Chapter 9
The best-laid plans...
Zach was going to get laid tonight, or die trying.
Note to self: that was a bit crude. Try again.
Okay, Zach had a plan to seduce Britta into his bed.
And it all depended, number one, on his persuading Britta to come into his townhouse.
No pun intended. And, number two, it depended on his talking Britta into an overnight.
..hell, a weekend...stay with him. And, number three, it depended on Sammy being cooperative for once, willing to fall asleep.
And, number four, it depended on his SEAL buddies not showing up to chat, which they’d threatened to do; yeah, like he was up for a frickin’ chat.
He’d told them they could go to a chat room if they wanted to chat.
And, number five, it depended on Britta being in the mood.
So many “depends!” You’d think he was a bleepin’ ad for incontinency.
Yeah, he had allowed the “love” card to enter his brain for a blip of a second back there on the beach, but he was past that now. He wasn’t in love. Uh-uh. Nope, lust was the name of the game. Good ol’ healthy lust. And it would be healthy for Britta, too, he told himself.
After this weekend, WEALS training would be ratcheted up. More intense physical evolutions. Less liberties. Focus to the max. This might be his last big chance, and he wasn’t about to blow it.
Seduction was a breeze for Zach. Lack of confidence wasn’t even in his vocabulary. But this time...with Britta...he just wasn’t sure he could pull it off.
Thus far he’d only succeeded with number one, maybe two if he was lucky, and that was thanks to his son who had wheedled and whined till Britta agreed to tuck him in, telling her some outrageous lie about how his father, meaning him, told scary ghost tales that gave him nightmares.
It probably hadn’t occurred to her yet that he wouldn’t be able to drive her back to the base and leave Sammy alone.
Britta was upstairs now telling Sammy some bedtime story about a young Viking boy named Svein the Short who wanted to go a-Viking but was considered too little.
Not a single ghost in her tale, she promised.
Sammy probably empathized with Short Svein since everyone was always telling him he was too little.
There was a knock at the front door. Peering through the peep hole, he saw Wilson. Beside him stood a guy flashing a Vortex Security badge; he looked as if he could bench press a bus. Zach opened the door and invited them both in.
“Care for a beer?” he offered. Please say no.
“Nah. I’m gonna take off.” Scary Larry was already halfway down the steps. “Just wanted to introduce you to one of the guys who’ll be taking over for me. This is Jim Butler.”
“I owe you for all your help, Larry.”
Wilson, as usual, didn’t crack a smile, just nodded.
Once inside, Butler shook his hand. “Your dad hired a team of us. We’ll rotate shifts, but there will always be a Vortex guard protecting your perimeter. You might not always see us, but we’ll be here.”
“Appreciate it. Do I need to fill you in on any details?”
“Not now. I got the file you emailed me. If there’s anything new, though, be sure to let me know ASAP. Here’s my beeper number. It’ll go to whoever is on duty, as well as headquarters.” He took out a business card, which Zach put in his pocket.
Afterward, Zach checked the locks on all the doors and windows, set the outside motion detector and the inside keypad, put some wine in the fridge and two stemmed glasses in the freezer, laid out some gourmet cheese and crackers that his mother had bought last time she was here, made a mental count of how many condoms he had in his bedside table, and sniffed his underarms to see if he was okay in that department. He was.
After waiting another five minutes, he tiptoed up the stairs, not wanting to set off any alarm bells in the kid if he was still awake, and certainly not wanting to awaken him if he was catching some Zs.
First he went into his bedroom at the far end of the hall and put his Ka-bar under his pillow and his Glock on the bedside table.
Since Sammy’s arrival, he’d put most of his weapons under lock and key.
Those that he needed at the ready had childproof safety locks on them, which meant he would need an extra second to be in a firing position in the event of an emergency.
But it was the price he had to pay with a kid in the house.
He double-checked his beeper as well. All SEALs were required to have their direct-line-to-command beepers near them at all times, and even though he wasn’t technically on active duty, he could be called up in an instant, like anyone else.
Next, he went back to the first bedroom and, peeking in, saw that Sammy was sleeping. Bless you, Britta! God, the little snot looked like an angel when he was asleep. Britta must have scrubbed his face and washed his arms because he smelled of Oil of Olay soap, another left-behind of his mother’s.
But then...whoo boy!...he noticed something else.
Britta’s sandals were on the floor on the other side of Sammy’s bed, but no Britta.
That wasn’t where the “whoo boy” came in, though.
Like Hansel trailing Gretel, he followed her clothes to the bathroom.
First her red tank top next to Sammy’s door.
He must have stepped over it, thinking it was Sammy’s.
Then her jeans out in the hall. Her bra hung over the door knob of the bathroom which was thank-you-God open, where her panties lay in the middle of the floor.
“Britta!” he called out, not daring to step inside.
No answer, but he heard the shower running. Forget that “not daring” crap. He walked right in. Then. Stopped. Dead.
Through the sliding glass doors of the shower, he saw Britta, her arms raised, combing her hair back off her face which was raised under the shower head, eyes closed.
She was a big woman, no denying that. At least six foot tall.
..and athletically muscled. But, man, a lot of that size went into mile-long, shapely legs, high curved buttocks and breasts that were full and just the right size for her body.
The pink nipples were the...uh, cherries on the cake.
If ever he doubted a man could get an instant, full-blown, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am hard-on, he was a believer now.
Testosterone blasted through his body, setting afire every erotic spot along the way, and there were a whole hell of a lot of them.
He leaned on the doorjamb when his knees turned to butter and almost buckled on him.
Hesitating for a nanosecond, he shucked his clothes so fast they were strewn all over the place, even his briefs which landed on the toilet seat which was closed for once. Probably Britta’s doing. One of his flip flops slam-dunked into the waste basket.
Whispering a silent prayer that Britta wouldn’t whack him on the head with the long-handled loofah brush, he opened the shower door and stepped inside.
Britta stared at him, wide-eyed with surprise, and backed against the tile wall. She didn’t try to cover her breasts or pubic hair, like lots of women would. Nudity probably hadn’t been that big a deal in her time, certainly not among warriors. But she did say, “Begone, knave!”
Knave? I’ve been called a lot of things, but knave? Stop grinning. Stop wasting time on irrelevancies. Think quick, cowboy. “Uh, I thought maybe we ought to conserve on water, and take one shower together.”
“Oh. We do the same in the Norselands, except we reuse the bath water, over and over.”
Okay, score one for me. But, yeech!
“The dirtier ones go last,” she elaborated, as if that made it all right.
Double yeech! He reached for the Olay body wash—his mother again—and squirted a big dollop into one hand, then rubbed both palms together, creating foam. The floral scent of the soap permeated the cubicle. He sure as hell hoped it was an aphrodisiac.
“Is that soap?” she asked, fascinated by the foam and the scent. Still no false modesty about covering herself.
Good diversionary tactic...the body wash. “Yep. Soft soap. And you know what they say, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’.”
“God? Did you say god? Oooh, I knew you were a god.”
Hey, if she wants to think I’m a god, who am I to complain? “Turn around, baby, let me do your back.” Then let me do you, period. He bit his bottom lip to make sure he didn’t say that aloud.
Britta stared at him dubiously.
“It’ll help conserve on soap, too.” I am so good.
“Ah, ’tis a luxury in your land, too?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She turned.
“Put your hands above your head and spread your legs a little,” he directed. Please, please, please.
She snorted, and started to turn around in protest.
Every man worth his salt knew there was not one, but several windows of opportunity in the art of seduction.
He was hitting window number two, and the rule here was, never allow a woman time to think.
So, cool guy that he was, he placed a palm against her back, between her shoulder blades, and shoved, mashing her flat against the tiles.
“Ooomph!”
“It’s easier for me to wash your back and sides if your raise your arms and spread your legs.” What a line! I should write that down. Later.
“Dost think I am a wanton?”
A guy can only hope.
Miracle of miracles, she put her hands above her head. That’s all. But, hey, that was enough of a start for a guy in lust mode.
“Stubborn wench,” he muttered.
“I heard that.”
“This will also massage your sore muscles.”
They were both silent then as he worked the soft soap into her shoulders, down her back and sides, where his fingertips barely skimmed the sides of her breasts, over her hips.
Then he started all over at the bottom, her feet, ankles, calves and thighs.
He was working fast, knowing that any minute now Britta was going to change her mind.
“I should forewarn you,” Britta said. “I am no longer interested in any of those orgasms.”
“Is that a fact?” He smiled. “Why?”