Even as she gasped for air and let Jackson roll her over so they were lying side-by-side in a sweaty mess, she was telling herself that this wouldn’t last forever. That she’d be a fool to think it even could.

They would say goodbye eventually. She knew that.

But until that happened…until then…God, she was going to cling to the way Jackson Ramsey made her feel, and enjoy every last second of this mind-blowing fling.

Chapter Nine

“So here’s what we’ve got.” Commander Roger Doyle swept his razor-sharp gaze over the group standing before him. “Enemy rebels captured two of our boys who were conducting a reconnaissance mission in North Korean waters. The men are being held in a sub off the west coast, just north of Namp’o in the South Pyongan Province. Sub is also believed to be harboring sensitive data pertaining to US Special Operations, stolen by the rebels during a siege on the American navy base in Yongsan. We’ve got two objectives, boys—rescue the hostages and destroy the sub. Any questions?”

Thomas Becker, the commanding officer of Team Fifteen, spoke up briskly. “How many tangos in the sub?”

“Eight.”

“How many on the surface?”

“Eight stationed on a fishing boat nearby. Armed with assault rifles and a few other nasty surprises.”

“Any way to approach the red zone by vessel?” Lieutenant Carson Scott asked from his perch against the wall.

“Negative. They’ll have eyes on the water. The op requires a HALO jump and a scuba approach.” Doyle moved away from the chalkboard and headed for the door. “I’ll leave the op specs with Lieutenant Commanders Becker and Walsh. Team Eight, tangos. Team Fifteen, you’re the good guys.”

Dylan and Seth high-fived, while the members of the newly arrived Team Eight let out simultaneous groans.

“Why are we always the bad dudes?” the dark-haired ensign who’d introduced himself as Hunter complained.

“Seriously,” a petty officer named Duke griped.

Miguel Delgado, the team’s tall, balding commander, just grinned. “Have fun,” he said before following Doyle out the door.

As Becker and Walsh, the teams’ respective COs, huddled over the plans left by their superiors, Jackson found himself under the intense scrutiny of a blond man with light-blue eyes. Max, if Jackson remembered correctly.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked with a c**k of his eyebrows.

“Just trying to figure out what all the hype is about,” Max replied thoughtfully.

“The hype?”

“You guys have quite the reputation, but I don’t see what—”

“Wait, what reputation?” Dylan had overheard the comment and was drifting over to them.

Max shrugged. “You know, that you’re all major players.”

“He means whores,” Duke said with a grin, joining them too.

“And party dudes,” their teammate Hunter added.

“And rumor has it, y’all got arrested for streaking last year.” That came from the enlisted SEAL that Team Eight called “Lancelot”, a tall man with dirty-blond hair and laughing brown eyes.

“How dare you, sir.” Seth usurped the conversation with a smirk. “It was for brawling, thank you very much, and no charges were filed.”

The members of Team Eight hooted. “Sorry, my mistake,” Lancelot said in amusement.

Duke grinned. “Notice they haven’t denied the whore part.”

Seth grinned right back. “I didn’t realize the East Coast teams were a bunch of girly gossips.”

“And FYI,” Dylan said cheerfully, “we were warned about your reputation too, so don’t go all pot-kettle on us.”

“Dude, we’re not judging,” Hunter replied, sounding sincere. “We were just fishing ’cause we want to party with you.”

Jackson chuckled, though he honestly wasn’t surprised by Hunter’s response. From the moment the members of Team Eight had walked into the classroom, he’d known they were the East Coast clones of him and his buddies. Most of the Eighters were young, in their early to midtwenties, and they were rowdier and more outspoken than the majority of soldiers stationed on this base. Team Eight did have its Beckers, though—there were definitely a few stoic faces in the room, all business from moment one—but these four were clearly kindred spirits. Sporting cocky grins, quick to laugh, and giving off party-dude vibes.

“Seriously,” Duke agreed, his blue eyes twinkling. “We’ve gotta get some beers while we’re here. Exchange war stories.”

“Whore stories, you mean,” Max cracked.

The next round of laughter was interrupted by a sharp whistle from Team Eight’s CO. “I need my tangos over here,” Walsh barked.

The SEALs snapped to attention and marched off without delay, while Jackson and his teammates were ushered to the door by Becker, who needed them in a separate room in order to go over the details of the mission.

“Enough chatting, ladies,” Becker said briskly. “We’ve got a rescue to plan.”

A little over seven hours later, the training mission was underway. It wasn’t nearly enough time to plan and execute a foolproof extraction, but the hasty timeframe was part of the exercise. The powers that be wanted to evaluate how well the SEALs could carry out a rescue with very little planning.

Jackson and Seth had drawn the short straw and were playing the hostages today. They were currently in the bowels of the USS Hoover, a submarine stationed at the Point Loma Naval Base. Their hands were secured to a pair of pipes with the same painfully tight wires that were also coiled around their feet, while their “guards” watched them closely to hinder any funny business.