Page 59 of The SEALs' Single Mom Baby Surprise

“Yes,” I say to both of his questions. The asked one and the unasked one.

Jack takes himself from my hand and draws his cock through my overheated core. I arch as he enters me again. Those big hands cup my waist, lift my hips, hold me in place as he thrusts, angling me in just the right way for my insides to quiver.

It’s hard to believe I can come again, but I’m climbing that steep hill at a steady pace.

I hold onto him as he drives through my orgasm and finds his own. We shake together for a few minutes before he kisses me and climbs off.

Rhett is behind him, looking down at me like I’m some kind of goddess.

I have so little energy left, but I reach for him, inviting back inside me. He’s gentle, building me up to drop me off that cliff again. He’s intent on my pleasure, dragging me through another orgasm before coming himself.

I’m absolutely trembling when he retreats, and Sterling is there. The boss takes his time, bringing me back down from the brink. When we’re both ready, he lifts me to a long, drawn out crescendo, one that feels like it will utterly end me.

Somehow, it does, and it transforms into more than fucking.

More of my heart and emotions wrap up with having him buck against me and bare himself to me in his gaze. In his kiss. In the way he seems less than willing to let me go.

They don’t let me linger on the couch for long, carrying me to the bath, already full and hot. And they take turns taking care of me—washing my hair, cleaning my skin, rubbing my overused muscles—before they tuck me in to sleep.

26

SLOANE

It’s taking too long to track where the guns came from. Every time I ask or we get close, we’re thrown a curveball. Well, the guys are. I don’t understand a lot of what they’re doing or how they’re searching.

Frankly, it’s frustrating.

Since I can’t help search, I try to find some connection to the other missing and mislabeled crates.

Honestly, it’s sending me in circles.

We aren’t having as many mistakes—virtually zero on our end now that I’m keeping watch.

Edmund is acting squirrely. Not that he’s really stopped since the guys showed up, but at least he hasn’t gotten worse since Sterling and I saw him deliver the crate due for destruction to that middle man.

A few more of them have gone missing. Ones that I’ve logged. I log practically everything. I just don’t trust him anymore, and I want to rip the bandage off and call him out on his shady behavior.

As much as I’ve been told that I have trouble letting others take the lead—ha!—I’m listening to the guys. And they'd better appreciate it.

Because it is not easy to hold my tongue.

Not that I always do. I’ve snapped at him a few times over the week for making a stupid mistake. I’m sure he’s trying to cover his ass, or whoever’s ass he’s smuggling our inventory to.

It just infuriates me so much.

How long has he been doing this?

I wipe a hand down my face as I input data from our latest inventory check. There’s no way to double-check everything in our warehouse before it gets moved again.

Three more crates designated for destruction have gone missing. Sterling promised me that they’ve put nearly invisible trackers in each of the crates to follow them to their destination. But the new tracker is in limbo, stuck at that building on the edge of the industrial district.

I hate waiting.

Jack’s hands lower over my own, halting the tapping of my fingers across the keyboard. A few jumbled letters smear across my pristine screen.

“Hey. Why are you trying to murder your computer?” His low voice steadies my internal temperature. It keeps spiking, and I’m sure I’m going to explode soon if I don’t find a way to burn some of it off.

“I’m not trying to murder anything. Yet.”

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