A SEAL's Fantasy

By: Tawny Weber

THERE WAS NOTHING like a little bare skin to turn twenty adult men into drooling adolescents. Throw in a long, hard pole and a pair of glittery high heels, and they were a sad bunch of throbbing glands.

“Take it off, baby. Show us what you got.”

As if she’d been waiting for those lovely and enticing instructions, the stripper offered a sharp smile and, quick as a whip, yanked her dress in half and threw it across the room.

Dominic Castillo listened to his brothers and cousins whoop and holler, half of them waving dollar bills as if they were winning lottery tickets and the stripper their prize. Once he’d have been right there with them, front and center. Not that he’d have to call out lame suggestions and wave money to get her attention. Nope, all Dominic needed was his charming smile to beat out all of his relatives for the sexy woman’s attention.

But tonight his dollars were safe in his pocket and here he was, on the quiet side of the bar, sucking down a soda and wondering what the hell had happened to his life.

A year—damn, six months—ago everything had been golden. He’d been a kick-ass SEAL rocking his way up the ranks, carrying out death-defying missions and loving every second of it. Women flocked to him; he had a great family and a brotherhood of SEALs who had his back and kept life fun.

Hell, he used to wake up most mornings expecting to see a big ole S on his chest.

Used to.


He carefully shifted his head from one side to the other, glad his brain stayed put.

He’d gone on dozens of missions in his five years as a SEAL. His solid muscles and the scars were a tribute to his dedication to his career. He’d been hurt plenty of times. He’d dodged bullets, pulled shrapnel out of his boot and, on one memorable occasion, plummeted through the sky when the team’s plane took on heavy fire.

Now he was sitting on his butt while his teammates carried out a mission he’d spent the past few months training for. All because of an equipment malfunction while he’d been fast-roping from a helicopter. When the cable snapped, he’d only dropped ten feet, but the impact had left him bruised, aching and sporting a severe concussion.

And feeling like a loser.

He blamed Banks. Lieutenant Phillip Banks, the biggest pain in the ass to ever earn the SEAL trident.

“I didn’t think you were going to be able to make it until the wedding,” Lucas said, watching the show with a bored look.

“Miss my little cousin’s bachelor party? Bite your tongue.” Dominic forced a smile for his big brother’s sake. And, of course, to keep Lucas off his back. If his brother knew he’d been released from a doctor’s supervision less than a dozen hours ago, he’d nag like crazy.

“You mean you didn’t want to miss Lotta Oomph shaking her stuff,” Lucas said, snickering.

“I’ve seen plenty of shaking in my time,” Dominic replied dismissively, even while acknowledging that Lotta had an impressive shake. “Thirty states and eight countries, big brother. Can you top that?”

Lucas considered his beer bottle for a second, then tilted it and his head to one side. “Saw triplets pole dancing with their trained dogs in Reno once.”

“Matching dogs?”

“Right down to their spots.”

Dominic pursed his lips, imagining what that might have looked like, then gave his brother a nod.

“That’s worth at least ten states, China and Mexico,” he decided.

“I was in Mexico on a case two years ago. Gotta say, my job doesn’t take me to many strip joints. Guess we know which one of us works harder.”

As if, Dominic snickered.

Lucas ran Castillo Security. Providing private and corporate security for the past twenty years, Castillo was a family business, and it and their parents’ ranch employed, well, the entire family. Four generations of Castillos lived in Seaside, the tiny town in Sonoma founded by Dominic’s great-grandfather. From his grandfather Ramon to his little sister, Celia, they bred show horses, built security systems and provided bodyguards.

Except Dominic.

Dominic was a Navy SEAL.

The first, and so far the only, Castillo not pulling in an income from the family corporation. Which he’d worked damned hard for. When a guy grew up in a family as big as the Castillos’, standing out wasn’t easy. He’d never be as smart as Lucas or as sneaky as Marco. At six-four, he wasn’t even as tall as Jose.

What he was was his own man.

The one everyone came to for help. Advice. Directions, even. He was hell on wheels when it came to directions. Handy, since he generally served as the point man and navigator for his SEAL team. Something he was proud of.