Page 21 of The Forgotten SEAL (The Real SEAL #1)

Crossing my arms, I let it roll off my back.

This is what mothers do. They protect. Seeing it firsthand is odd and reassuring.

There was one time when my own mother, God rest her soul, tried to save me from Greg.

She snuck into my bedroom early in the morning and told me to run.

She didn’t stand up to him or shield my body with her own, she told me to get out of dodge because he was angry.

I went to my friend Jenna’s house for two whole days.

When I returned, she was on a liquor run, and my stepfather was home, waiting for me.

That was the first time he raped me. I always wonder what would have happened if we never went down that road—if I hadn’t listened to my mother.

If I’d stayed, perhaps Greg would have locked me in the shed for a few hours—maybe a night.

He was upset I couldn’t get the blood stain off his favorite button-up. The memory forces a shudder.

“I couldn’t possibly hurt him, ma’am. I’m not that kind of woman.” I open my mouth to tell her that I love him, but I can’t. I haven’t admitted my feelings to Smith yet. “He’s important to me.”

“Because his story is your next bestseller?” she asks, avoiding eye contact.

I shake my head. “Because he’s the single most amazing man I’ve encountered in my life. He’s a man with qualities I don’t take lightly. Trust me that he’s in good hands for as long as he’ll keep me.”

His mother smiles, and I force my own, my heart hammering in protest.

At the reminder of the book, my palms begin to sweat. It will be impossible to explain my pseudo-romance, nonfiction, fiction novel to his family. With the ending still up in the air, the mere thought of my book makes me cringe and wish I were in front of my laptop toiling.

Margaret pats my shoulder and excuses herself into the kitchen. I return to studying the photos on the wall, the ones with Megan and his high school friends. He wasn’t as happy then, I remind myself. It’s a small victory in the big picture, but a victory nonetheless.

Conversation is pleasant with his family.

His father looks like an older, carbon copy of Smith, and he is very quiet and reserved.

I get the feeling that when he does speak, everyone listens and appreciates it.

He’s a little less rough around the edges than Smith.

As an introvert and people-watcher, I’m comfortable going out on a limb and assuming that Smith’s career path was a shock to his family.

Now that it’s stolen parts and pieces of him, I’d fathom neither parent is as glamorized by his SEAL status as the rest of the world.

As we hang out, Smith always makes sure to touch me, or kiss the side of my head, or include me in conversation even when I’d be better left out.

He says my name like a praise, passing his lips into a world I’m unfamiliar with.

The way he talks about me is almost embarrassing.

It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to witness how highly he regards me.

I blush. I fidget. Especially when he speaks of my novels and accolades.

“But no one will know it’s about Smith?” Fiona asks after sipping coffee. The children are loud, sticky with sweet-smelling candy, and buzzing around with youthful fury. “Kids, outside!” she finishes, pointing a finger into the air.

The children go, their pounding feet resembling the noise of drunk cattle.

“No one will know,” Smith answers when quiet settles.

I clear my throat. “I’ve changed everything.

His facts are in there, but they’re twisted in a way where his identity could never be uncovered.

No matter how much someone sleuths,” I say.

Taking a sip of my own coffee, I let the heat burn my throat on the way down.

“I truly think this novel will help someone. Not because I’m writing it, but because Smith’s life is spectacular and relatable.

” Over the time that we’ve known each other, he’s given so much of himself to me in his stories.

It’s helped me to open up too. It happened unexpectedly—he caught me off guard.

At this point I’ve told him my darkest secrets, and he knows my life driven desires.

In divulging his darkest nightmares, he’s helped me heal my own demons.

“I can’t wait to read it,” Fiona says. “He never tells us anything.” She smirks in Smith’s direction.

Smith balls up a napkin and tosses it at Fiona’s face.

She swats it away, laughing. The banter is light, unforced.

It’s like I’ve been sitting at this table with these people for a long time—not meeting them for the first time.

Margaret’s cell phone rings. She raises one brow and takes the call in another room. Fiona looks uneasily at her mother’s retreating back and continues talking to her husband about books.

“Want to go play a game of hide-and-seek with the kids?” Smith asks. He takes my hand and doesn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure adult supervision is required after that much sugar.”

I laugh. “It’s the equivalent of an adult having four cocktails,” I say. I’m trailing behind him as he guides me down the porch steps and around the house to the thin copse of trees the children are circling. “Why the hasty exit?”

Smith runs his free hand through his hair. I notice the scars on his hands as I admire his strong, large physique. “Megan called my mom.”

I raise my brows. “I’m glad you see no need to lie,” I reply.

“I should be sad, but after listening to you sing my praises for the past hour, I’m confident nothing else matters.

” It stings. I can’t erase his or his family’s past. Megan has every right to call.

To visit. To wonder how the birthday party is going on without her presence.

“Sad? I was afraid you’d get pissed.” Smith yells at the kids to get ready for the best game of hide-and-seek the world has ever seen.

Furrowing my brow, I try to bring anger to the surface.

Most women would be mad or self-conscious at the very least. “How could I possibly get angry?” On the contrary, most women haven’t received a beating in their life.

I know whom I should appreciate and trust. I squeeze his hand.

Smith shrugs, shakes his head, and licks his lips.

I smirk as the children disperse through the yard.

“Turn around and close your eyes,” I whisper into his ear.

When he chuckles, I peck his cheek and take off in the opposite direction, heading for several large trees that might conceal me.

He calls out after me, but I don’t stop my hurried pace.

Echoes of laughter fill the air, and eventually I hear Smith’s booming voice call out, “Ready or not, here I come!”

“That was not twenty seconds,” I huff under my breath. I pin my lips together between my teeth, and as slowly and carefully as I’m able, I peek out from behind the tree. Smith is chasing a little boy, his pace indicating he’s giving the child the benefit of a head start.

My heart thumps loudly as I watch him, the man I love, play.

He looks so carefree, innocent, and unassuming.

This isn’t the war-torn soldier shouldering loss, tenuous responsibility, and memories that invoke the worst kind of nightmares.

He’s opening my eyes to a softer side. A side I’ve always known has been inside but hasn’t had the opportunity to come to light.

Flashes of a future I never dreamed of having start flickering in the part of my brain untainted by Roarke.

It’s like magic. Like healing. Like maybe sometimes miracles do happen.

I hear when his footsteps approach my hiding spot.

They’re quiet at first, and then almost silent when he realizes I’m near.

Reaching behind me, I lay my palms against the rough bark of the tree and think about Smith’s ability to blend into any circumstance.

The sense of touch grounds me in the here and now.

“Olly olly oxen free,” Smith says, rounding the tree.

Tossing my head back, I laugh. “That easy?” I ask. My smile fades when I see the intensity of his gaze. His body is lithe yet solid as he approaches.

With one hand on the tree, he shakes his head. “Quite the opposite, actually. Difficult. You’re difficult,” Smith growls. He rubs his fingers over his top lip.

I frown. “I resent that. Fully. I pride myself on being easy. Wait, that didn’t come out right,” I say, smirking.

Smith places both of his palms on the tree on either side of my head.

“I could be easy right now if you wanted, though,” I coax.

He leans closer, his nose brushing the side of mine. His scent—the mouthwatering, fatally toxic scent of him—enters my body. I inhale deeply just as he blows out a breath.

“Difficult in that I don’t think I can hold out another second,” Smith says, his lips brushing mine on the last word.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to lean up and press my lips against his.

I want him to want me as badly as I want him.

The feelings are so intense I have to close my eyes to block out one sense.

“Don’t hold out,” I whisper. “You can’t hide forever.” When I feel his hands on the sides of my face, I open my eyes. “Smith,” I finish.

Instead of responding, he nods and rubs his thumb along my lower lip and ends by pulling it down to open my mouth.

I’m hyperaware of this moment. I know it’s when everything changes.

The setting sun plays peekaboo through the trees next to us, and the sounds of the children’s shrill laughter lift on a slight breeze.

Smith leans down and brushes his lips against mine back and forth.

I taste his breath as mine mingles with his.

My head, held still in his hands, is at his mercy.

When I’m sure it’s going to happen, I wrap my hands around his waist and pull my body against his.

The muscles he’s worked so hard to rehabilitate mold against me as if they were made to fit with mine .

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says. And then he does.

Before I can respond. Before I can scream at the top of my lungs, Yes!

Finally. Please. Kiss me and never stop, our lips crash together in a hurried violence.

It’s a large amount of pent-up sexual frustration culminating in our mouths colliding—becoming one.

After all of our interviews, my mind wandering to his perfect moving lips I could only dream about tasting, I finally get them.

His tongue seeks mine out as his hands tilt my head to the side to ease us into a better angle.

I clutch the back of his shirt, tugging him into me until I think I may be hurting him.

He releases my head and picks me up, turns so his back is against the tree, and continues his assault from here.

My legs wrap around his waist, and in the midst of this frenzied lust filled with stolen breaths and shared emotions, his erection pressing against me, I decide that Smith Eppington is the only person I want to kiss for the rest of my life.

He’s my morphine, the solitary reason my heart beats fast and slow in any single moment.

I might as well be strung like a puppet and marched into an arena naked.

This is how I feel when he asserts his control—his dominance—over me.

There are so many things I want to tell him, but neither of us wants to be the first to break away from this moment of pure bliss.

I’ve never been kissed like I’m oxygen, like I’m the reason one lives, kissed like I alone can keep a heart pumping.

This is what I feel when Smith finally moves from my lips and trails his wet mouth down the side of my neck.

Jutting my hips further, I seek out his hard bulge and wish we were naked.

I wish we were back home in the one bed in our house.

I wish he were my first. I wish he were my last. I pray he will be the latter.

He lets me slide down to my feet but keeps me against his body.

Our kiss is broken, but emotions are running so high I can scarcely catch my breath.

Gazing into his eyes, I find myself lost and found at the exact same time.

“And right before my eyes, one kiss tilted the earth,” Smith says, flicking his gaze to different spots on my face, like he’s cementing it to memory.

“I don’t know what it is,” he says. His breathing is ragged as he drags a hand through his hair and promptly returns to touching me—light touches on my arm, my neck, the sides of my face, and ever so gently grazing his palms over my breasts on top of my dress.

“I know,” I say. Licking my lips, I lock my arms around his neck. “This is what it’s like in romance novels.” When it’s real.

Smith smiles and shakes his head, still entranced with gazing at me piece by piece.

Because he can, he leans down and kisses me once more. And it’s sweet this time—bittersweet. He doesn’t, but I know how some romance novels end.

And it’s not always with happily ever after.