Page 12 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

Boomer wasn’t sure he had anything else to offer.

Not really.

She was composed. Controlled. Brilliant. She walked into war rooms like she belonged in them. He walked in like a battering ram, hoping to God the walls were weaker than he was.

He knew men like Bash were threats, not because of jealousy, but because of confirmation. Men like that reminded him of what she deserved. Smooth, polished, fluent in diplomacy.

He was grit and fire, and demolition cord wrapped in Southern heat.

He was the loudest answer to every problem, and maybe she didn’t want answers like that anymore.

He closed his eyes, just for a second. The ache was still there, hard and unrelenting in his body. But it wasn’t about sex. Not really. Not tonight. His dick was loud and insistent, but his need for her was louder, more insistent.

It was about value .

It was about wanting to be enough , not just useful.

He didn’t know yet if she could give that to him or if he’d ever believe it, even if she tried. But God…he hoped she would.

The next morning, Boomer rolled out of bed at 0500, muscles fluid, head foggy. He hadn’t slept much thanks to the woman down the hall and the way his body couldn’t stop remembering the feel of hers pressed against his.

The team assembled just outside the compound for morning muster and PT. The air was cool and damp, tinged with salt and iron, a welcome change from the oven they’d just come from. Concrete still held a bit of night chill, and the sky above Lisbon was the color of wet slate.

Skull and Hazard were already trading jabs with the Brits, both sides smirking like this wasn’t about fitness.

It was a contest of pride and balls.

“Still looking a little rough, Southern fried.” Bash’s voice slid in smooth and smug, the verbal equivalent of silk.

He looked like he was the poster boy for Superman—Henry Cavill had nothing on him.

Hair perfectly disheveled, jaw sharp enough to insult, smugness loaded and on standby.

He was probably the same age as Break and Taylor, young, a quarter of a century.

What the fuck did kids know about anything?

He rolled his shoulders once, slow and deliberate. His body was fit as hell. Running five miles and smoking this pretty boy? That was going to be fun . Young guys never knew how to pace themselves.

“I can still kick your ass in this run, Posh Spice.”

Skull barked out a laugh. Hazard hooted.

Breakneck grinned, fist-bumping Boomer. “Okay, now we’re awake.”

Bash just grinned wider. “Let’s see what you’ve got and if it holds up under pressure.”

Boomer’s smile was lazy. Dangerous.

“Boomer is pressure, union jack.” Skull looked lean and mean this morning. Bones beside him. “When he smokes you, your ears are gonna pop,” Skull said. Then he tipped his head, slow and feral. “Try to keep up . ”

Even Iceman cracked a smile at that one, the corner of his mouth twitching as the guys chuckled. A few groaned. One of the Brits muttered “fucking yanks” under his breath, but he was smiling, too.

“Looks like you’re ready for a real run,” Bash said, stretching like he wasn’t about to be annoying as hell for five miles straight.

Hazard snorted. “Only run I’ve seen you do is your mouth.”

Preacher muttered, “Warm up’s not even over, and I’m already winded from the ego in this group.”

Then Taylor stepped out of the open door.

Even in track pants and a zipped-up windbreaker, coffee in hand, she made the air shift.

Her red hair, cut blunt at the shoulder with matching straight-across bangs, was half-tamed, twisted back just enough to clear her eyes. The cut sharpened everything, the high cheekbones, the clean lines of her jaw, the cool precision of her mouth. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t meant to be.

But those eyes of hers were as blue as the ocean where glaciers slept deep beneath the surface, a color that held weight, like her resolve.

Her focus. Her silence. Eyes that gave nothing away but made you certain something massive was moving underneath.

You didn’t just look into them. You felt the whisper of unseen danger.

Everything inside that made her Taylor, the loyalty, the discipline, the fire she kept banked so no one could use it against her, it all lived behind that blue. Hidden. Anchored. Waiting.

She was long-limbed and toned, built like she didn’t waste time or energy, not on indulgence, not on expectation. Every inch of her was calibrated. Strong. Unapologetic.

A small silver nose ring caught the morning light, quiet rebellion in a field of conformity. Her shoes, retro Adidas with scuffed soles and personality, told their own story. She wore what worked. What mattered. Nothing else.

She didn’t look at him. That made it worse.

“Give me five,” she said calmly, her voice smooth as the surface of her gaze. “I’ll change and join you.”

Everyone blinked.

Even Iceman hesitated. “This is a five-mile run. We need it done in forty-two minutes.”

She laughed. Not cute or flirty. Confident.

Then she turned and walked back inside, the steam of her coffee trailing behind like a contrail of war paint and intent.

Boomer exhaled, long and quiet.

He hungered for her to look at him, just once.

To let him know that his presence here, now, mattered .

That it chipped away at the hurt he’d inflicted by not showing up.

He needed her to see that it hadn’t been him who walked away.

It had been duty . The kind that didn’t ask.

The kind that didn’t leave room for apologies or what-ifs.

If he’d had a choice, if he hadn’t been deployed, he would’ve been here. What might’ve happened between them? It would’ve been explosive as a breath.

The kind of ignition you don’t walk away from. The kind that rewrites everything.

He clenched his jaw, the muscles flexing tight across his cheeks, and turned, only to meet Bash’s eyes.

The younger man blinked. Then glanced at the empty doorway Taylor had just disappeared through.

He looked away, and that threw Boomer. Not the glance.

Not even the looking away. It was the look itself , quiet, unreadable, but unmistakably… shared …pain?

A flash of something lived-in. Known. Familiar.

Fuck . What exactly had they been before today?

What kind of history did they have? Boomer’s gut twisted.

He didn’t want that bastard’s pity. Didn’t want his insight, his silence, or whatever unspoken claim might be buried in that brief flick of a gaze.

He wanted Taylor to look at him and only him.

Breakneck stepped up beside him, rubbing at his face with one hand.

“She was GSG 9, you know.” Boomer gave a slow nod. “That’s Germany’s Tier 1. Border ops. HVT extractions. Sniper-qualified.” Breakneck whistled low under his breath. “That takes one tough man and kicks his ass. I’m a little afraid of her now.”

Boomer exhaled through his nose. “You’re not the only one.”

She came back out a few minutes later in full PT gear, fitted leggings, a black tank that left her arms bare, and that sleek, capable body moving with lethal ease.

Her hair was up now, eyes focused. She didn’t say anything.

Just fell into pace beside Iceman like she’d always belonged there. They started the run.

Boomer had planned to stay loose. Easy cadence. Let the muscles warm up. But following her ? Pure torture. He’d been in firefights less punishing. He wished he was dodging bullets now.

Her ponytail swung in time with each stride, that smooth, controlled gait doing something catastrophic to his focus. The curve of her back, the flex of her legs, the way she never even looked winded. He couldn’t stop watching, and that was a problem.

Every step made the ache worse. His dick was definitely awake now, rubbing up against his shorts with every goddamn bounce. It was a good thing he was wearing compression shorts underneath or everyone within a mile radius would know he was sporting a boner.

Skull jogged past and leaned in just enough to mutter, “You all right back there, Boom Boom? You look…tense.”

Boomer growled, low and lethal. “Run faster before I deck you.” The grin on Skull’s face didn’t fade. If anything, it widened.

Up ahead, Taylor glanced back, just once, and he cursed inwardly.

He was in so much fucking trouble.

A spurt of emotion cracked through him too fast to parse. Anger. Hunger. Frustration. A deep, aching loneliness he hated. The sharp bite of being behind her . Watching the sway of her stride, the bounce of her ponytail, the fact that she hadn’t looked at him again .

It was too much. He surged forward. Just ran . Hard. Fast. Controlled in the way only a Tier 1 breacher could be, body moving like a loaded charge, form ballistic, power coiled in every muscle.

He passed Hazard, then Breakneck, even Skull, who barked a winded, “Shit, Boom, pace it!”

Didn’t matter. He caught up to Bash and blew past him without a word. Taylor didn’t turn around again. But he felt her clock it. Then he passed Iceman.

Just a flick of eye contact as he went by, acknowledged, but not questioned. Boomer had the lead, and Iceman wasn’t about to slow him down.

He crossed the finish a full minute ahead of the next man. Chest heaving. Sweat streaking down his back. Breath burning like fire in his lungs. He didn’t double over. Didn’t flex. Didn’t even glance at the team trailing behind.

He just walked. Straight across the compound, not looking at anyone, not speaking, not even thinking. If one more person said one more thing, he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d do.

He shoved his way into his room and slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. Then just stood there, hands braced on his hips, jaw locked, heart thudding with everything he couldn’t say and everything he should have .

His body was lit like a fuse. Still hot. Still hard. Still hurting.

He stripped down in sharp, angry movements, his skin flushed, his dick jutting, pulsing with adrenaline and the kind of need that made his teeth grind. It wouldn’t take much. One stroke. Two. He could come so fast it would feel like punishment.

No. Not like that.

With a vicious curse, he grabbed his towel, slung it low around his hips, and stormed out toward the showers, hoping cold water could kill what was devouring him from the inside out.

But the universe laughed in his face.

He rounded the hall corner at full speed and ran straight into her.

Taylor.

She froze mid-step. Skin still flushed from the run, damp hair curling at her temples. Those sharp-as-hell glacier blue eyes locked onto his and didn’t move.

Boomer’s breath caught in his throat. One second passed. Then two.

Before she could say a word, he grabbed her by the arm, opened her door, and hauled her inside like the situation was wired with live current.

The door clicked shut behind them. He was a breacher, a direct-action warrior, the tip of the fucking spear, and he didn’t tolerate anything from people who didn’t understand what that meant.

He stepped in, closing the distance. His body towered over hers, skin still damp, still searing. His presence filled the space like a detonation in a sealed room.

“We’re working together. I get it. You’re mad. You’re hurt. I now know I fucking hurt you . ” His breathing was ragged. “So, I get this cold shoulder crap,” he ground out, voice rough. “That’s hurting me, Taylor.” He backed her into the wall without touching her. She didn’t step away.

Her eyes were wide. Surprise. Hunger. Something that made his heart and dick ache. The towel couldn’t hide it.

“This ends now.” Boomer’s voice dropped.

“I. Had. No . Choice. Uncle Sam tells me where to go, and I don’t have a goddamn thing to say about it.

I’m eager to go. I’m wired to go, and I love it,” he said fiercely.

“You’re looking at me. Now. While I say I’m sorry…

again . I wanted to be here. It’s all I’ve thought about since Colombia.

The minute I saw you I lost my damn mind.

I looked at you and thought, too young, too smart, too damn good.

” He took a breath that felt like fire in his lungs.

“If I’d made it here…if I hadn’t been deployed, you’d be looking at me differently right now. I guarantee it . ”

Silence stretched between them, taut and sparking. He stepped back and she did look at him. Really looked. Her gaze swept over his chest, down the ridges of his abdomen, across the faint scars, the muscle, the towel barely hanging on his hips, the tent his dick made in the terry.

Her breath stuttered. “Carter…”

He broke. He couldn’t take it. Couldn’t hold all that she was, all that he was, in this moment where he was so close to breaking open entirely. He turned and slammed out of the room.

Right into Breakneck, who stepped back fast, hands up in surrender at the look on Boomer’s face.

Taylor came to the doorway a second later. Her hand braced on the frame, her expression tight and aching . Boomer didn’t stop. Didn’t linger. He swore low and took off toward the showers like he could outrun all of it .

Inside, he yanked off the towel, cranked the water to cold, and stepped under the spray with a hiss that welcomed the splash of ice. If only it had a prayer in hell of cooling him off.