MIKE BRAVO OPS: ATLAS
Mike Bravo Ops #3
by Eden Finley
Cover & Excerpt Reveal
Release Date: June 8, 2023
Cate Ashwood Designs
Peter Henry Serres
Model: Olivier T.
Genre: M/M Military Romance
Trope: Workplace romance, friends to lovers, romantic suspense, grumpy/sunshine, found family
Working undercover at a strip club is not my usual kind of job. If it weren’t a great opportunity to show the Mike Bravo team I can run my own op, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.
When my boss asks me to befriend the biggest gossip in the establishment, the person who knows everything, I’m even more reluctant. Because that happens to be one of the dancers. The only dancer to catch my attention in all the wrong ways.
I need to be professional or I will never prove I’m leadership material.
Only problem is, the guy with the stage name Lemon makes me want to be anything but professional.
I’m sick of the new bartender throwing dirty looks my way. He’s as judgmental as he is hot, and let’s just say he’s really judgmental.
I don’t know why he’s working here if he looks down on us dancers so much. He could bartend at a regular club.
But when he saves me from a drunken customer getting too handsy, his attitude suddenly flips, and we find ourselves becoming … friends?
Underneath the judgment, it turns out Atlas is a total sweetheart.
Maybe more caring than anyone I’ve ever met.
I’ve never had a relationship before, but something tells me it could be way too easy to fall for the gentle giant.
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Some dancers refuse to scrounge for money being thrown on stage, and I get it—it can sometimes feel degrading—but majority of the time, it’s the biggest power trip of all. They’re paying to watch me.
I get down on the stage to my hands and knees and crawl toward the nearest table with the most patrons, showing off my killer smile while I lean back so they get a look at my long torso and defined abs that only appear when I’m this stretched out. They’re baby abs, but they’re abs.
Money gets thrown at me, and I move on to another table of rowdy guys. Hey, I play the numbers game. More guys, more money. At least, that’s what I tell the newbs. If they play their cards right, they’ll get money no matter which table they go to.
I’m kind of the unspoken go-to guy here. Any problems, worries, insecurities, the dancers come to me. And I love that too. I’ll do anything to keep each and every one of them safe, and I might look sweet on the stage, but if you fuck with one of my guys, I’ll fuck you up right back. This kitty’s got claws.
The second table is full of hot as fuck muscular men who look like they could hurt me in the best possible way. And worst, if I think about it too hard. Which I won’t.
Instead, I move to the very end of the stage and rise up on my knees so my thong is the only thing separating me from the main guy up front and then pout and wiggle my hips, encouraging him to slip me some bills in the tiny scrap of material.
Then some stupid drunken oaf barrels in from the back, knocking over my meal ticket’s seat in the process, and then pawing at me like a lion in heat.
This happens occasionally, and I’m generally good at handling it, but this guy is three times my size. I grip the jerk’s hair by the root, which, there isn’t much of, and say, “Easy.”
“Yeah, you are,” he yells with a slur in his voice.
“Oh, fuck you.” I shove him off me playfully and my words are tinged with sweetness because it’s the best way to deal with drunken morons, but it doesn’t work this time. He comes back at me again. I manage to shuffle backward, but I’m not fast enough.
This mammoth of a man is practically climbing onto the stage.
Where the fuck is security? When I glance over the guy’s head, I notice they’re trying to break up a fight between two other meatheads.
What is with all the fuckery tonight?
Just when I think I’m going to have to bring out the big guns and somehow find a way for my foot to connect with his junk, he’s pulled off me and punched in the face by—ugh.
Atlas. Pfft. What a stupid name for a pompous, judgmental bartender.
Not that I can talk. Hello, my name is Lemon, but that’s my stage name. Not my real name.
I usually get a sense of people instantly, but other than the stares of disdain he gives all the dancers, I can’t read the guy. The disgust in his eyes is too loud to detect what’s underneath.
I’m freed from the big guy trying to climb me, but I’m stuck, frozen as I watch the bartender and the customer go at it.
Fists are swung, and despite knowing he finds me disgusting, watching a big burly man fight for my honor is kind of a turn on.
Some of the guys who were at the table pull Atlas off their friend, but security is finally free to step in.
The entire group of men are tossed out on their asses, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I watch them go.
“Lemon?” A big hand waves in front of my face. “Hello?”
My attention snaps to the man in front of me, and his deep brown eyes no longer hold judgment. They show concern.
That might be worse.
“Well, hello, sailor. Where’d you come from?” Distracting flirt mode: activated.
“Are you okay?” he asks with genuine worry in his tone.
My throat feels tight. “Never been better.”
Either he doesn’t believe me or maybe my poker face isn’t as good as it used to be because he steps forward, scoops me into his wide as fuck arms, and says, “Let’s get you backstage.”
Despite wanting to protest, I let my arms wrap around his neck. “I could’ve handled that myself, you know.” Me, petulant? What? Never.
“I’m sure you could have.” Surprisingly, there’s no condescension like I expect there to be.
“I can walk.”
“I got you.”
Damn, if that doesn’t make my insides melt.
He takes me through the door marked employees only to our dressing room and places me gently on a chair. When he stands again, I take in the amazing body I’ve tried to ignore since he started here.
The man is a tank. Tall, wide. Just as big as the guy who pawed at me out there. He has a faux mohawk with dark roots but blonder tips. He’s jacked everywhere, and unlike my bright yellow thong that hugs my dick nice and cozy-like, it looks like his gigantor of a penis wants to escape the confines of his black one.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
The smile that finds my face isn’t even forced. “I’m good. I promise.”
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About the Author
Eden Finley is an Amazon bestselling author who writes steamy contemporary romances that are full of snark and light-hearted fluff.
She doesn’t take anything too seriously and lives to create an escape from real life for her readers. The ideas always begin with a wackadoodle premise, and she does her best to turn them into romances with heart.
With a short attention span that rivals her son’s, she writes multiple different pairings: MM, MMF, and MF.
She’s also an Australian girl and apologises for her Australianisms that sometimes don’t make sense to anyone else.
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