. Her girlfriend points an expensive camera at us, the shutter clicking rapid-fire as she captures our reunion for posterity. Fuck FUCK.
    I’m not kissing her back. I’m not. Except being an idiot, I open my mouth to reestablish some boundaries and Hindi takes full advantage. A four-star field general could take lessons from her, because she overwhelms my defenses and sweeps the field. I cup her sweet ass with one hand, spreading my fingers to hold her up. Hold her closer. Her front’s snug against my dick and I can feel the heat of her through our clothes. I kiss her back, my lips meeting hers, my tongue pushing back. She’s hot as fuck. That hasn’t changed, no matter how much I wish it had.
    She tastes even better than I remember, and my imagination’s been working overtime for the last six years. I lick and nip my way inside her gorgeous mouth, because I can’t let her be in charge of this kiss. Hindi’s like the Zamboni they bring out at the ice rink to melt down any rough edges and smooth shit over after it’s been torn up bad by endless sharp edges. Her kiss makes me want to melt, to forget all the bad moments, the painful days and weeks after we parted ways.
    She makes a hungry noise and damned if she doesn’t try to climb me. No idea where she’s going with this, but I don’t perform for an audience. I tear my mouth away from hers and turn toward her friend. The friend clearly isn’t stupid, because she waggles her fingers at us.
    “I’ll let you guys catch up, okay?” Then she turns and sprints up the beach. I’ll bet she has a getaway car parked nearby on Search and SEALs’ private road. The woman is no respecter of boundaries. I should go after her. Stop her. Wipe those images from her memory card before they end up somewhere far too public. I’ve learned my lesson about pictures and the Internet.
    The problem with kissing Hindi, however, is that it makes me stupid. My dick’s in his happy place, and he doesn’t see any need to share the blood supply with my brain. I should dump Hindi onto the sand and sprint after her camera-toting friend because I know exactly what Hindi and her nearest and dearest do with photographic evidence. She doesn’t get to slap my picture all over some Internet gossip site for all the Fan-dis (yes, that’s what her rabid adorers call themselves) to rip apart. I actually got fucking death threats when the picture of me kissing her appeared in a supermarket tabloid. It was annoying as shit.
    “No photos,” I growl. Yes. Yes, I do sound rabid. Hindi tightens her grip on my waist, sort of bouncing in place. Jesus. Christ. Her pussy slams down on my dick and I have no idea how we’ve ended up simulating sex on my beach. Of course, being clueless is just my usual state around Hindi. She’s the tsunami that tears up the beach and parks the boat you saved for years to buy on top of the flat-screen TV in your living room. There’s not enough insurance in the world to handle her brand of disaster.
    This is also the closest we’ve been in years, and it’s far too close. While my dick’s a happy camper, it does not get to do the thinking for the rest of me. I remove my ex-wife from the family jewels and set her back down on the beach.
    She makes a face. “Too much?”
    Not enough .
    Fuck.
    “Chicken?” She grins at me, the breeze from the ocean dancing her hair over her face. She huffs, blowing hair out of her eyes, and then, yes, she makes the chicken squawk. It’s so goddamned cute.
    I take a step back and her eyes light up, dancing with laughter. You know the people who go on vacation to the Mexican Riviera and who, when the tour guide invites them to go careening off the side of a cliff into a cenote below? Where you can’t see the bottom and you just have to hope the water’s deep enough and you don’t hit the cliff side on your way down?