Chapter 3 #3
“After you, your comrades-in-arms, and Hilda left The Sanctuary, I was no longer satisfied with life there. I made the mistake of trying to live a normal life, outside the walls.”
While she talked, he led her, limping, toward the building on the other side of the grinder.
It was closer than taking her to the women’s quarters, or the chow hall.
“This is the strength training and rehab facility,” he explained, turning the knob, then kicking the door open before easing her inside and propping her against the wall.
“Get lost, Peterson,” he ordered the young newbie SEAL who was lifting free weights.
Surprised, Peterson dropped the weights to the padded floor, and said, “Yes, Lieutenant Floyd, sir,” before scurrying away.
Zach locked the door after him, then turned to her. “We only have an hour at most before someone comes banging on that door. Can you take your clothes off yourself, or should I do it for you?” Please, God, let one good thing happen today.
“Huh?” Britta would have stiffened with outrage at his suggestion if she weren’t already stiff as a pole. “Do not dare.”
He grinned. “Sweetheart, there’s one thing you will learn here, if nothing else.
Never, never, dare a Navy SEAL.” With those words, he picked her up, and carried her over his shoulder into the large communal shower room where a half dozen shower heads stuck out from the tiled walls.
Before she could squirm out of his embrace, he turned on one of the faucets.
With the water pelting her face and body.
..his body, as well, for that matter...he made quick work of removing her shirt and shorts, leaving her in standard issue Navy female underwear, cotton bra and panties.
Most women eventually used their own undergarments, but Britta wouldn’t know that.
And, yes, he knew what Navy women wore under their uniforms, thank you very much.
A niggling voice in the back of his brain...the one he usually ignored...warned that removing a trainee’s clothing was treading a fine line between being helpful and sexual harassment.
He stepped back out of the range of the shower spray, watching with fascination as Britta’s underwear turned transparent under the water.
It would probably be polite of him to look away, to not gawk at her practically nude body.
Good thing he’d lost his politeness gene.
Polite people missed the best opportunities.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, “abso-fucking-lutely beautiful.”
“Is that a compliment?” she asked, eyes closed.
“Oh, yeah.”
Britta was tall, probably six foot to his six-foot-three.
There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body, except maybe those full, pink-tipped breasts that begged to be licked or her high, curved butt, which also begged to be licked, but she was not model-thin.
No, her shoulders were wide, and muscles delineated her arms and abdomen, belly and thighs.
At any other time, Britta probably would have been uncomfortable—or spitting mad—under his scrutiny, with him kneeling on the tiles, removing her boots and socks, with his face practically touching never-never land. But the hot water, while soothing her sore body, was distracting her, as well.
“Someday you’re going to look at me like that,” Zach said, handing her a bar of soap.
Peeping at him through wet lashes, she asked, “How?”
“Like you’re having an orgasm.”
“Orgy-as-him?”
“Never mind. Want me to help lather you up?”
“Are you daft? Nay. Go away.”
“Not a chance.”
“Stop ogling me.”
“Not a chance.” He was leaning against the tile wall, watching her. Her underwear was plastered to her magnificent body, and he felt his blood thicken and pool in his groin with delicious torture. His balls were heavy and begging to burst.
Coming out of her trance, Britta loosened her braid, then ran her fingers through her blonde hair. Finally, she seemed to notice his scrutiny, and gave him back an equal examination, her brown eyes widening at the bulge in his shorts.
He shrugged. “Can’t help it, baby. You are one hot mama.”
“Crude troll!”
When she was sufficiently clean, Zach turned off the faucet and picked her up again. This time she’d gotten her energy back and struggled hard, still to no avail.
“Keep squirming, honey. You’re making my hard-on very happy.”
She stopped immediately. Hard-on must be one of those universal language things.
Carrying her into the next room, he stepped up to a large tub filled with gurgling water.
“The whirlpool is going to feel too hot, at first, but it’s the best thing for those sore muscles.
” When he eased her into what must seem like boiling water, she tried to rise, sputtering her indignation, but then she relaxed when she realized that the water was actually soothing. In fact, she murmured, “Heavenly!”
Soon, he returned with a clean T-shirt, shorts and socks, similar to what she’d had on before. She made him turn around while she put them on. Once she was dressed again, he took her by the hand. “I’ll walk you to the chow hall.”
When he unlocked and opened the door, they both got a big surprise.
Standing there, arms folded over his chest, was Commander MacLean sporting the world’s biggest frowny face.
“Lieutenant Floyd, they oughta gold-plate that dick of yours and put it on display at Ripley’s. You surely have a death wish. And you, Ms. Asado, surely you can’t think that the way through WEALS is paved by this guy’s overused cock.”
Zach tried to object to MacLean’s crudity, not to mention his mistaken notion that they’d been doing the deed. “Hey, wait a min—”
Britta gasped. “You missay...I take exception to...,” she began.
But MacLean put up a halting hand at both of their sputtered protests and said, “Since you two are so fond of each other, maybe you’d both like to work out together tomorrow. Let’s say, 0400 for surf appreciation.”
“Surf appreciation” was a SEAL exercise meant to be hated, not appreciated.
It involved the icy waters of the Pacific ocean where victims were required to sit, arms locked, in water up to their shoulders as waves crashed over them.
It usually only lasted six minutes, but felt like six hours.
Occasionally they were ordered to run into the waves, then run back to shore where push-ups in shallow water were de rigueur.
Each time the body lowered, the person would be covered with water.
“And Ms. Asado,” MacLean added, stepping around them and walking into the room, then returning with Britta’s bra and panties dangling from each forefinger, “could these be yours?”
Britta glared at Zach.
MacLean glared at Zach.
Zach was in deep shit, even deeper than before, and now he’d dragged Britta down there with him.
Could life get any better than this?
MEMO
From: Captain Lenore Feldman
To: Commander Ian MacLean
Subject: WEALS
Discourage flirting. Article 83b.