Page 9 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

The beard came in just a touch lighter than his hair, shot through with caramel and sun, framing his jaw with the kind of effortless scruff that made women forget what they were saying mid-sentence.

He didn’t wear his looks. He carried them. quietly, unconsciously, like the rest of the weight on his shoulders.

He filled out that dusty black T-shirt like it had been stitched directly onto him, broad shoulders stretching the seams, chest sculpted and solid beneath soft cotton, tapering down to a lean waist that gave him that unfair, V-shaped geometry women were evolutionarily helpless against.

She wished she’d stopped at his face at that strong jaw, that full lower lip, those dangerously mesmerizing eyes that had no business looking as vulnerable as the rest of him looked lethal. But she hadn’t stopped. Of course she hadn’t.

Her gaze had traveled south, and now she was stuck with the image of criminally tight jeans, clinging to his hips like they were designed for sin, molded over thick, powerful thighs that could have starred in her late-night imaginings if she let herself go there.

The way he moved wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even intentional. It was worse—instinctive. A quiet, lethal grace that spoke of discipline, strength, and the kind of control that whispered ruin in the most intimate ways.

It did something to her. Something visceral. Something she absolutely refused to name.

Skull passed her with that signature smirk she already didn’t trust.

“Hello, Detective.” His tone oozed mock courtesy. He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “Do you have something in your sights? Something illegal?”

She didn’t answer, so he kept going.

“We’ve got a license to kill, but Boomer, he’s more of a fireworks guy. Lots and lots of explosions.” His grin widened, teeth bright in the dark. “Just wait till he gets twitchy.”

The word hit her like a slap of heat.

Twitchy .

God, why did that sound…indecent?

Her mind betrayed her before she could stop it. Boomer’s hips, that raw, restrained strength, the kind of movement that didn’t ask permission, just took. That body. That control. That loss of control.

She blinked hard, forced her expression back to neutral, back to cold. She hated how easy it was for him to get under her skin even by proxy.

Her voice came out level, crisp, almost clinical. “You’re here to do a job. I’m here to bridge a gap, even if it is over troubled water.”

That shut Skull up for half a second. Then he chuckled low in his throat and kept walking. “Looking forward to this deployment already.”

She didn’t respond.

She was too busy trying to erase the image her body had already decided it wanted to experience firsthand.

Boomer stopped right at the bottom of the ramp. He froze when he saw her. Shoulders squared.

Behind him, the teams began to descend the ramp in silent, muscular formation, swinging backpacks, faces drawn from travel and the kind of missions that left shadows on the soul.

One by one, they passed her without comment, just nods of recognition.

Breakneck, God, he looked like a wild-eyed kid who’d barely passed a driving test and somehow still radiated lethal calm.

Boomer’s eyes caressed her. Deep, dark, unreadable.

Grounded like earth, but with the portent of quake-like trouble, a man who once made her feel like she might not need to do everything herself.

Those tantalizing lips parted as if he expected to see her but was still shocked she was here.

He looked at her like she still mattered, like he’d thought about her more than once since the last time they didn’t say goodbye.

Taylor straightened her spine and held her breath until her emotions retreated behind reinforced walls. She couldn’t speak to him. Not like this. Instead, she saw Bash and took the easy way out for once.

That familiar smirk. Sharp cheekbones. The ridiculous scent of expensive soap and entitlement.

She’d known Bash before the uniform, before the medals and the command presence, before the Special Boat Service.

Back in university, when his shirts were rumpled and his charm was all theory and failed metaphors.

He came from a very wealthy family, but there was pain associated with it.

He’d only opened up once. Said that old adage was true—it couldn’t buy happiness.

They had some history. He’d been bold even then, but under the bravado, she’d always seen the man beneath, clever, quietly loyal, and better than he let on.

She liked men with attitude and confidence, but only if it was backed by integrity. Bash had that, even when he was insufferable.

Thank God for him because he felt safe. Like structure . Like protocol . Like control.

Tonight, she needed every bit of that.

“Bash,” she said with a genuine smile, stepping forward. His grin widened as she wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back easily, slinging an arm over her shoulder like he owned half the air between them.

Behind her, movement. Breakneck nudged Boomer forward. A soft bump to the shoulder, like move, buddy. You’re staring .

Boomer passed her just as she stepped back from Bash.

He stopped again.

Just for her.

He captured her with his eyes, then he took her under. “ Guten Abend , Taylor.”

Her breath caught. Her spine locked.

The words landed low in her belly like a drop of warm oil. German. Her language. Spoken softly, respectfully, with that rich, textured voice that wrapped around consonants like velvet over steel.

He didn’t butcher it. Didn’t over-pronounce. Just said it , quietly, the barest edge of his Southern drawl turning it into something intimate.

In that second, she was no longer the liaison. No longer the operator. No longer the woman who kept her walls mortared tight. She was just a girl from Germany, hearing her language from the man who still lived under her skin.

She wanted to scream. Or kiss him. Or run. Instead, she blinked. Stepped back. “Petty Officer Finley,” she said, voice cold, even as her hands trembled at her sides. Her knees went loose, traitorous things. She narrowed her eyes.

He’d gotten in again. With two words.

His gaze dropped to Bash’s arm still slung around her. Something flickered in his eyes, just enough to make her breath hitch.

“I’m looking forward to working with you again.”

It sounded honest. It sounded worse than honesty. It sounded like hope.

She couldn’t give him that. Not yet.

“We have a lot to discuss,” she said, all crisp consonants. “Briefing in the morning. Right now, we’re going to get you settled for the night.”

Taylor’s throat tightened. Her mind scrambled to reset, to recover, but her body was still betraying her, heart pounding against her ribs like it wanted to break formation and reach for him. Gott, how does he do that?

Head held high, she hoped no one would notice the crack in her voice. Hoping the heat in her face didn’t show.

Bash watched everything, as always. He stepped a little closer, leaning in just enough to keep his words private. “Nice going, Southern fried,” he said under his breath, voice dry, but with the faintest flicker of respect beneath the sarcasm. “Didn’t know you spoke warhead-level German.”

“ Fluently ,” he said with unmistakable heat in his voice. “I’m a demo expert. I know all the explosive languages.”

Bash let out a short huff, somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “Well. Bloody hell.”

Breakneck snorted. “Clean up on the tarmac. First blood drawn.”

She barely noted Bash or Breakneck’s responses, because she clenched her thighs together as a wave of heat rushed through her core.

That was directed at her, no doubt. It hit like he intended, a heat-seeking kerpow missile, right between her thighs, an involuntary shot of pure explosive Boomer-level flirting with an ease that made her melt inside.

She felt the weight of his gaze as he passed her, but… She. Could. Not. Look. At. Him.

Only when he was safely away did she let her eyes follow him. His shoulders. The way his shirt clung. The damn jeans.

Really. Could jeans be outlawed? Could a voice be registered as a deadly weapon?

There was no tactical defense against that.

None at all.

She was trained to disarm threats. But what the hell did you do when the weapon was wrapped in sinew and muscle with the kind of mind you wanted to fuck as hard as his body?

When they started to load up the vans ten minutes later, Taylor hadn't expected this many bodies.

There were more boots, more gear bags, and more volume than her boss had prepared for.

The vans filled quickly, and she watched the last few men filter into the second transport with a rising knot in her chest.

Only one seat was left. The passenger side of her vehicle.

Boomer met her gaze across the open van door, that familiar heaviness in his eyes. He knew. Of course, he knew what the only option was.

She wanted to protest, wanted to redirect, reassign, anything . But there wasn’t space or time. She was too tired to put up a show of authority just to protect her damn heartbeat.

She nudged her chin toward the passenger side of her vehicle. He walked over as all eyes in both vans watched.

He climbed in unfazed from the scrutiny and the importance of what they were both feeling. The scent of heat was tangible, and underneath was salt, dust, a trace of something grounding and unshakably male. He took the seat beside her, enclosing them in this intimate space.

She started the engine, adjusted the rearview. Her pulse was too loud. The silence held. Strangely, it didn’t feel awkward. Just…weighted.

Then his voice came, low, velvet-edged, quiet enough but it still jolted her.

“Thanks for meeting us.” Her throat tightened.

“You look like you got roused from bed.” It was a simple comment.

But his voice went hoarse around the edges of it, like the image hit him harder than it should have.

She felt his gaze brush her face, soft, deliberate, and she liked it.

It made her skin heat under her windbreaker.

Made her fingers tighten around the wheel.

Where the fuck was her control?

“I’m sure I look like hell warmed over,” she murmured, eyes locked on the road.

He chuckled, and the sound went straight to her core, deep, amused, intimate in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for what was essentially two strangers.

“Never. You always look beautiful.”

Her jaw tensed. Why did he have to say things like that? Why did he have to mean them?

Why, in Gott ’s name, did his voice sound even more dangerous when softened by exhaustion and sincerity?

She swallowed and stared hard at the highway lines.

“Boomer,” she said softly, more plea than warning. “I don’t even know how to deal with this.” There. It slipped out, quiet and raw and true.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was an explanation. “I got deployed. Black op. Out of the blue. No access to my phone until I was back on US soil. I should’ve found a way to reach you. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

She felt his words land inside her like dropped stones. What was she supposed to say to that?

A part of her wanted to clutch her anger tighter to use it as armor, to stay safe inside the lines she’d drawn. But another part, the part that had hoped when she saw his name on that text, the part that had waited just long enough before giving up, that part hurt .

Here he was. Six inches away. Warm. Solid. Real. It had been out of his control. But now there was the complication that they were working together. On the clock, not leisurely sightseeing moments.

She wanted to let go of the hurt, slide sideways into all the things he made her feel the two times they were in Colombia.

But his not showing up made her remember that she was still a woman who’d learned, more than once, that losing control meant losing everything.

So she pressed her lips together, kept her hands steady on the wheel, and said nothing.

But her heart was already betraying her, and he was doing what he did best. No pressure, no push, just patience. Somehow, that was more devastating than him getting loud.