Page 49 of Better Late Than Never

Three solid days after I’d slept with Connor, I wanted him even more than I had before I’d ever laid a hand on him.

I kept asking myself, was the sex really that good?

And… yeah. Yeah, ithadbeen that good. He’d been generous and responsive and vocal, and oh my God, I wantedmore.

Several times, I’d considered hitting up Isidoro, but each time, that thought hadn’t lasted. He’d always been fun in bed, but I knew to my core that sex with him would just leave me aching for more of Connor.

What the fuck? Since when did I getthishung up on anyone? Especially after I’d gotten it out of my damn system? There’d been times I’d left so satisfied that I was looking forward to the next time, but not like this. Never like this.

Maybe it was because Icouldn’thave him again?

Except… no.

The whole forbidden fruit thing had never really been my thing, mostly because the consequences were usually more of a headache than they were worth. This time, the consequences would derail my whole damn life. Connor’s, too. If our CO really wanted to be a dick and make an example of us, she could slap us with an Article 92 and boot us out of the Navy. It probably wouldn’t be a dishonorable discharge; a Sailor had to fuck up way harder than blowing an officer to score one of those. No, we’d likely get administratively separated, which did not look good on a résuméandcould cost us our veteran benefits. Connormightbe able to just retire since he was past twenty years, or the powers that be could decide to fuck us both equally.

Either way—not ideal.

A pile of potential consequences like that was usually more than enough to deter me from pursuing something I shouldn’t. While I had done plenty of clubbing and partying in high school, I hadn’t done any with my military peers until the fourth year of my first enlistment because I’d been too afraid of getting hemmed up for underage drinking. I’d curtailed my speeding while I was stationed in Japan because tickets and fender benders were international incidents that I hadn’t wanted to deal with (my lead foot still existed in Spain, mostly because I could just pay the cop right then and there and be done with it).

And as it happened, today I was treated to a reminder of yet another forbidden thing I wasn’t the least bit tempted to do.

My patient was on crutches, miserably favoring his right leg, and he looked like he’d taken a beating, too. There was a big scrape on his cheek, a bandage on his forehead, and another peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his blouse.

I took the order from him and skimmed over it.

X-ray. Right hip. Puncture wound on right buttock, possible bone chip or fracture to pelvis.

What the?—

Oh.Ooh.

I fought hard to keep my military bearing and not let a chuckle slip through. “Let me guess—just got back from Pamplona?”

His eyes went huge. Then he groaned. “Oh God. Did my doctor put that in the notes?”

“No. But it’s that time of year.” I grimaced and tried to sound playful as I asked, “You know you’re supposed to runaheadof the bulls, right?” I didn’t bother mentioning we weren’t supposed to run with them at all; if he hadn’t already gotten an earful from a superior, it was coming when he handed over his light duty chit.

Rolling his eyes, he nodded. “Yeah. I know. I was doing good until I tripped. Fucking uneven streets…”

“I’m sure. Well, let’s take you back and see what’s going on in there.”

Running with the bulls was definitely one of those situations where the consequences outweighed the thrill. I’d entertained the idea for a hot minute when I’d taken the orders to Spain, but quickly decided against it when I realized all the ways it could go spectacularly wrong. Plus I’d realized they were fighting bulls, and I was vehemently against bullfighting, so… no.

And that was all before I’d gone to orientation upon arrival, and the base CO had made it very clear that, “If you run with the bulls, I will find out.” He’d held up a Spanish magazine with a photo on the cover from the annual running of the bulls … with three Sailors’ faces clearly front and center.

Message received, Captain.

Not everyone got that message, though, and once in a while, somebody got hurt, as was the case with the kid I was X-raying. A lot of people did fly under the radar. They ran with the bulls, came away unscathed, and didn’t get caught.

This was my third year in Rota and the second service member I’d seen with injuries from that event. There were probably plenty of others. Those who hadn’t had so much as a scratch, and those who hadn’t been caught by anyone who cared.

If theywerecaught, though, whether by a bull or their superiors, they were pretty well fucked. The military did not take kindly to people damaging government property, and getting your dumb ass hurt doing something stupid was an express ticket to Captain’s Mast or even court-martial.

Not worth it in my book.

But getting your dick sucked by a lieutenant commander before plowing him into his mattressisworth it?

I shook that thought away and focused on my patient.

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