Page 24 of The Forgotten SEAL (The Real SEAL #1)

First, sunlight peeking from the blinds wakes me.

Next I’m acutely aware of the heavy arm slung across the middle of my body and his chest pressed against my back, creating a heat that warms me from the outside in.

When I stir, Smith props himself up on his elbow and looks down at me.

“What time did you get in last night?” I roll over to face him.

The smile comes without my permission. Waking up to this sight makes me happier than anything in my past.

“This morning,” he replies. “A few hours ago.” A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s seven a.m. “I didn’t want to wake you when I came in. You looked so peaceful in your drool-filled slumber.” He smiles, and it melts my insides. I suck in a deep breath.

“I do not drool,” I say, furrowing my brow. “I sleep like a Disney princess. Don’t suggest anything to contradict that.” I wipe at my bottom lip. It’s currently dry. “You should go back to sleep, Smith. You can’t possibly be ready to wake after only a few hours of sleep.”

Shrugging, he pulls me into his warm, shirtless body and yanks the quilt back up to our necks, his hands now wandering over my body.

“Sleep is the very last thing on my mind right now.” His gaze burns into mine, and his hands find the hem of my nightshirt.

His lips twitch. “You wear so little to bed. I can’t help myself,” he says.

With a featherlight touch, his fingertips stroke the side of my thigh up to the string of my panties.

He hooks a finger in and drags his finger underneath it, teasing himself.

Teasing me, too. “It took all of my self-control to go to sleep with this much of your bare skin in touching proximity.”

I blush. Big time. Everything below my waist cries out for attention in one wild rush of excitement.

It’s been too long. But it’s more than that now because everything before this has been lukewarm.

“What did you do at work last night?” I ask before all important thoughts flee my mind in favor of his touch—something that scrambles my brain cells. “Why did it take so long?”

His face changes. His hand stops on my hip bone and he grabs it, his fingers encompassing the whole side of my body. Breathing in and out makes his hand move with me. It’s warm. It’s demanding. “It’s nothing for you to worry about,” Smith replies.

I shake my head. “When people say stuff like that, typically there is almost always something to worry about, but you don’t want to worry the person. Do you see how counterintuitive that is? Now I’m worried because you told me not to worry.”

He sighs and then pulls the covers over his head and disappears under the blankets.

In a fast maneuver that tickles and makes me pull away in mock protest, he makes his way between my legs.

With the edge of the quilt in my hand, I lift it to see his smiling face between my knees.

“You’re trying to distract me,” I say. Pressing my lips into a firm line, I try to hold a serious face.

“Smith Eppington. You better tell me what I want to know.”

Smith takes the sides of my panties and pulls them down and off my body with one fierce tug.

It’s playful, but so damn hot at the same time.

Some noise exits my mouth, and it makes him smile, his good side wider than his bad.

I shake my head. “Is it working?” he asks, then kisses the inside of my right thigh.

“Are you distracted?” His warm breath on my skin clenches my core.

He drags his lips up and down, inching his way higher.

I adjust my legs and try to calm my breaths. “I don’t see how I can’t be distracted with my underwear on the floor and your head between my legs. I don’t forget,” I say. Tapping the side of my head, I finish, “I’m like an elephant.”

He licks the inside of my left thigh and runs his hands under my nightshirt, up and down the sides of my rib cage. I shiver. Tipping my head back, I close my eyes.

“An elephant isn’t what I want to think about right now,” Smith growls.

“I’d ask you how you like this, but I honestly don’t care.

I’m starving for you. You’re wet. I smell you.

” With his lips pressing against my skin and the disappearance of my panties, he’s turned into a lust-crazed man.

A man I’ve wanted to meet since I first laid eyes on him.

Taking the quilt, I throw it back so he’s fully exposed and not lacking oxygen.

“Don’t think about an elephant. Think about me,” I say, breathing in and out in a panic as I realize what’s about to happen.

His tongue traces lazy circles where my leg joins my body.

“And whatever you do, do not stop doing that,” I moan .

Smith finally moves his head where I want it.

My own head, which feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, swims in sheer bliss.

His mouth is warm, and his fingers stroke me deftly, slipping inside to rub just the right spot, the place most men don’t even know exists.

I moan out as the sensations—the connection—envelop every nerve ending.

Smith is aggressive in his maneuvers, pushing my legs out to give himself better access, holding my hips down when I try to arch my back.

Knowing I won’t be able to hold out much longer, I give in completely, as if I had a choice, and let myself grab his hair and ride the sensations.

The noises coming out of Smith cause a riot of emotions.

The dominant one being lust. There’s no calmness or leisurely pleasuring happening.

It’s animalistic, a complete loss of control.

I guide his head into me when I feel him slip another finger inside.

He strokes a few more times, without halting his flicking tongue, and I lose it.

The orgasm hits my body in waves, from my tingling thighs to the warm flush of pleasure cascading over every square inch of skin on my body.

The waves go on and on, my muscles tense, and my eyes close tight.

When Smith is sure I’m finished, he rests his chin on my lower stomach but doesn’t remove his massive hands from my thighs.

The heat from his palms keeps me in a fog of bliss, unsure if more is coming.

“And that is how it’s done,” I say, sighing.

I haven’t had an orgasm in months. I haven’t had an orgasm that strong and body- consuming in my lifetime.

He’s smiling at me, his eyes lazily wandering over my face and exposed stomach.

“I still can’t catch my breath. No elephants in this room, huh? ”

He kisses the flat plane of the skin stretched across my hip bones.

“Who needs to breathe when you can have orgasms?” Smith smiles.

It’s predatory and full of promise. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of doing that?

Of hearing your screams, seeing your face, knowing I’m responsible for making you feel good, tasting your sweet pussy?

” He shakes his head and licks a trail from my stomach back down between my legs.

He presses a soft kiss at my wet entrance.

“Feeling you clench in release around my fingers while I envision it being my dick instead?”

I take a deep breath as my muscles contract from his mouth. “Probably as long as I’ve dreamed about reciprocating the favor?” I ask.

He stops kissing and fingering me. “You mean sucking me off?” Smith’s gaze flicks up to meet mine, and I can tell it’s painful for him to take his attention away from where he really wants it.

“Or a blow job. Your dick in my warm, wet mouth,” I say.

Tracing my lips with my thumb, I continue.

“My lips wrapping around you as I lick and suck, taking you all the way back into my throat until you come.” I smirk.

My confidence is bolstered by the adrenaline and the pure power I feel being in his presence.

He continues staring, a blank, unreadable expression playing across his features. “Unless you don’t want that,” I amend.

Smith doesn’t take his eyes off my mouth as I speak.

I’m unable to read his feelings on the subject and regret speaking in such a manner.

He started the dirty talk, so I assumed it would be okay for me to reciprocate.

“That’s not your thing. It’s okay. Sorry for mentioning it.

” I blush every shade of red, and I’m tan.

I try to lean up, but he places a hand on my stomach to hold me in place.

“She’s never done that,” Smith says, voice so low I almost don’t make out the words. “I’ve never had a blow job. Don’t be sorry for mentioning it. I’m celebrating internally. I needed a moment to process what you said.”

He’s joking. He has to be. A full-grown man who looks like Smith gets blow jobs whenever he wants.

He told me Megan was the only woman he’s ever been with.

I believed it, but I also assumed their sex life was top-notch.

Look at her. Look at him. I never saw this coming.

Not by a long shot. “Don’t joke right now, Smith. ” My eyes are wide, confused.

“Say my name again,” he growls.

I grin. “Smith.”

Leaning up on his knees, he pulls down his black boxer briefs.

His erection springs free, and I can’t take my eyes off it.

I haven’t seen such anatomy in too long, and I’ve never seen Smith’s.

Envisioning it was my favorite game. Feeling it through his pants, pressing against my stomach when he hugged me, gave me a pretty good idea what he was packing, but it’s nothing like seeing it in the flesh right now.

It’s long, a rigid nine or ten inches, with a girth much wider than I’ve ever encountered in my sheltered years.

Nothing compared to Roarke. I have no comparison. It’s beautiful.

When I finally pull my gaze up to his eyes, he bites his bottom lip. “One thing on my body didn’t get fucked up,” he says. “Still game to show me the ropes?” he asks. He lifts and lowers his thick, broad shoulders.