Sandra Hill by Down, Dirty Page A

whoa, whoa. First woman’s fleece, and now there was a fire, and I didn’t know about it.”
    “The fire did not ignite till you were gone.”
    “Isn’t that always the case?”
    “After you, your comrades-in-arms, and Hilda left The Sanctuary, I was no longer satisfied with life there. I made the mistake of trying to live a normal life outside the walls.”
    While she talked, he led her, limping, toward the building on the other side of the grinder. It was closer than taking her to the women’s quarters or the chow hall. “This is the strength training and rehab facility,” he explained, turning the knob, then kicking the door open before easing her inside and propping her against the wall. “Get lost, Peterson,” he ordered the young newbie SEAL who was lifting free weights.
    Surprised, Peterson dropped the weights to the padded floor and said, “Yes, Lieutenant Floyd, sir,” before scurrying away.
    Zach locked the door after him, then turned to her. “We only have an hour at most before someone comes banging on that door. Can you take your clothes off yourself, or should I do it for you?” Please, God, let one good thing happen today.
    “Huh?” Britta would have stiffened with outrage at his suggestion if she weren’t already stiff as a pole. “Do not dare.”
    He grinned. “Sweetheart, there’s one thing you will learn here, if nothing else. Never, never , dare a Navy SEAL.” With those words, he picked her up, carried her over his shoulder into the large communal shower room where a half dozen showerheads stuck out from the tiled walls. Before she could squirm out of his embrace, he turned on one of the faucets. With the water pelting her face and body—his body, as well, for that matter—he made quick work of removing her shirt and shorts, leaving her in standard-issue Navy female underwear: cotton bra and panties. Most women eventually used their own undergarments, but Britta wouldn’t know that. And, yes, he knew what Navy women wore under their uniforms, thank you very much.
    A niggling voice in the back of his brain—the one he usually ignored—warned that removing a trainee’s clothing was treading a fine line between being helpful and sexual harassment.
    He stepped back out of the range of the shower spray, watching with fascination as Britta’s underwear turned transparent under the water. It would probably be polite of him to look away, to not gawk at her practically nude body. Good thing he’d lost his politeness gene. Polite people missed the best opportunities. “Beautiful,” he murmured, “abso-fucking-lutely beautiful.”
    “Is that a compliment?” she asked, eyes closed.
    “Oh, yeah.”
    Britta was tall, probably six feet to his six foot three. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body, except maybe those full, pink-tipped breasts, which begged to be licked, or her high, curved butt, which also begged to be licked, but she was not model thin. No, her shoulders were wide, and muscles delineated her arms and abdomen, belly and thighs.
    At any other time, Britta probably would have been uncomfortable—or spitting mad—under his scrutiny, with him kneeling on the tiles, removing her boots and socks, with his face practically touching never-never land. But the hot water, while soothing her sore body, was distracting her, as well.
    “Someday you’re going to look at me like that,” Zach said, handing her a bar of soap.
    Peeping at him through wet lashes, she asked, “How?”
    “Like you’re having an orgasm.”
    “Orgy-as-him?”
    “Never mind. Want me to help lather you up?”
    “Are you daft? Nay. Go away.”
    “Not a chance.”
    “Stop ogling me.”
    “Not a chance.” He was leaning against the tile wall, watching her. Her underwear was plastered to her magnificent body, and he felt his blood thicken and pool in his groin with delicious torture. His balls were heavy and begging to burst.
    Coming out of her trance, Britta loosened her braid, then ran her