Page 33 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. The room started to clear, but Boomer lingered a beat too long.

So did she. Neither spoke. He didn’t look at her.

But she felt him, like the memory of that kiss had heat and weight and a body of its own.

She turned away before she could do something stupid like follow him.

The next day, Taylor didn’t know what the hell she was doing. She told herself she needed to check in with Boomer. Maybe make sure he was still cleared for duty after yesterday’s SSE. Maybe gauge his readiness for the next phase. But really? She just wanted to see him.

God, her body was still humming from the cages. Every time she blinked, she felt his mouth on hers. Every time she shifted in her seat, she felt the ghost of his thigh pressing up between hers. She’d barely slept with the ache of wanting, and now she was prowling the halls like a woman starved.

She’d stopped Breakneck in the corridor and tried to sound casual. “Have you seen Boomer?”

The sniper had smirked, all boyish charm and wicked eyes. A teen-idol face with a filthy mind behind it. “Your big man? Oh yeah. He’s in the pool. Said he needed… cold water.” He leaned in like he was sharing a state secret. “Why would he need that, do you think?”

Taylor narrowed her eyes, groaned. “Shut the fuck up, you little shit.”

She bumped his shoulder hard as she passed. He laughed like hell, the sound echoing down the hall, and when she glanced back, that smug bastard winked at her.

She flipped him off without missing a step.

At the pool, Boomer was in the water all right, swimming smooth laps in a pair of tiny, clingy khaki shorts and nothing else. Fins on his feet, his back arched on the rise, water streaming down the long, muscled line of his spine as he cut through the surface like a goddamn torpedo.

She stopped. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The man was art . All muscle and grit and grace, every inch of him sculpted like a war-forged statue. His shoulders rolled with each stroke, wide and commanding. His body gleamed, wet and golden in the Lisbon sun.

She stared.

Just stood there and stared until he stopped mid-lap, treaded water, and turned his head like he felt her.

His eyes locked on hers, and the look he gave her burned straight through her like molten fire. Her lungs went tight. Her mouth opened to suck in a heated breath.

Her phone rang. She jumped, snatching it from her pocket, voice rough and hoarse. “Hoffman.”

“Taylor,” her boss said crisply. “Get over here to the MAOC Command Center. I want a full briefing. You’re being handed operational command on the interdiction phase.”

Her pulse leapt. “Sir?”

“You’ve earned it. Now don’t waste time. Ten minutes.”

The line went dead. She lowered the phone, fingers numb. She should’ve felt proud. Instead, she felt ruined . She looked back at the pool just in time to see Boomer pull himself out of the water. Slow. Wet. Deliberate. She closed her eyes. Could barely breathe. “Fuck,” she muttered.

Boomer strode toward her, water slicking down his chest in lazy rivulets, each droplet carving paths between ridges of taut muscle.

The khaki shorts clung low on his hips, soaked to a darker shade that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Every flex of his thighs looked carved by intent, powerful, solid, thighs made for breaching doors or pinning a woman flat.

The fabric cupped him like a second skin, and oh my, he was...not modestly endowed.

She made a noise, soft, broken, feral , and quickly looked up, only to find his eyes locked on hers like a predator watching his prey twitch.

He was unfair. Impossible. A walking threat to sanity.

His abs were cut and deep, the kind you could lose your breath tracing with your tongue. Drops clung to the soft indent of his hips, gathering just above the waistband like a temptation spelled in water.

He was soaked. Barefoot. Tanned. Dangerous , and her entire nervous system went offline .

“What? Don’t tell me you have to go. Not after the night I spent thick and hard for you. I want my hands on you, to get inside you…Taylor…I’m?—

“I do have to go,” she wailed, instantly wet from not only his words but the way they sounded, gravel and Southern heat wrapped around each syllable.

Her knees almost buckled. She reached out a hand to steady herself on a deck chair.

“It’s my boss. He wants me there pronto. We can’t get a goddamn break.”

“Apparently not,” he said, voice low, teasing.

Her eyes raked over him. She was dying . He stopped in front of her. So close she could feel the heat coming off him.

“That’s not helping, Tay,” he whispered. His fists clenched even as his arms raised. “ Goddamn go, ” he added, his voice wrecked and quiet. “Before we both get into trouble.”

She laughed, throat dry, body aching. She turned on her heel, throwing the words over her shoulder as she walked away, afraid of what she would do if she looked at him again. “We’re already in trouble.”

She stopped walking. Dead in her tracks. Boomer’s back was to her now, broad, bronzed, water glistening across shoulders that could carry the goddamn world. Like he couldn’t bear to watch her walk away. Like he didn’t trust himself not to follow .

Trouble? She was going to get some right now. Fuck her boss. He could wait.

She spun and strode back to him, determined, lit from within by that same low thrum of reckless need.

He turned, of course he did. The man had spatial awareness like sonar. His head lifted, eyes locking on hers as if he'd sensed the change in air pressure the second she pivoted.

There was a towel in his hands. She plucked it away like it belonged to her. “This is for me,” she said, low and sultry, “but I hope you get something out of it too.”

Her eyes swept down his body, all of it. These shorts? They should be classified .

“How do you get off wearing these in public? They should be registered as a deadly weapon.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up, green eyes dark with heat and amusement.

“You’re trying to kill me, right?” Then he bit his lip, that full, gorgeous lower lip, and her knees nearly buckled.

“They’re part of my kit,” he said, voice raspy. “Navy issued.”

She scoffed, dragging the towel slowly down his chest, savoring every rivulet she chased. Her fingers were deliberate, almost reverent, skimming along the ridges of his abs, then over the damp fabric clinging to him like a lover’s second skin.

“I’m sure when they were issued, they didn’t take into account what happens to a Navy SEAL when he’s got a hard-on.”

He threw back his head and laughed, the sound low and rich and dangerous .

“No,” he said. “I don’t think they did. They’re… snug.”

She dragged the towel around to his back, over the wide planes of muscle, fingers ghosting lower than they needed to.

“Snug?” she echoed, eyes sparkling. “Could you get any harder or bigger? And I want to see the documentation that these shorts are Navy issue, mein streusel. ”

He turned, grinning, but the grin faltered when she toweled off his hair, fingertips brushing through the short, wet strands like she was memorizing the shape of him.

Then he grabbed her arms, tugging her in.

“This is for me,” he echoed back, voice molten, “but I hope you get something out of it.” He kissed her, deep and lush and claiming. A slow, open-mouthed French kiss that stripped her of logic. Of duty. Of breath.

She melted into it, hands curling into his shoulders, mouth yielding, heart screaming for more.

When he finally pulled back, his breath ragged, his lips kissed raw, she could barely find her voice. But she did in a soft, breathless, “ Ooh la la. ”

Taylor could barely focus on anything her boss was saying. When she made it into the MAOC Command Center, Raoul was tapping his foot. He was peeved she was later than he expected. Worth it. Every goddamn second.

She squared her shoulders, smoothed her expression, and strode in like she hadn’t just been thinking of twenty different ways to get Carter Finley naked against or on any available surface.

“Taylor,” her boss snapped.

She jerked, just a little and met his eyes. “Sorry, sir. It’s already been a long day.”

He exhaled and nodded, but the edge was still there. “Of course. But I’m afraid it’s about to get longer.”

Of course it was.

“You’ll need to liaise directly with every MAOC representative, Spain, France, Italy, Ireland, Portugal, and the UK.

We need them fully on board with the interdiction strategy and agreeing that we need additional funding for this mission.

We’ll be coordinating naval and air assets across all zones.

Interpol and the American DEA want in. It’s going to take time. ”

Taylor didn’t blink. Didn’t sigh. But she could feel her pulse pounding behind her eyes. “Understood, sir.”

“We’ll start briefings in twenty. I need you in the command vault. This will likely run through the evening.”

There it was. The last nail in what had almost been the perfect day.

She nodded once, professionally. She wanted to scream.

She wanted Boomer . She wanted those shorts back in her hands and his mouth back on hers and a locked door between them and the rest of the goddamn world.

But they would have to wait. Tomorrow was Saturday, and they wouldn’t move forward on interdictions until Monday morning.

Tomorrow was hers. Her family’s. Ansel’s. She wasn’t going to let anyone take that from her. Not after her mother’s call telling Taylor that Ansel wouldn’t come out of his room.

He needs me. Maybe… maybe she needed him, too.

She was in luck, the session went very late, and she was tired, but she wasn’t missing this lunch with her parents. The next day she’d stopped by the house first. Okay… she’d gone all out . Dress. Makeup. Curls. A spritz of her favorite perfume with just enough to tease, never overwhelm.

She wasn’t sure who she was trying to impress more, her mother, or the man currently undoing her in every way a woman could be undone.

When she pulled up at the compound, Boomer was already waiting near the front gate.

When he saw her? He exhaled . “Dang, woman. You look fucking beautiful.” His voice dropped, rough and low. “You’re trying to kill this poor ole Southern boy.”

She grinned, heart thudding, and stepped closer, reaching up to cup his jaw. “I just wanted you to see me in something other than tactical gear.”

Her gaze roamed over him and sweet God .

He was a sin in denim, and she wanted to sin over and over again.

Jeans that fit like they were tailored to worship his ass and thighs.

A simple black T-shirt tucked in, sleeves hugging his biceps, boots scuffed and perfect.

He smelled like Boomer, clean, sharp, masculine.

Like heat and leather and everything she wanted between her thighs.

Suddenly her stomach twisted. She clenched the wheel tighter than necessary as they pulled out of the lot. Boomer noticed immediately. “What?” he asked, glancing at her.

She stared straight ahead. “I don’t know what I was thinking. My mom is a nightmare. She’s going to?—”

He reached over and gently pressed two fingers to her lips. “I can handle shotgun-toting daddies and meemaws with cast-iron skillets,” he drawled. “I can handle your mother.”

Gott help her, he made her believe he could. The butterflies didn’t go away, not even after she pulled into the drive and rang the bell. The house looked warm from the outside, sunlight in the windows, a vase of fresh tulips on the porch table, but inside? The dragon stirred.

Gretchen Hoffman opened the door. International human rights attorney. Blunt force intellect. Steel-core spine. Her mother didn’t smile ; she assessed .

Taylor offered a too-bright smile. Her mother looked her over with a glance sharp enough to draw blood, then turned her eyes on Boomer. A single, precise once-over.

Then, in German, she said, “This is your doorkicker. He’s well built. Should keep you warm on cold nights. That’s all men are usually good for.”

Taylor stiffened. Her spine locked up. She turned toward Boomer, dread already crashing through her ribs. But his eyes… sparkled. “ Mutter ,” she managed, voice thin, a more formal word for mom. “Boomer speaks German.”

Gretchen didn’t even blink. “Does he?” she said in perfect English. “Aren’t you an enterprising individual?”

Boomer’s mouth tilted in a slow, dangerous smile.

Then in flawless, low German, he said, “No, ma’am.

I was raised with it as a second language.

My mother is German.” Gretchen blinked. Taylor stared.

Boomer, cool as a whiskey neat, extended his hand and added, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frau Hoffman. ”

Taylor opened her mouth to breathe. Or apologize. Possibly both. But Boomer wasn’t finished. His voice dipped with lazy precision, just this side of polite. “I’m good at more than just heating Taylor’s bed.”

Silence.

Gretchen blinked.

Taylor choked. “ Carter ? — ”

He turned to her with that devastating smirk. “What? I’m just being honest.”

Taylor swore under her breath and covered her face with her hand.

Her mother stepped aside, lips tight but clearly intrigued. “Well then. I suppose we’ll see what else you’re good at…besides German and bedding my daughter.”

Boomer grinned wider.

“Yes, ma’am. I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

Taylor prayed for the floor to open and swallow her whole.