A SEAL's Consent (SEALs of Chance Creek Book 4) Page 2

  She wanted him to erase it.

  He’d play along—and enjoy the hell out of the journey.

  And do his damnedest to convince her along the way she wanted much, much more than a one-night stand.

  This was what she wanted.

  Passion.

  Desire.

  Hot, racy encounters with a man who wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  Not the cold, calm, calculated wooing of the man her parents had chosen for her—a man who liked her well enough, but not any more than he would have cared for half a dozen other wealthy Silicon Valley socialites.

  She didn’t want calm or calculated or safe. She didn’t want to be tucked into a cocoon and protected from the ups and downs of the world—a pretty toy to hang on a man’s arm while he furthered the empire their two families wanted to build.

  She wanted raw lust. Overpowering desire. Sex so hot and heavy it melted all her defenses.

  Someday she wanted love, marriage—all that entailed. But only with a man who set her heart racing and pulse beating and made her hungry for life.

  A man like Jericho.

  She couldn’t believe how bold she was being. How she’d lured him into drinking too much, how she’d bet on the quarters game, lost on purpose and now was begging him to make love to her.

  She didn’t know what she’d do if he said no.

  But Jericho was never going to say no. Not to her. He wanted what she had to offer—a no-strings-attached encounter was right up the SEAL’s alley. She’d heard his friends joking about the way his good looks attracted all kinds of women. She bet he had a string of girlfriends.

  She didn’t care.

  All she wanted was this once. Or maybe a few times; Jericho looked like a lot of fun. Whatever it took to get Charles Scott out of her mind once and for all. She was done with him, done with California, done with her family and their machinations.

  She was Savannah Edwards. Pianist. Prepared to take on the world. With an audition in just under four months with the world famous virtuoso Alfred Redding. She would dazzle him—make him take her under his wing—let him introduce her to the world and start her brilliant career, at last.

  But first she was going to make passionate love to Jericho Cook, Navy SEAL, in the Russells’ mauve bathroom. She’d blow his mind.

  And then she’d take the world by storm.

  But when Jericho cupped her breasts and squeezed, she lost all thought of the world, her debut, her audition and music in general.

  “Oh—”

  He seemed to take her indrawn breath as an invitation, scooped her breasts higher and ran his thumbs over her sensitive nipples until Savannah thought her knees would give out. He pressed closer to her and she could feel the length of him hard against her. Soon he’d be inside her. The thought of it turned her muscles molten.

  “How do I get this dress off?” he whispered into her ear, his want—and need—all too evident in the roughness of his voice.

  “You don’t. We don’t have time.” Regency gowns, not to mention the stays she wore under hers, were far too complicated for that.

  She reached down and began to lift her skirts. It was the only way.

  Jericho palmed and squeezed her breasts, pressing kisses up and down her neck and shoulders. She was so hot—so aching at the thought of taking him inside, she didn’t need any foreplay. Sex had never seemed so simple before. Charles had always had to coax her.

  But with Jericho it was different—maybe because she had chosen him, culled him from the herd, made her play for him—

  Won him.

  Jericho pulled back and looked down as she lifted her skirts around her waist, and she swore she could feel the heat of his gaze on her bottom. “Oh, sweetheart—” His tone was reverent and she could guess why. She wore old-fashioned garters and stockings with her stays—and nothing else.

  She’d come to dinner knowing exactly what she wanted.

  He moved a hand from one of her breasts and slid it between her legs, his palm pressing hard against the part of her that wanted him the most. As he teased and touched her, she grew even more turned on. He had to know it. Savannah felt shameless, unafraid to show this man exactly how much she wanted him.

  “You are so hot,” he murmured against her neck, and without her asking him to, he kicked off his shoes, unzipped his jeans and tugged everything down until he was naked behind her. He placed his hands on her hips and positioned himself.

  So she wasn’t going to have to beg the SEAL.

  Why did she feel disappointed?

  A flash of herself kneeling before Jericho, taking him into her mouth, flushed her hot with wanting him. He bumped up against her and she closed her eyes, wanting to feel him inside.

  Jericho groaned again. “Baby, I don’t have a condom.”

  “I’m on the Pill. I’m safe.” If he stopped now, she’d scream and bring everyone running.

  “Me, too—just had a checkup.” He nudged against her again. “But are you sure? There are other things we can do—”

  “Jericho!” She braced her hands against the door, and pushed back against him.

  Jericho didn’t protest. Instead he braced a hand on the door above hers, clamped the other one on her hip and pushed inside.

  Savannah let out a rough sigh.

  He paused, just for a moment, before easing out and into her again. Savannah hung her head, her eyes closed, lost in the sensation of him.

  “All right?” he gasped.

  “Wonderful.”

  His masculine chuckle nearly undid her. He was pleased.

  He should be.

  He was amazing. Everything she wanted from a fling—

  Everything she wanted—

  As Jericho moved again, his slow slide out and in nearly brought her to her knees, distracting her from that last disturbing thought.

  She didn’t want a man in her life. Not in a serious way. A permanent way.

  Fun, yes—that was fine.

  She had time for nothing more.

  But as Jericho made love to her, Savannah felt her control of the situation slipping fast. She had been the one to hunt him down, she reminded herself. This was her fling.

  But he was the one spinning her into a dizzy tumble of pure desire. She wanted what he was doing to her. Would never get enough. Wanted him to touch her. Wanted him to make her scream.

  She was moaning, she realized. Making sounds she’d never made before as Jericho did wonderful things to her, filling her, drawing away and pushing back inside again. When he lowered his hand from the door back to her breasts, teasing and caressing her nipples, driving deeper into her, faster—harder, she braced herself firmly, panting with need, and slipped ever further under his command.

  No man had made love to her like this. No man had made her forget everything else. She was pure emotion—pure heat.

  Pure passion.

  And she couldn’t get enough.

  Savannah braced harder against the door. Jericho filled her further, moving fast inside her. He caught both her breasts in one hand. Squeezed—

  And she crashed over the edge with a cry she buried against her arm. Jericho came with her in a series of thrusts so hard they lifted her off her feet as her orgasm washed through her. Lost in ecstasy, tossed in the waves of her release, she didn’t come back to earth until Jericho hugged her close, holding her until her tremors stopped. He pulled out carefully, but her legs didn’t want to support her and she sagged against the door until he turned her around and held her in his arms.

  “Hell,” he breathed. “That was… something.”

  Savannah laughed. “Yes, it was.” How long had they taken? She didn’t know if they’d been gone from the party for minutes or hours. “Guess we’d better get back.”

  But when she moved, Jericho held her in place. “I want more,” he said simply. “Got that, Savannah Edwards? I’m not satisfied. Not by a long shot.”

  She shivered. Because of the cool air, she told herself.
Not because of a trace of premonition that whispered down her spine. Jericho was hot. He was amazing. He was the perfect partner for her fling.

  But a fling was all this was.

  She didn’t have room in her life for anything else.

  Even if Jericho was bending down to kiss her again.

  Even if she was going up on tiptoe to kiss him back.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Present Day

  “Since we’re all gathered anyway, might as well draw straws for the next victim,” Boone said. Jericho, standing near the doorway of the old bunkhouse that formed the headquarters for Base Camp, the sustainable community they’d been building these past few months at Westfield, hesitated as he put his arm into the coat of his old-fashioned Revolutionary War uniform, then finished the task, yanking it all the way on. Harris Wentworth was marrying Samantha Smith in a matter of hours, and it had become customary for the men to don the old-fashioned uniforms to match the women’s Regency gowns.

  A lot had changed since he’d arrived in Chance Creek in May. Now it was August. More men had joined Base Camp—including Harris. The tenure of the reality television show had jumped from six months to a year. With two couples married, and another wedding happening today, it was time to figure out who would come next. After all, according to Fulsom’s demands, they had to televise a wedding every forty days.

  There was an uncomfortable shuffling as the yet-to-be-married men contemplated their future. Cameramen, grouped tightly around them as usual to gather footage for the next episode, honed in on the straws Boone had produced in his hand. Base Camp always had high ratings, but the wedding episodes garnered the most attention.

  “Walker, Jericho, Curtis, Kai, Angus, Greg and Anders, come on down. Let’s see who’s up next.” Boone wasn’t going to let anyone off the hook. Jericho caught Harris grinning, and guessed the man was glad his future was secure.

  Jericho’s wasn’t.

  When he’d had his way with Savannah in the Russells’ bathroom—or when Savannah had had her way with him; he still wasn’t exactly sure who had been in charge of that encounter—he’d thought it was the start of something fun and satisfying. The start of something permanent.

  He’d been wrong.

  For a couple of weeks it was simply time and circumstances that had worked against them. They’d teased and flirted with each other, but didn’t get the chance to be together again. He and his friends had worked on their community. She and hers were starting their Jane Austen experiment. He’d been okay with being patient.

  But when Boone confessed to Riley about the reality television show and the crazy goals the men had to meet to keep Westfield, all of the women became furious. Including Savannah. She’d backed right off and refused to be more than civil to him ever since.

  He couldn’t blame her; he and the others should have told them all of it from the start. After all, the women wanted to keep Westfield as much as the men did. Months had passed since that fight, though—an entire summer through which Jericho had waited for Savannah to relent. Riley hadn’t just forgiven Boone for his part in the deception; she’d married him. Nora had married Clay. Today Harris and Samantha would get hitched, but they didn’t count; Sam had known from day one the nature of the arrangement when she came to Chance Creek, unlike Savannah.

  Still, Savannah held back. She’d softened a little in the last few weeks. He’d managed to sit with her at a meal or two, engage her in pleasant conversation, even flirt a tiny bit.

  None of that satisfied him, however.

  He wanted her to be his wife.

  Jericho swallowed as Angus drew first. The straw was long and Angus frowned. Maybe he was ready to get on with marrying Win Lisle; the two had been an item for months. Kai Green and Greg Devon drew next. Theirs were both long, too. Curtis Lloyd drew a long straw, and exhaled visibly. Anders Olsen drew another one.

  “It’s down to Walker and Jericho,” Boone said. “And rightly so. One of the founders should marry next.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Jericho said, wiping his damp palms down the homespun fabric of his breeches. “Seems we’re all in this together.”

  “And everyone drew their straw, fair and square.” Boone thrust his fist in front of Walker’s face. “Don’t think keeping quiet is going to make me forget you,” he said. “Isn’t it time to put Avery out of her misery?”

  Walker shot Boone a long, brooding look, but reached out and grasped one of the straws. Everyone knew Avery liked Walker. It was a lot harder to guess Walker’s intentions.

  He hesitated, and Jericho held his breath. When Walker finally tugged a straw out of Boone’s grasp, he held it up so everyone could see it was long.

  “Well, hell.” Jericho flushed hot, then cold as Boone handed him the remaining straw. Half the length of the others, it was dry and brittle in Jericho’s hand. He swallowed again. “Guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. Would’ve liked it to be later, though,” he managed to say. His feet propelled him out the door before he knew that he had moved. Once going, he couldn’t seem to stop.

  He’d drawn the short straw. He had to marry next.

  What if Savannah wouldn’t have him?

  He marched blindly up the hill toward the manor, where the wedding was to be held, his long strides eating up the ground as his mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. On the one hand, maybe it was time to grab the bull by the horns and find out what was going on with Savannah. On the other hand, if he couldn’t convince her to give him a chance, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  At least Base Camp and the manor were in shape for the wedding. Only a few weeks ago, there’d been a riot here. The old greenhouse had burned down and the gardens had been destroyed. Thank goodness they’d had help to put it all to rights. They were all proud of the brand-new greenhouse, and you could barely tell the gardens had been replanted with donations from one of the local shops.

  “Good—I’m glad you’re here. I need some help.” Mia Matheson blocked his way, scuttling backward when Jericho nearly railroaded right over her. “Jericho?”

  “Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going.” He looked around in a daze, realized he’d reached the manor already and tried to focus on the wedding planner in front of him. Mia was petite, with long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail high on her head.

  “The tables are all in place, but I need the chairs set up. Can you help?”

  “Sure.” He had to get a grip. No matter what he faced in the next month and a half, it was Harris’s wedding day today, and he meant to make sure it went well for his friend.

  Mia pointed to the chairs. “Six per table. Thanks.”

  Jericho got to work. He couldn’t slow his thoughts, however. Where was Savannah now? What would she do when she found out?

  “Jericho?”

  Jericho groaned aloud as Renata Ludlow stalked up, a camera crew not far behind.

  Of course she’d come to find him. The reality television show director had a nose for ferreting out trouble wherever it sprung up, and liked nothing better than to document it—especially if she could humiliate one of them in the process.

  “Back off, Renata—I’ve got work to do.” Her interference was the last thing Jericho needed right now. Maybe the wedding would make Savannah receptive to hearing him out for once. He’d have to try. He had very little time to get her on his side now.

  “Not when I just heard the news. You drew the short straw. Your life’s about to change! Marriage and children.”

  Jericho forced himself to grab another chair. Marriage—sure. Children?

  Never.

  As if she’d heard his thoughts, Savannah stepped out of the manor, followed by Regan Hall, who lived on one of the nearby ranches. Savannah was cradling Regan’s infant son, Hugh.

  “Babies,” Renata mused in her sharp, East Coast accent, following his glance. “You could say they define your life, couldn’t you?”

  Jericho jerked his attention back t
o her and shook his head in disbelief. Babies define his life? She had to be kidding.

  He did whatever he could to avoid babies—and children. Always had—

  Well, not quite always.

  Ignoring Renata, he unfolded another chair and pushed it into place.

  “Your split with your family. Your trauma from your time in Yemen. Both of those have to do with children.” Renata ticked them off her fingers.

  Jericho worked faster. “How do you know about any of that?” He’d borne the brunt of Renata’s inquisitions before, but not like this. He supposed he’d have to be prepared to be the center of attention on the next few episodes. Renata liked to see what made people tick. She liked to expose their deepest fears to the world. That got ratings up and lots of comments on the show’s website. She always focused on the couple who would marry next. Interspersing their story among the rest of the happenings on the show.

  “I have my sources. You’re going to have to marry soon, and then everyone will expect you and your wife to try for a child,” she pointed out.

  She was right. Fulsom’s demand that they all marry was outrageous enough. His demand that at least three of the women be pregnant by the time the show ended went far beyond the pale, as far as Jericho was concerned.

  And yet Boone and Riley were trying for a child. So were Clay and Nora. Harris and Sam hadn’t hidden their desire for kids, either.

  Jericho wasn’t like them. He’d marry Savannah—because he wanted to, not because he had to. But he counted on her obsession with her career to make her just as resistant to children as he was.

  “Have anyone in mind?” Renata asked archly, following his gaze.

  “No.”

  Renata wasn’t one to back down, so he was surprised when she said, “All right. Why don’t we talk about your cousin, Donovan, instead?”

  “Fuck that.” Jericho shouldered past the dark-haired woman and set up another chair. He’d never discuss Donovan on television. His cousin was off-limits.

  “Then let’s talk about Savannah.” Renata kept up with him somehow in her ridiculous heels. She always dressed for a New York boardroom, even though she was directing the filming on a Montana ranch. The way she tottered around on her high heels, sooner or later she’d turn an ankle, or worse, Jericho thought.