Read Online Books/Novels:
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
It’s been a long time coming…
She’s never had an orgasm.
There’s just one problem: she’s my physical therapist,
So I have to hold her pretty mouth
If we’re caught, her job and my future as a SEAL will end.
It’s all forbidden fun and games until someone has to propose…
* Just Pretend is a full length standalone romance novel of approximately 65,000 words, featuring a military bad boy and his curvy fake fiance who earn their HEA. It has no cliffhanger and no cheating.
This book was previously published in a different from as Harlow and this version features a changed and expanded plot line and additional super steamy scenes. Bonus content is included for your continued reading pleasure, including the never before published, sizzling hot story Whitney’s Slip and Slide SEAL. Enjoy!
|Books by Author:|
8 Months Ago
Our Boeing CH-47 Chinook is barely off the ground before all of us within it begin celebrating.
“Yeah buddy!” My brother Jensen shouts, high- fiving everyone around before swooping me up in an exuberant hug.
“We did it!” shouts my other brother Ramsey, but the smoke that still fills his lungs forces him to cough out the last part of the exclamation.
We’ve just successfully extracted eight downed servicemen from behind enemy lines in southeastern Afghanistan. Their plane had been shot down by a surface- to- air missile. Without us rescuing them from hostile territory they’d likely have been captured and taken as prisoners as war.
“And this is why we do the things we do!” shouts Brian, a team member who isn’t my literal, blood brother like Jensen and Ramsey are, but one who has become a figurative brother— just as all the men in my unit have become.
Then Brian yelled out: “Leave no man behind!”
Several other men began chanting one of our mantras along with him and then calling out others.
“Failure is not an option!”
“The only easy day was yesterday!”
As Navy SEALs, we spend years training for rescue missions such as these. We’re stealth and covert; we sneak in when there’s danger and fucking clean up the place and rescue anyone left behind.
We do whatever it takes to rescue even one service member who may be at risk. It’s nice to know that our hard work and perseverance have paid off, and that once again we’ve rescued American lives.
As my brothers in arms continue to celebrate, and I chant along with them, I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. I hear shots being fired in the distance, and think of how we’ve been warned that rescue helicopters and their crews often come under fire during or immediately after their rescue efforts.
“Are we completely in the clear yet?” I ask Jensen, looking out the window at the smoldering scene below us.
It’s only getting more dangerous out here: insurgents lay ambushes and place bombs or other devices that specifically target our missions and those of search and rescue teams who also help rescue downed servicemembers. We call these “SAR traps”: Search and Rescue traps.
“Lighten up, little brother,” Jensen, jokingly punching me on the shoulder.
He’s always been the playful one out of the three of us. As the middle brother, although to the outside world he’s had his share of drama and problems—as all of us Bradford boys have— within our family he’s lived up to the stereotypical reputation of a peacekeeper, a “fixer,” a friendly face who is always eager to make us smile, a listening ear when we’re going through anything. And we love him for it.
“Shut up, spoil sport!” Brian shouts, and a few other people chant, “Shut up Harlow! Shut up Harlow!” in a teasing manner.
“Seriously, Harlow,” says Ramsey, always the voice of reason. “You did well, and it’s time to celebrate.”
As the oldest of us three brothers, he’s always Mr. Non-Nonsense, dispensing advice even when it’s unsolicited and sometimes downright unwelcome, but always being the firm yet somehow still gentle hand that guides us.
Fuck it. If everyone else is in good spirits, I might as well make sure to shift my own mood to match theirs. If even Ramsey says it’s okay to cut back and have a little fun for once, I’d better listen. As the youngest brother, I have the reputation for being the prankster, the fun-loving free spirit among us— even if this external demeanor is only a mask for the internal worries and constant anxiety I keep shoved deep down within myself.
“Leave no man behind! Failure is not an option!” I shout, beginning some of the chants anew that they had all been stuck on before they started telling me to shut up.
They soon join me but my voice is louder and stronger than the others, since they had been repeating the phrases for quite a while now, while I had only been quietly brooding. I’m on a roll, swept up by the momentum and exhilaration we’re all feeling.
I’m giving into my brothers’ and team members’ advice. I’m celebrating our victory instead of worrying about what will happen next, as I too often do. I’m going with the flow, feeling great for once.
And then it happens.
Our helicopter is spinning out of control, being downed just as certainly as the one from which we just rescued the eight other men.
“We’ve been shot down!” someone yells.
This obvious statement is the last thing I hear for a while. As I drift into unconsciousness, I’m wondering if it will be the last thing I ever hear.
I come to in the aircraft that is now flaming and downed. I see an uncountable number of unconscious people in the helicopter, so I spring to action, extricating them from the burning wreckage.