A Seal's Desire. Tawny Weber

pats between the legs as some of the team checked their personal equipment.

      “How about you, Anchor Clanker?” Murdock gestured to Laramie, using the derogatory reference to the anchors on the petty officer insignia visible on the collar of Laramie’s camouflage jacket. “You think you can take me on?”

      This time the laughter was aimed at Murdock. The guy was forty if he was a day, and those eleven years he had on Laramie weren’t any kind of advantage in a physical contest. The guy might have skills when it came to close combat fighting, but they weren’t likely to pay off in this situation.

      Because Laramie was good. Maybe not competition form, but he held a second-degree black belt in jujitsu, he was fast on his feet and he had big hands. Big enough that it usually only took one punch to put a guy down.

      Still, it was never smart to underestimate an enemy. Laramie rocked back on his heels, assessing. The guy was older, smaller, but too cocky not to have some tricks up his sleeve. He was also fresh, whereas Laramie was coming off three hours of intense maneuvers.

      So the minute the guy jumped down from his rock, knees bent and fists high, Laramie did a jump scissor kick, knocking him sideways. As soon as Murdock regained his balance and swung, Laramie blocked the punch with his forearm, launched a spring hip throw, then pinned him with a double arm lock.

      And grinned down at Murdock’s furious expression.

      “Point?” he asked, wanting his pin acknowledged before he let the guy up.

      When Murdock shoved, Laramie waited a moment just to make sure the guy knew he was letting him up, then pushed to his feet.

      As he did, Murdock kicked Laramie’s feet out from under him, sending him ass-down on the hard sandy ground.

      “How’s that for a point?” Murdock spat, lumbering to his own feet and slapping at the sand covering his uniform. “You didn’t give me a chance to show the move.”

      “That,” Laramie said bouncing back to his feet, his easy tone a vivid contrast to the other man’s breathless one, “is how we do it.”

      “You mean by cheating?”

      “If we ain’t cheatin’, we ain’t trying,” Laramie paraphrased. It was known among the SEALs that the larger force set the rules, and the team was always the smaller force. Therefore, to win, they broke those rules. “Bottom line, I won.”

      Which shouldn’t be a surprise.

      Because Laramie was a SEAL.

      He made it a point to always win.

      * * *

      FOUR HOURS, A SHOWER and a hot oil massage from a talented blonde named Hilda, and Laramie was back in fighting condition. He strode into Olive Oyl’s bar, his Stetson taking the place of his battle helmet, jeans instead of combat gear and his cowboy boots knife-free.

      The Navy hangout located a few miles away from the base in Coronado, California, was loud. Music and laughter rolled over the top of the conversations, hitting Laramie in an inviting wave as he stepped through the double doors. Bodies were packed from one end of the long building to the other, proving why the bar’s proprietor hadn’t wasted a lot of time prettying up the decor. It was a man’s bar. A sailor’s bar.

      The grayed wood floors were nicked, the whitewashed walls punctuated here and there with anchors, rustic ship wheels and a faded nautical compass painted over the bar itself. Neon bounced off rope-trimmed stools and the roving waitstaff wore wide-legged white pants, striped cotton nautical shirts and classic sailor caps.

      Olive Oyl’s was the go-to place for the SEAL teams. It was also the embodiment of all of Laramie’s childhood visions of the seafaring world. He grinned. And a damned welcoming place.

      He moved easily though the crowd, his rolling gait as much from spending his formative years on the back of a horse as spending many of his adult years on the deck of a ship.

      He returned greetings and waves with ease, but didn’t slow on his way toward the back rooms where the team usually met. At least, not until one particular greeting.

      “Laramie!”

      The breathy greeting was accented by a loud giggle and a bouncy little wave to get his attention. Laramie chuckled, appreciating what the bouncing did for the tiny strips of bright blue fabric masquerading as the blonde’s dress.

      Okay, he thought as he changed his heading, sauntering toward the woman. So he’d had a lot of sailor visions as a kid, but he’d bet the sexy side of those visions, the ones with naked mermaids and nubile port warmers, hadn’t hit until he was at least thirteen. Maybe twelve.

      As he approached the blonde, it only took a couple of flips through the little black book he kept in his mind to come up with a name. Terri, who worked as a cocktail waitress but wanted to be a movie star. She liked her chardonnay with ice, preferred Froot Loops for breakfast and had a penchant for doing it doggy-style.

      “Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted with a warm smile as he leaned in to prop one hand on the bar behind her. “How’ve you been?”

      “Lonely.” She batted her heavily lined brown eyes, the slight bloodshot hue cluing him in to the fact that she wasn’t on her first drink of the night. “I’ve missed you.”

      “Is that a fact?”

      Before he could even begin the mental debate over whether he was going to help her get over missing him tonight or not, another slender hand smoothed up his back, then tickled its way down.

      He glanced to the right to see the sultry brunette, her short cap of hair and the little mole above her lip immediately clicking open the file. Stella, flight attendant with a penchant for leather, beer on tap and midnight sushi.

      “Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, shifting his body so he was positioned directly and evenly between the two women.

      “Hi, Laramie. I’ve been waiting for your phone call.” She tiptoed her fingers up his back, wetting her bottom lip and sliding a dismissive look toward Terri.

      Terri, however, wasn’t easily dismissed.

      “You’ll just have to keep waiting,” the blonde said, wrapping her arm through Laramie’s and leaning in to his body so her breasts almost engulfed his arm. “He’s with me right now.”

      “Why would he be with you when he has me?” Stella countered, her hand now tiptoeing down Laramie’s front, as well.

      Laramie tilted his head to one side, loosening the stiffness in his neck, then to the other. As the two women hissed at each other, he debated his options. Option one, pull them both close and suggest the three of them make a night of it. Option two, let them both down easy before either thought they had any rights to claim.

      Even as his body suggested option two, because dammit, massage or not he was still sporting a corral full of bruises, he automatically slid into option one. Because, well, hey, two women and hot sex? Why not?

      But just as he slid an arm around each slender woman, he heard a call.

      “Ride ’em, Cowboy.”

      Laramie glanced down at the laughing comment, noting with amusement that three of his teammates were grinning at the show from their perch at the end of the bar.

      “Need help?” another asked.

      And just like that, the moment of peace between the two women exploded into a catfight. Laramie didn’t know what set them off. Hell, he figured it wouldn’t make sense to him even if he did know. The only thing he understood about women was how to pleasure one and how to walk away. Usually unscathed.

      But as the blonde dived across his body, nails extended toward the brunette’s face, he arched backward. Not in time to miss the brunette’s response, which was a lousily aimed fist that missed the blonde and skimmed Laramie’s chin.

      “Okay, that’s enough,” he snapped with enough force