Protected by a SEAL (Alpha SEALs, Book 6)

By: Makenna Jameison

Chapter 1





Brent “Cobra” Rollins stalked into Anchors, fists clenched at his sides as he wove his way through the popular bar he and his Navy SEAL team frequented, not far from Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek. Low music thumped through the speakers, shot glasses slammed down on tables, and snippets of animated conversations filled the air. Howls of laughter came from a full table in the back, but Brent made a beeline for the large, sleek bar that dominated the room.

The dark polished counter seemed to stretch on for miles, with chrome and leather barstools that Brent happened to know were perfect for perching a woman on, wrapping her legs around his waist, and sinking straight into heaven. After hours only, of course. He smirked, remembering the money he’d slipped the bartender last week. He and the pretty blonde he’d met had the place to themselves for hours. Good thing, too, because she was a screamer.

Not that he minded sending a woman straight to ecstasy. Again and again.

Specialized in it, really.

He shucked off his black leather jacket, tossing it aside as he gestured to the bartender. Row upon row of bottles lined the shelves, the mirror behind them reflecting the crowd in Anchors and making the assortment of booze seem practically infinite.

As if that would be enough liquor to get him through this fucking week.

A pretty redhead that he’d taken home a couple of weeks ago sidled up to him as he sank down onto a barstool, but he gave her a curt nod, muttering, “Not tonight, sweetheart.”

A brief look of hurt flashed across her face, but she flipped her hair over her shoulders and purred, “Your loss, baby.”

Brent watched her walk away, her sweet ass sashaying in those come-fuck-me heels. Hell. The woman was a tiger in bed, guaranteed to make a man beg for mercy, but he wasn’t in the mood for one of his infamous one-night-stands.

Imagine that.

He ordered two shots of whiskey and downed them one right after another, the burn of the liquor chasing down his throat and searing through his veins. He ran a hand across his dark stubble and then gripped his hands together, flexing his forearms in front of him as he stretched. Muscles rippled beneath his taut skin as some of the tension left his body from the day’s brutal training, but he ignored the gawking looks of the women seated across the bar from him. At the moment he needed a stiff drink, not a quick fuck.

And since when did he turn down a willing woman?

A gorgeous babe with a spectacular rack leaned over beside him, her cloying perfume overwhelming. Her breasts practically spilled out over her low cut lacy top, and his gaze momentarily roamed there before meeting her baby blues. Hell, had he met her before? It was getting damn hard to keep all the women he’d taken to bed straight anymore.

“Hi Brent,” she cooed in a low, sultry voice.

So that was a yes.

“Want to come back to my place tonight? I’ll let you drizzle chocolate sauce all over me again.”

Fuck yes. Now he remembered. Six months ago. They’d had a night for the record books—he’d licked whipped cream and chocolate from those gorgeous breasts, sucked red cherries from her wicked little mouth, and let her pleasure him with the stash of flavored condoms she had in her nightstand drawer. She was practically insatiable in the bedroom and had a spectacular body—but unfortunately her boobs were about ten times the size of her brain.

Which was why he’d left in the middle of the night without so much as a glance back. And hadn’t given her a passing thought since.

“Not tonight, beautiful, I’m meeting my team in a few,” he said, letting his gaze lazily roam over her.

“And I can’t steal you away?”

“No can do, sweetheart.”

“Are they all as tough as you?” she cooed. “Because I have a thing for big, strong military men.” Her red fingernails trailed over his bicep, and Brent guffawed despite himself.

“They only wish.”

“The offer is still open if you change your mind later,” she said, nonchalantly palming her breasts as she stood back up.

Fucking hell. Was this chick for real?

His gaze trailed after her as his dick unwittingly rose to attention. Shit. He was here to drown his sorrows in booze and shoot the shit with his teammates, yet the whole damn female population seemed to be on the prowl tonight. Normally that was just his style, but at the moment? Not a fucking chance.

“Want a beer?” the bartender asked, raising his eyebrows as the woman sashayed away.

Brent grunted in affirmation.

He took a swig of the beer the bartender placed in front of him, his stomach churning as the date on the calendar flashed through his mind—exactly four years ago this week, his younger sister had been killed. Not in an accident, not from some debilitating illness, but from her psychopath of an ex-boyfriend. Her ex had stalked her, unable to deal with the fact that she’d broken up with him, and then he’d followed her home late one night. Tied her up. Taken what she’d no longer freely give. Then choked the last breath from her body.

Brent had been deployed on a SEAL op with his team, halfway around the world, and his brother had been hours away working a case for the NYPD, unaware their sister was in imminent danger.

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