Read Scorch: A Soldiers of Fortune Romance (Military Bad Boy Romance) for Free Online Page A

with literally any other hottie in the world that I could’ve been checking out at that pool besides Chelsea fucking Archer. I’d still be living large if I’d just kept my damn nose out of business that didn’t concern me, and all it’d have taken was just being who I am . I’m the bad guy. I’m no fucking hero, so why the hell did I have pretend I was back there?

    I groan, shaking sleep from my head as I sit up and try and toss those thoughts from my head. I'm sore from the ground as I stretch, once again thinking angrily about the hotel room I left behind me.

    Well, its not jail either, pal.

    But that doesn't mean I can't miss that sweet hotel room; maybe some room service for a steak, some tequila, and possibly some hot young thing in a bikini. My thoughts instantly drift back to Chelsea's full tits in that white bathing suit; the sarong slung low across her hips-

    I suddenly look around, more awake now. Speaking of Agent Sugar-tits; where the fuck is she?

    I stand, covering my eyes to peer through the trees at the shore as I start to make my way towards the beach. I'm pushing aside ferns and branches and just about to step foot onto the sand, when I finally see her.

    Holy fucking shit.

    She's swimming in the easy waves of the protected cove; ducking her head under and coming back up to push the water and the hair back over her head and down her bronzed back. It takes me a full five seconds to realize what's missing from the scene, and when I do, I'm instantly rock fucking hard.

    It's her bathing suit; her white, thin little bikini is sitting on a rock right next to the water.

    Which means I'm watching C.I.A. Agent Chelsea Archer swimming utterly naked, not thirty feet away from me.

    She ducks under again and comes up, half turning towards me as she pushes water out of her face. Holy fuck this girl is gorgeous . I can only see her from the waist up and at an angle, but it's just enough of a look to catch a glimpse of the curve of her breast, and just a peek of a soft, pink nipple; rosy and hard in the chill of the water.

    My cock throbs in my shorts. The old me, the younger, crazier me, might've stepped out right then. I would've walked right over and made my move. A girl like that needs to be handled right, and I'm willing to bet uptight, prim, frosty little Agent Archer hasn't been “handled right” in her whole life. I also decide right there that I’m just the type of scoundrel to show her how its done.

    Except, that’s the old me. You grow up a bit getting stabbed in the fucking jugular and going to jail though.

    You grow up a lot.

    And you learn more about how the normal world works outside of the fucking insanity and chaos that I’ve lived in all my life. You learn things like knowing that she'd lose her shit if I did anything remotely like jumping out and telling her we should fuck. Sure, the old me might've even welcomed the smack - hey, its a reaction. But I'd like to think I've maybe grown up a little.

    Just a little.

    I mean I want to step right out, grab her by the waist and pin her to the sand. I want to kiss her deep, run my hands over every inch of that fucking insane body, and bury my cock into what I'm positive is a pussy as tight as that attitude of hers.

    But, yeah, no. The new me understands how fucking weird a thought that is. Also, beyond how predatory the idea sounds, this girl is off fucking limits.

    She's the C.I.A.; the enemy . This bitch is here to put me away, probably for a very long time, and I'd do good to fucking remember that.

I might be dropped head-first into chaos right now, but I need my routines to stay normal; to stay focused. My routines usually include a long, muscle-burning swim in the pool at my gym, so when I first wake up, the shore is the first place I go.

    That and I really need to bathe after the insanity of yesterday and sleeping on the sand.

    There’s a guilt about leaving Javier still sleeping when I head down; guilt because my first