Marriage of Inconvenience: SEALS N SORORITY SISTERS, #4

By Alexandra Isobel

A DOUBLE ROMANCE

 

Marcus and Samara's story

Her Guardian. His Burden. Bound by a bond forged in youth, the boy who guarded her wild spirit must now protect her as a man does a wife.

Marcus has been dealing with Samara since they were kids…except now she's not a kid anymore. She's a beautiful distraction he can't afford. And the trouble she's tangled herself up into this time, could knock him—an elite sniper off his game. Getting married to keep her in the country was supposed to be the solution. Instead, having her as his wife is now the basis for all his problems.

 

Max and Hannah's story

Can this bad boy rein it in for the love a good girl?

Max has been hit by love at first sight, which is crazy, because he doesn't believe in love, let alone one he didn't see coming. He's been a seasoned player since twelve years old, but Hannah has him like a nervous schoolboy while he waits for her to make the first move.

 

Marriage of Inconvenience is the fourth, 'Discover my Heat', interracial (bwwm) romance in the SEALs N Sorority Sisters Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Isobel
• Release date: May 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201111113

Alexandra Isobel

Canadian romance writer who sees the romance in everyday life, and mixes it into her stories.  She thrives on visual inspiration so is a diehard movie junkie and photography hound - both of which keep her imagination humming.  She's definitely an introvert who secretly lusts after her alpha hero characters!

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Marriage of Inconvenience 2nd Edition © Copyright 2021 Alexandra Isobel

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MARRIAGE OF INCONVENIENCE

Charleston, West Virginia

Marcus 'Blondie' Oblonsky, sauntered into The Wet Spot strip club behind his Navy SEAL brothers, Maxamillian 'Mad Max' Kennedy, Jake 'Crazy' Redman, and Fred 'Fred' Turner.

This place smells like a mid life crisis. Marcus inhaled then closed off his airways to the pungent mix of stale beer, old peanuts, and bacon scented lubricant in the air.

Jake snorted. More like a bad divorce.

I love the smell of bacon scented pussy at nighttime. Max threw his head back and inhaled with both arms outstretched.

Marcus looked at him. You need help.

With my zipper, Max put his arms down and looked around. It's early, but I'm fucking finally on leave. I don't care what's in here as long as I can buy it cheap and keep it 'till morning.

Marcus scrutinized the crowded room, his eyes intent on every person and unlit corner before he followed the trio further into the melee of truckers and rednecks, trust fund frat boys on the prowl and horny married men looking for a good time before heading home. He waved away the acrid scented fog that wafted from the stage, only to be met with the naked ass of a dancer grinding on a stool. She performed to a booth full of hollering frat boys; each one sticking a Marty's Mud Flap Girl flag into her sequenced thong.

This place is what the medic ordered. Max grabbed a chair at the head of the stage when the man occupying it was led away by a bleached blonde holding his tie in one hand, and the wad of bills he'd given her in the other.

First round's on me, boys! Max pointed at a near by waitress and yelled over the music.

Coming up in five minutes gentlemen, Marty's newest mud flap girl..., a male voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

Marcus tuned out the sleazy salesman drone and relaxed into a chair, giving a last look at the full tables, and standing room only bar area. It was early, so easy to track and mentally record the people around him. The topless women all wore glittering star shaped nipple covers on each breast, some with tassels, some with connecting chains. Most of them sat on or straddled the men's laps, tossing their abundance of hair and grinding their asses while the men laughed and flicked at the tit dressing, before brazenly grabbing a hold and tucking a bill into her G-string.

Blondie, relax, there aren't any tangos in here. Jake yelled across the table as the music reached a piqued and more fog blew through the air. He always like this? He looked at Max but gestured toward Marcus.

Every minute of every day. Fall out from being a sniper. Max looked at his teammate. Don't mean he can't have fun though. With enough vodka and the right kind of woman to share, he'll party all night long. He elbowed Marcus then looped his finger through a passing server's thong.

She immediately stopped and leaned over his face, glittering star brushing against his cheek. What can I get'cha? She smiled down at him and then winked at the other men. Drinks or services?

Absolutely— Max grinned up at her as the lights dimmed and the music blared with the cheap salesman voice introduction.

Let's have a big welcome and a whole lot of encouragement for our newest newbieeeeeeee, The Nubile Russkieeeeeeeee!

Marcus watched the stage curtain open with the intro of a song he recognized, Work it Bitch blared from the speakers, before a dancer dressed in a black Russian cape type coat and fur Ushanka hat, strode onto the stage, swinging her hips before she swung lazily around the pole by one hand. The movement swung the coat open giving a quick peek-a-boo glimpse of the red string corset and garters she wore beneath.

What the fuck— Marcus frowned and slowly stood, looking at the woman's black platform stilettos as she twirled around the pole, shrugging off her cape and shaking her long mane of dark sable hair out of her face. The other men roared and cheered and threw bills at her for encouragement.

What the actual fuck. Marcus slowly stood.

Hey, down in front, Max whistled and clapped. Told ya I heard they had some new hotties out here! Was I right or what? You're welcome!

She's fuckin' hot! Jake clapped and whistled more encouragement. Blondie, you alright? He looked at Marcus.

That girl is my new wet dream, Fred whistled and threw a hand full of crushed bills onto the stage as the young woman shook her body and pranced to the head of the platform.

That's the one I want tonight boys! A hundred bucks to whoever tells me who she is! Max cheered as she tossed her mane and swung her hips.

My fucking wife. That's who the fuck she is. Marcus elbowed Max in the chest and stormed onto the stage.

*****

Samara Washington-Shchekina squinted against the lights and smoke as she danced, exhaling a nervous breath of relief when men cheered and whistled, and bills fluttered around her. She could do this. She was actually pulling it off. She resisted the urge to grab as many of the bills as she could before the house forced her to give it over, as she stood up, grinding her hips, and tossing her hair over her shoulder. She blinked as a man jumped onto the stage, briefly wondering where the Hell the bouncer was, before she froze and stared in horror as Marcus, her childhood friend turned new husband bore down on her through the stage's smoke.

Stiva? She frowned before he bent and shouldered her off the floor. Stiva! This time she shrieked as he delivered a stinging smack on her bare ass. The crowd roared joyous approval as she flailed her arms and kicked her legs as Marcus strode with her off the stage.

Stiva, put me down! She pounded on Marcus's back then howled when he slapped her ass again. Stiva don't. She screeched and craned her neck in hopes of seeing one of the bouncers. Of course, there were none. Probably out back getting high again. Stiva! He smacked her ass one last time before he swung her down his body.

The rage on his face sent her already frantic heartbeat screaming toward the sky. The rage on his face sent her already frantic heartbeat screaming toward the sky. Stiva I can explain, When she stumbled on her platform heels, he steadied her. Everything in her sight finally stayed still as she focused on his dark hair and furious gray eyes. Typical Stiva, finally back home and not even a hello. Humiliate her first, ask questions later. She scowled up at him from beneath her long false lashes. You are crazy. Crazy! She jabbed the centre of his chest with her fake fingernail. Unable to find more effective English words, she yelled a string a Russian swear words at him.

His fingers stiffened on her arms as he dipped his head, only slightly because her platform heels gave her enough height to make them equa, l and glared at her with his cold grey eyes.

Stay. He shoved a finger at her face, then at the floor before. With the snarl still on his lips, he turned his back but held onto her arm as an unfamiliar man, not even one the so-called bouncers, ran up to them.

What the fuck just happened? You're married? When did you get married? The man gaped at her from head to toe, then smiled and nodded. Hey, how ya doin'?  

She smiled back. I am fine. Thank you for asking. She slid Marcus an accusing glare. I am Samara. Who are you?

Max.

Ah the Mad Max. He speaks about you. This was the first time she’d met his best friend and teammate. Stiva doesn't say much at home, but this Mad Max's name had come up more than once. He was a silly kind of cute, boyish with his blonde hair and playful blue eyes, but not as good looking as Stiva, her new husband had an untouchable dark soul she could never resist poking. Even when they were young, Stiva was born old.

You Russian, sweet pea? Like this guy? His eyebrows shot up.

His question was not a surprise. Her mother was a black American, her father born and bred in Russia, and having spent years in St. Petersburg, when she opened her mouth, and a Russian accent came out, people did a double take. She had been working on adopting better American English, and had come a long way when in school, but now that she had graduated, she did not get as much practice.

I am American, like my mother. But spent many years in St. Petersburg with my father.

Marcus looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes on her, his square jaw giving a jump.

He asked me. She snapped at his accusatory stare.

Max shook his head. How could you not tell me you got married?