The Alpha Bodyguards Books #4-6

Chapter Thirty-Two

H er eyes welled, her nostrils flared and her cheek pulled in as if she were biting it from the inside. “You can’t say things like that to me,” she whispered.

“There are many things I want to say to you.” But all of them were coming out of order.

She should’ve wanted to hear I wished her son was mine.

She should’ve wanted to know after last night I had more to say to her.

She should’ve wanted to understand I wanted to be closer to her.

But none of her words matched any of my predictions.

Not one.

My life was controlled. Like the hands on a clock, life ticked sequentially. Cause and effect, order of numbers, day and night—timing happened, and it was crucial. Human behavior was the only randomization in every statistical analysis, but prediction mitigated unplanned circumstances, and I could calculate those odds.

I had calculated those odds my entire adult life.

I could also remember anything—numbers, faces, places, words. I could smell disorder in chaos, and I could pinpoint the moment of change. Counting time, measuring distances, forecasting variables—I could detect patterns in anything from weather to animals to human behavior, and I catalogued all of it. I took that information and used it to my advantage.

That advantage kept me alive in the Marines.

That advantage filled my bank accounts.

That advantage bought this house.

But it didn’t get me her.

Every step of the way, I’d been wrong about her.

I couldn’t catalogue, analyze, or predict anything that came out of her mouth. I couldn’t gauge her reactions, moods or behavior and use them for my next move. I couldn’t predict anything she did with any certainty, and I’d made every mistake with her I never made in any other area of my life.

I didn’t go after her seven years go.

I didn’t show her how much I wanted her.

I didn’t tell her that my chest both crushed in and swelled the first time I saw her holding her baby.

For years I watched her. I’d been waiting for that crucial moment when an approach would align with her behavior, mood, and schedule and give me the perfect platform to tell her everything I’d planned.

But it hadn’t happened.

I feared it would never happen.

Because she wasn’t predictable to me.

Maddening and intoxicating…

She.

Wasn’t.

Fucking.

Predictable .

And neither was I around her.

“Mercy.” Her name, uncontrolled and rough, came out of my mouth, and I understood the very decision her mother made in naming her wild beauty of a daughter.

“Don’t,” she warned, her son furiously signing at her side. “Don’t say any more.” A tear fell down her cheek.

I couldn’t not say more. “I made mistakes.”

“I made them too.” Another tear.

“Please don’t cry.” I wanted to hold her. I didn’t know if I should. Her son was watching. “I don’t know my boundaries.”

Swiping at her face, she made a sound of exasperation. “I don’t even know what that means.”

I’d played it safe—no, controlled—for seven years. It’d gotten me nowhere. She was here. She’d come willingly. She’d given me that amount of trust.

I made a decision.

My arms at my sides, my body still, my eyes on hers, I gave the trust back to her. “Your son is watching. I want to comfort you. I want to tell you I want both of you here. I want you to reach for me. I want you to need me. I want to be the one to wipe your tears.” I wanted it all.

Her son stilled.

She stilled.

The air stilled.

But the house breathed, and for five seconds she didn’t move.

Then she surprised me. Again.

“Is that pool heated?” she asked casually.

I blinked. “Yes.”

“I don’t have a suit.” She glanced at the pool. “But a swim would be nice.”

“There’s one in your bag,” I admitted.

She looked back at me. It was her turn to blink. “There’s a swimsuit in my bag?”

I nodded.

Her son’s gaze darted between us.

“My suit?” she asked to clarify.

“Yes.”

She frowned. “How did one of my swimsuits get in my overnight bag?”

“I put it there.” While she was in the bathroom throwing toiletries into a small cloth bag.

Shaking her head, the corner of her mouth tipped up. “Preston Vos, you’re infuriating.”

“Kyrie Eleison Asher, you’re beautiful.”

Her son’s hands moved. You owe the swear jar, Mommy!

Her throat moved with a swallow, then her hands moved for her son. Fine. Go to Mommy’s car and look in her purse and take out a dollar and put it in your pocket. Then grab your backpack and come right back inside. We’ll go for a swim.

Her son signed back. I don’t have my swimsuit.

You can wear your underwear, she signed back.

The boy ran out the front door.

She looked at me.

I didn’t hesitate.

Taking her face in my hands, I kissed her. Controlled, dominant, I took what I wanted.

Her reaction was instant.

Her mouth opened, her body melted into mine and she groaned the moment our tongues met. Grabbing my hair with one hand, holding her coffee with the other, she kissed me back.

She tasted like promise, and I wanted to take her, but her son would be back any moment. Reluctantly, I pulled away. “I’ll go get your bag. Find the master at the top of the stairs and to the right. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Her eyes unfocused, her lips wet from my kiss, she licked them. “Mm-hmm.”

I smiled. “No smart comeback?”

Releasing my hair, she ran her hand down my neck and over my shoulder before settling it on my chest. She inhaled, and when her gaze met mine again, a spark of amusement shone in her eyes. “Would you like one?”

All day, every day. “Go upstairs. Wait for me.”

The spark brightened. “Why, Sergeant Vos, is that an order?”

The tilt of her head, the playfulness in her voice, the excitement dancing in her eyes—I took note of all of it. Leaning down, I brought my lips to the top of her collarbone. Barely touching her soft skin, I dragged my mouth up the side of her neck to just below her ear. “Yes,” I whispered.

Gooseflesh broke out across her skin, and she shivered. “Do you think you can boss me around?”

I hadn’t.

For seven years, I’d thought I needed to tread carefully. I’d thought I needed to hide my dominance. I’d calculated ways to ease her into it, and laid awake nights imagining every way to take her.

But I grossly misread the situation.

Nipping her ear, I issued a command. “Upstairs. Sit on the bed. Cross your legs and wait.” Not giving her any room for a response, I turned and walked to the front door. When my hand landed on the handle, she spoke.

“You’re wrong if you think you’re going to boss me around.”

Pausing only a fraction of a second, I smiled.

In this, I was right.

Dead right.

Without looking back, I opened the door and strode to her car.