Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(39)

His buddy lowered his face to her * and wrapped his arms around her thighs. Marc waited for him to make contact with her sensitive core; then at the same moment, pinched her swollen nipple.

“Oh, my f*cking God!”

Marc pinched her harder.

“Sir! I mean, oh God, Sirs!! Please don’t stop!”

He pinched her again. She was forgetting her place. Slap! Her topping annoyed him. “You will ask for permission to come.”

“Yes, Sir! I’m sorry, Sir!” Orlando’s tongue must be torturing the poor woman. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Mark grimaced. Her fevered gasps and writhing body sent his cock into conniptions. Shit, he wished he could bury himself to the hilt inside her * to get some relief.

“Oh, please, Sir, may I come?”

Marc heard Orlando sucking at her clit, then he pulled away, releasing the swollen nubbin. The kid nodded before taking the tiny erection in his mouth again.

“Yes, you may, pet.”

Orlando’s head returned to her *, shaking back and forth in tiny movements as he tormented her clit.

“Ohhh! Ohhhhhhhh, f*ck! Yes! Please…” She moaned, bucking her red ass into the air. Marc’s hand landed on her sweet globes. Slap! Slap! “Please, yes, there! Oh, God! Oh, God, Yessss! Yessssssss!” Her screams filled the room and Marc had no doubt she’d turned heads throughout the club. Slap! Slap! Slap! “Ahhhhhhh! Yessssssssss!”

Her body convulsed on his lap as she went over the top. Orlando’s head movements slowed, but he must have continued to lick her clit, because she bucked a few more times against his face, milking every last drop out of her orgasm.

Shit, she would have made an interesting subbie to train. Getting rid of her tendency to top would have been a challenge he’d welcome. But he didn’t know when he’d be stateside again. Not fair to make her wait. Someday he’d find the woman who would complete his Dom side.

But, for now, he and Orlando had needs to be taken care of by one smart-mouthed subbie. Orlando leaned back with a *-eating grin on his face and a whole lot of her juices glistening against his lips, chin, and nose. Marc nodded and watched Orlando’s chest swell.

Well done, man.





Section Four


The Unbreakable Bond Forms





November 2004, Fallujah, Iraq





Damián hunkered down, awaiting orders. Sergeant Miller signaled for Grant and Wilson to cover the south-facing wall, while he and Sarge took the east. The insurgent weapons fire seemed to be coming from the east, which made sense based on their recon, but he was beginning to think there was more than one enemy stronghold holding this rooftop in its sites.

Despite being in country four months, this was his first real battle since arriving in Fallujah. Sure, there had been some roadside bombings. Those happened almost every day—and still scared the shit out of him. Never could predict or prepare for them. But his battle training really kicked in today. Now, if only they could get out of here with the unit intact.

Damián preferred the earlier days of this battle for this city, when they’d let him use his sniper skills against the insurgents. But the shaky truce limited him to firing only in defensive situations. He knew the insurgents had placed a bounty on Marine snipers. And for good reason.

Their latest intel indicated there was a prime target in a building a thousand yards away and they’d continue to wait until they had a chance at taking their shot. They’d taken turns watching for hours today. Nothing.

Unlike most Marines, Orlando saw the faces of his targets clearly. His high-powered scope homed in on their faces, their eyes, their weapons. And when he hit center mass, even saw the expressions on their faces as they fell dead. One shot, one kill.

But sometimes he replaced their images with those of the Jerk-off who pimped Savannah’s body out. Or the two sadists who tortured her. Even her sugar daddy.

Damián sighed.

“He’s gone to ground,” Sarge announced after getting the latest radio transmission. He ordered everyone on the rooftop to take advantage of the lull and grab a Meal, Ready-to-Eat from their gear. At first, he had appreciated being able to eat a hot meal on the run, but if he saw another beef stew MRE as long as he lived, he’d barf. They ate in silence, each of them probably wondering if they’d manage to complete this mission.

Damián’s mind wandered back to what had gotten him to this rooftop in Iraq. After being fired from the hotel, he’d tried for weeks to find another job. Nothing. He’d sold his Harley, but not for nearly as much as it was worth. After a few months, when he could no longer make rent, he’d been evicted from his apartment. The only option he could see was to join the Marines.

It hadn’t been a bad gig. He liked being a Marine. He’d been afraid it would be like being in juvie hell again—but the discipline and structure here were different. He wasn’t just out to survive on his own. He had his buddies to look after, too. He knew they were looking out for him, too. A band of brothers. Well, Grant wouldn’t take kindly to being called a brother, but she was as tough as the rest of them.

He’d also met some good friends he expected to keep for life. Sergeant Miller, the blunt African-American from East St. Louis, had fought alongside him on recon and sniper missions since Damián had been in Fallujah.