CHAPTER TWELVE
WELLS
A fter the movie day with the guys, Ivy agreed to begin training. We kept it light that first day. She’s a runner, so we had her run five miles, swim several laps—because September has been unseasonably hot and we’ve yet to drain the pool—and started her at the shooting range.
The guys assure me she’s a natural shot, so that’s encouraging. I haven’t witnessed it myself, deciding to hang back for now. The incident at La Lune Noire complicated everything.
For years, there have been two primary groups after Ivy—those who want her safe and well and capable of assuming her elite position, and those who want to prevent that from happening.
The latter has hired team after team to find her, and we’ve always been a step ahead, eliminating them whenever possible.
But a hit listed on the dark web could have any hit man in the country after her. That’s a far greater challenge.
With so much going on, I don’t trust myself around her right now. I need a clear head, and she gives me anything but.
Today, they pushed her a little harder, so I’m sure she’s sore. She shut herself in her room about an hour ago, no doubt seeking solace in a hot shower.
The thought of the water cascading down her aching muscles, hands grazing over her bare curves, has my cock twitching.
Precisely why I’ve been distancing myself .
And jerking off constantly like a teenage boy.
The guys, whose rooms are all upstairs, have disappeared.
So, I find myself alone, in my office, two doors from hers.
My bedroom is in between—the proximity was intentional, but maybe a mistake.
I should be working, but she has my head completely fucked up.
So, I’m sucking on a grape Tootsie Pop, centering myself with a moody chamber music mix, and daydreaming. About all things Ivy.
Her delicious scent that envelops me like a balmy blanket in a raspberry field.
Hungry blue eyes searching mine.
Pouty, pleading lips.
Hot and wet and eager.
A knock startles me into opening my eyes.
“Hey there,” she says, gripping the molding and swinging herself into the office.
“I thought … I haven’t seen you much, and I wanted to check in.
” She’s so soft right now. Hair wet, face clean, feet bare, wearing my T-shirt from New Orleans, tied in a knot at her naked stomach, and tiny cotton shorts.
Fucking stunning.
“I’m glad you did, Little Storm. How’s training going?”
She giggles, settling into the chair across from me. “I would’ve said I was pretty fit, but they’re kicking my ass out there.”
Jealousy surges through me, wanting those moments with her. Mine. I like this side of her, the worn, the calm, the compliant. It’s what most people see when they look at her, the reason her storm goes undetected. The storm I seem to incite in her and can’t get enough of.
I smile, pulling out my sucker and wrapping it back up for later. “I’m sorry I missed that.”
“Are you?” she asks, and the question holds far more than a basic inquiry. Her eyes are wide and vulnerable. I’m not sure what I want to do with that, but she leaves me little room to teeter. “Because I’ve missed having you there.”
Good fuck .
She holds her breath with that, and everything in me wants to scoop her onto my lap and tell her I’m going to sort all of this out, fix it, protect her. But wanting her like this can only make that job more difficult than it already is. Those cerulean doe eyes are piercing me, twisting my insides.
I hate hurting her. “I am. I’ll make time to see your progress soon.”
She cocks a sassy brow. “It won’t look like progress unless you get a baseline, so you should train with us tomorrow.”
I chuckle at how quick she is. “Valid point. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I have another valid point,” she says, apparently revved up to bust my throbbing blue balls this evening. “I’d like to have a better understanding of what I’m training for exactly.”
“That’s fair,” I concede. “A full explanation will come soon, but for now, I simply need you to understand that there are threats to you, and I want you prepared.”
She huffs, and just like that, my Little Storm rages. “That’s bullshit. What threats and why? Are they because of your business dealings?”
“They’re all connected to that. Yes.” Truth.
“Can you tell me more?” She leans forward, hand on my desk, the vulnerability in her now-rolling eyes a thing of the past. “Do they know who I am? Is that why you’ve got me hidden away? How dangerous are these people? Should I be scared?”
She’s right. Those are all valid questions, but the truth is so disturbing at the moment that I can’t share. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I tell her the only thing I can. “I’m not ready to unveil more yet, but I don’t want you to be scared. I want you to be ready.”
She smacks the desk and throws herself back into her chair, twisting her long, wet hair around her palm. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Why can’t you answer a damn question without launching a riddle? ”
“That’s not my intent, Ivy. I want to tell you everything, but there are new developments I can’t explain fully. So, not yet.” Taking my typical hard line here probably won’t serve me well, so I try another tactic. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she confesses, no hesitation. But her next words decimate the brief swell of pride that gifts to me.
“For the life of me, I don’t know why. I feel it in my gut, and I want to …
my dad taught me to trust my instincts, and I’m not the kind of girl who breaks down.
” Her features hold a heaviness to them, a weightiness shackling me.
“But this is crazy. Not quite right, like a Picasso painting.” She grunts while I marvel at her fascinating thought process and how supremely that Picasso comparison sums up this fucked-up, nothing-aligns situation.
“I sense something, and nothing feels safe anymore—not even going back to my own home. Except you guys, oddly enough. But then you’re all aware of something that’s happening and … ” She grips her neck with a wince.
“Sore muscles?” I ask.
“Sore everything.” She blows out a broken sigh.
“Let me give you a massage, and we’ll talk through it.” My dick spits out the offer before my mind catches up. Shit.
Her eyes light with clear elation, and I could kick myself for the suggestion in spite of the obvious ability it has to distract her.
She rolls her lips in. “Okay. Would you mind if I lie down for it?”
Jesus Christ.
“Of course. Go to your room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
She walks out, dabbing at a fugitive tear, a lip-biting smile taking its place. Her tears make me fucking stupid. And her joy makes me dumber.
I grab a bottle of oil from my bathroom cabinet and make my way to her room. Her door is cracked open, the corner light bathing the space in a warm amber glow.
And Ivy is lying face down on her bed. Topless. My cock grows instantly.
Fucking hell .
“What? Is this okay?” she asks, making me aware that I hissed that exclamation out loud.
“Perfect. Stay there.” I roll up my sleeves, straddle her narrow hips, and squirt the oil into my palm, rubbing it between my hands and slathering it onto her back.
Her skin is like goddamn silk. As I begin working it into her tense muscles, she moans.
My pulse hammers in my ears and chest and stomach.
There is no hiding how much I want this woman. She must feel how hard I am against her ass. All she’s wearing are those tiny cotton shorts. In my imagination, there aren’t panties beneath them. So easy to whisk her free.
Jesus , the memory of her shaved pink pussy is haunting me. I bet she’s soaked right now. Sopping.
I move to her arms, dousing them with oil, soothing her biceps with a twisting rub, and dreaming about how she confessed to wanting to be tied up. She moans again, like she’s envisioning the same fantasy.
Bound and begging, screaming my name and quaking beneath me, while I slam into her wet cunt.
Fuck me.
I jump off the bed and move to her feet—presumably the safest area of her phenomenal body—rubbing in the oil in search of a reprieve that never comes.
Her iridescent-green polished toes have to be the cutest fucking toes in existence.
I’ve never been particularly into feet, but here I am, balls zinging with the urge to suck each one into my mouth in the most lewd manner conceivable.
Working my way up her calves to her thighs, her skin slick and shiny and shimmering, I lose my goddamn mind.
Every part of her is magnificent, sexy, and toned.
I want these long, slippery legs wrapped around my waist, shaking with need.
She whimpers in agreement as my fingers tease her upper thighs.
“God, Wells. That feels so good.” Her gravelly voice rockets a desperate hunger up my spine .
I can smell her arousal. So sweet. Christ , she tasted better than candy. The memory has me salivating.
Sweat beads along my hairline as my fingers inch closer, massaging the sumptuous curve of her ass at this point. No panties to be found yet. One swipe of my tongue, and I could feast on her delicacy.
But Larry’s face flickers before me. His hand on her waist. His admission to planning to kill her. The blanket hit.
The remembrance of how it was my fault because I’d gotten sucked into being with her, wanting her, pleasing her. Instead of protecting her.
I can’t.
Stooping beside her bed, I slip my fingers under her damp strands and knead her neck muscles. Her breathing staggers. She turns her head to face me, sliding her hand over mine.
“Stay with me,” she whispers in a sultry rasp.
Dear, fuck.
I’ve imagined those words, or at least the sentiment, falling from her pouty lips so many times over the years.