One Marine, Hero
by EM Lynley
He’s a hero to everyone but himself.
Marine helicopter pilot Captain Jake Woodley struggles after receiving the Medal of Honor for a mission where he didn’t bring every man back alive. Being called a hero and having his photo plastered across the news makes him hate himself more. He despises his cushy job flying with the Marine One squadron, carrying the president and other officials, when he’d rather risk something, even death. He gets his wish when he’s ordered to fly a series of classified trips.
Matt “Beau” Beaumont has been relegated to covering the fashion beat after getting downsized from a hard-news position. But an unexpected invitation to a White House dinner might be the boost his career needs. Offering a hot marine an after-dinner blowjob wasn’t on Beau’s agenda, but when Jake takes him up on the proposition, some phenomenal casual sex soon blossoms into a relationship both of them crave.
When Beau’s extracurricular research uncovers defense department funding anomalies, he soon discovers the trouble goes higher than he imagined. Just as events start to make sense, the investigation puts Beau and Jake in deadly danger. It takes a daring play by Jake—risking everything he loves—to uncover the truth.
JAKE WOODLEY LONGED to leave the White House as soon as respectfully possible. He hadn’t wanted to go at all, but Colonel Lewis insisted he attend in order to earn his spot back in the POTUS rotation. With the prospect of flying the high-profile missions as incentive, Jake was happy to attend, but he hadn’t realized how fucking boring the dinner would be. But with Lewis there, watching, Jake had only managed two glasses of wine.
Some men from his squadron brought girlfriends or wives, who were thrilled to be at a White House dinner party. Jake couldn’t wait to leave, but the colonel seemed insistent on punishing him, so he couldn’t leave while his CO was still there. Mrs. Lewis appeared to have recovered some of her vitality and positively glowed. She softened the colonel’s sharp edges when they were together, and no one could miss how much the man doted on her.
Once the meal was over, the nightmare portion of the evening began: the guests who insisted on talking to him or asking the same questions about his heroic feats over and over, forcing him to trot out the safest answers he could in order to keep himself from ripping apart inside.
Couldn’t the colonel understand how agonizing this was for Jake? He’d rather get shot down and crawl miles over broken glass than tell one more civilian how it felt to be a hero. He hated the word. He was no hero, and every time someone used the word, it felt like another blow coming down on his body, a beating that wouldn’t end until he was pounded into a lifeless pulp.
He stopped at each of the three bars set up in different rooms and managed a couple of quick tequila shots at each. The resulting buzz provided a layer of protection, but it didn’t make the evening any more bearable.
Almost as bad as the people who asked were those who didn’t say anything. Some gazed at him with admiration and unspoken questions. Others stared at him with pity.
One man, however, stared at him in a way he couldn’t fathom. He seemed to recognize Jake, but with neither the usual hero worship nor pity in his gaze. Jake had spotted him in the library, then at the edge of the ballroom, and now as Jake moved toward the bar, the guy was there.
And again, their gazes met. The man said something to his female companion, a plump, smiling woman, and now he was heading directly for Jake. He wore a stylish tuxedo, but his purple paisley cummerbund looked like something from the Early Elton John Collection.
Was there time to duck into the men’s room or behind the draperies to avoid him? Could he make it to the West Wing door? He knew the Secret Service agent on duty over there tonight, and he’d easily be able to get in to hide from the attention.
Too late. Purple paisley guy was two feet from Jake now. “Yeah?” Jake gave the word a particularly rough growl to scare him off. “Uh….” Paisley smiled. He had a nice smile, a knockout smile in fact. He dropped his gaze to the ground in a charmingly shy way, but appealing as that was, whatever he said wouldn’t be anything Jake hadn’t already heard a thousand times.
“Go on, get it out. Say what you came to say or ask me.” Jake tipped his glass for the last mouthful of tequila, then shifted his gaze to the blinding smile right in front of him.
The guy looked him square in the eye. “Would you be interested in a blowjob?”
Jake nearly choked on the last sip. “What?”
“Blowjob?” The guy smiled and melted away the last vestiges of Jake’s icy defenses. “If I’m not your type, you can simply pretend for the best ten minutes of your life or—”
“Fifteen?” Paisley’s smile got brighter, elevating the corners of his mouth into a smirk. “Or my friend Laney would be happy to do you. It. Do it to you.”
Jake blinked and looked the guy up and down, then back up again.
“Don’t worry. You’re definitely my type.”
Jake took his time giving the guy a full once-over.
Nice looking. Good body, almost as tall as Jake, and he had the most sinfully lush lips Jake had seen on anyone who wasn’t in porn. When the guy closed the distance between them and crossed into Jake’s personal space, the air between them crackled with sexual electricity. The little pilot light of constant low-level arousal at Jake’s core ignited to a full flame, and every inch of his skin tingled with anticipation.
“Now,” the guy said, the word a delicious promise Jake wanted to cash in. “Now.” It was a statement on Jake’s part. A fully formed decision. The guy’s smile brightened and his chocolate brown eyes danced, mirroring the way Jake’s insides jumbled around with white-hot desire.
The image of his cock sliding between those perfect lips had him hard, and he fought to think clearly enough to decide where to go.
“This way.” Jake turned and headed toward the West Wing, away from the guests. A bathroom, a coat closet. Something. Someplace. Any place.
The Secret Service agent guarding the door at the end of the hall nodded as they approached. “Evening, Captain.” He waved Jake in without requesting his ID or asking about Jake’s companion.
The lights were low in the hallway, and Jake opened the first door he came to, not caring what was on the other side.
Paisley went in, then came out again before Jake could take a step inside.
“Occupied.” He chuckled. “I think Colonel Sanders was in there.
Without his chicken.”
Jake tugged on an elbow and opened the next door.
It was a small conference room lit by a couple of lamps. But they were alone.
He’d barely closed the door behind them when his new friend—best not to ask names—was already on his knees with Jake’s trousers unzipped.
Then Jake’s shorts slid down and a cool breeze caressed his balls. A second later wet heat wrapped around his cock.
“You don’t waste time.”
“Mmmm-mmm.” The guy looked up between the flaps of Jake’s jacket from under thick lashes and smiled around Jake’s dick.
It looked even better than he’d imagined. He leaned against the wall for support because his knees threatened to give out.
With lips, tongue, fingers, Paisley brought Jake to the edge twice before slowing and beginning the build of heat and ache again. Jake ran the fingers of one hand through the straw-colored silk of Paisley’s hair; he needed the other for balance, or he risked falling off the face of the earth.
He closed his eyes and let the pleasure sing through his body, but as he approached the edge for the third or fourth time—he’d lost count—he forced himself to open them. He had to savor the look in those golden eyes as he pumped himself dry down this guy’s throat.
Jake groaned as the pressure built to a crescendo.
“Keep going. Don’t. Slow. Down.” Then it hit like a tidal wave. Though he knew it was coming, it still knocked him for a loop, forcing him to clutch the poor guy’s head to keep from crumpling in a wrung-out heap.
And the look on his new friend’s face was absolutely beautiful.
As Jake tried to catch himself from falling through the earth, he wondered whether a guy this talented could be a hustler. Would he expect money? If the guy charged him a week’s salary, the thrill of doing this in the fucking White House, with this guy, would have been worth it.
The guy planted a couple of soft, sweet, unexpected kisses on Jake’s cock, then slid his shorts back up. The thin cotton was too much for Jake’s sensitive dick, but he didn’t have the energy to protest. He could barely remember anything but the way the guy’s lips and tongue had felt.
“Thank you,” Paisley said as he stood up.
“Why are you thanking me?”
He replied with only a shrug and a shy smile. The guy stepped back one pace, and the room felt like winter had set in. Jake took hold of the guy’s hand.
“I’m Jake.” It had taken him a moment to remember his own name.
“Hi, Jake. Beau.”
About EM Lynley
EM Lynley writes gay erotic romance. She loves books where the hero gets the guy and the loving is 11 on a scale of 10. A Rainbow Award winner and EPIC finalist, EM has worked in high finance, high tech, and in the wine industry, though she’d rather be writing hot, romantic man-on-man action. She spent 10 years as an economist and financial analyst, including a year as a White House Staff Economist, but only because all the intern positions were filled. Tired of boring herself and others with dry business reports and articles, her creative muse is back and naughtier than ever. She has lived and worked in London, Tokyo and Washington, D.C., but the San Francisco Bay Area is home for now.
She is the author of Sex, Lies & Wedding Bells, the Precious Gems series from Dreamspinner Press, and the Rewriting History series starring a sexy jewel thief, among others.
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