INDY
Two Years Later
Istep out of the shower. The steam clings to the tile, walls, and mirror.
The heat from the water mixed with the Florida humidity that clings to your house nearly overstimulated me.
An everything shower where you have to wash your hair, exfoliate your skin, and shave will do that to you.
I don’t know why I’ve yet to learn my lesson and split the process up.
I wrap the towel around my naked body before doing the same for my hair.
We’ve adjusted well to going back and forth between Florida and Seattle, spending six months at a time each at both places.
I guess you can call us snowbirds. We spend a good bulk of late spring and all of summer in Seattle, preferring the cooler temperatures and the occasional heatwave.
Then we spend the rest of the time in Florida, and our time here is now.
I’ve also stepped back from Miranda and The Ellery House of Art.
I never could grasp her need to micromanage, sling passive-aggressive statements, and expect me to drop everything I’m doing to cater to her every whim.
Toren had enough of me crawling out of bed in the middle of the night.
I’d be even grumpier when it came to waking up the next morning, and honestly, I didn’t want to be around myself a lot of the days of the week.
I parted ways and never looked back. Now I freelance at a few different galleries when they have events.
It’s the best of both worlds. My salary is the same, sometimes more, and I’m able to be with my husband.
I walk out of the bathroom, hear a popping noise, and find Toren sitting on the edge of the unmade bed from this morning. The trash can from the bathroom sits between his spread thighs and he’s hunched over. The plastic blister back of my birth control crinkles in his big masculine hands.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
One tiny white pill at a time drops in the metal can with a hollow tink. I stand where I am, watching as he discards every last pill.
Toren has noticed I’m here, but he’s still yet to look up from his task, thumb moving with a small, satisfied grin on his face.
I mentioned in passing a couple of weeks ago I was ready to start trying for a family.
We’re settled, his artwork still flies off a gallery floor, website orders pour in, and he’s able to pick and choose when he’s ready to take said orders.
“Toren?” He looks up from his task.
“You said you were ready.” His voice is low, controlled, and makes my thighs quiver.
“I did,” I agree. His eyes lift to mine. The thought of moving leaves me. His gaze is sharp yet settled. This isn’t up for a debate. He’d win, and I’d give in, because he’s right. I’m ready. No, we’re ready.
“I’m not waiting on another cycle.” He drops the silver pack into the trash can. “Not waiting another damn day.” The air changes, he stands up, crossing the space between us, and pulls me in. No hesitation from either of us or questions that need to be answered.
“Okay.” His possessive strength warms me. His hand tugs at my towel, the fabric drops to the floor, and he’s gripping my hips, his thumb sliding along my lower abdomen.
“I want to see you,” he rasps. “I want to see you completely while I’m putting my baby in you.” He steps further into my space. My back meets the wall, and all I can do is hold on. My hands travel up the length of his chest, finding purchase on his strong shoulders.
When his lips claim mine, all gentleness is gone, and I’m all for it.
He tastes like salt and desperation, like the unfiltered need of a man who’s got his future in the palm of his hands.
Toren lifts me up, my legs wrap around his waist, and it’s then that I notice he’s lost his shorts somewhere along the way. He’s as naked as me.
“Tor,” I breathe between our tongues tangling in a rhythm that matches the frantic beat of our hearts.
“Fuck, cherry. Never, not in a million years will I ever get over the sight of you naked and in bed.” My back meets the mattress. Toren is constantly carrying or guiding me wherever he wants, and I willingly follow. He hovers above me, the weight of his lower body a welcome pressure.
“Yes, more.” I hike my legs, wrapping my ankles around his middle back when I feel the heat of his heavy cock.
The tip of his cock nudges my entrance. My fingers dig into his muscles as he slightly pulls back before pushing in.
Through it all, I haven’t lost his gaze.
I for sure thought his eyes would travel the length of my body to watch my pussy slowly take his dick. This time, it means more.
“You’re mine, cherry. Every inch.” He groans when he sinks all the way inside me. I arch my back, hips bucking upward and allowing him to move even deeper.
“Every inch.” My voice is a broken plea. Toren doesn’t need to be told twice. He drives in and out. Each powerful thrust threatens to steal the breath from my lungs. He’s deep, stretching me, filling me, and it’s utterly consuming. He drops to his forearms, erasing every inch of space between us.
“Tor.” He goes wild, fueled by the knowledge of what the outcome could be. He bottoms out, sweat dripping onto my skin as he works us both toward the edge. The room feels like it’s spinning. The sunlight from the windows blurs into a golden haze of heat and desire.
“Cherry,” he hisses my name like a prayer.
I’m close, he’s close, and when he pulls back, shoving into me, once then twice, swiveling his hips on the third time, I’m soaring.
I shatter beneath him as my pussy clenches in waves around him.
Toren’s guttural grunt of my name causes a ripple to slide down my back.
When he comes, his hips buck, and his forehead drops to the crook of my neck as he empties himself inside of me.
The slight shudder when the tips of my fingers glide up and down his back makes me want him more.
It shouldn’t be possible. I’m boneless, yet with my husband, it seems like I never get enough.
“I love you, Toren. You’re the best husband, and I can’t wait to watch you become a father to our children.” A shudder rolls through him, then he lifts up, eyes blazing on mine.
“Love you, cherry. Same goes, except I’ll get to watch you grow our child in your body, watch you nourish them, and be grateful as fuck you’re mine. Forever.” I pull his mouth to mine, kissing him with everything I have and cherishing every moment.
I hope you enjoyed Toren and Indy’s story and will consider leaving a review.
Coming Next is My Wounded Boss, Rafe’s story.
Prologue
Rafe
Two weeks earlier
The nightmares. They should have been there, the minute my eyes snapped open.
Sweat drenches the back of my neck, my chest, and my forehead.
The sheets are a tangled damn mess around my waist. I take a deep breath, trying to still my rapidly beating heartrate.
For one violent second, I thought I was back there.
Overseas. Sand in my lungs, smoke in the air, and blood on my hands. Then realization hit, there was no gunfire, no screaming, no death.
Just her.
My pulse thunders, the darkness of the penthouse does nothing to calm me.
“Son of a bitch,” the words come out low and wrecked because this is somehow worse.
Usually the nightmares hollowed me out— shaking, angry at myself for coming back in one piece when better men hadn’t.
When the ghost’s claw through my head along with enough adrenaline in his bloodstream to last until dawn.
The only thing that calms the dark thoughts swirling in my head is working out, to tire myself out so much that I’m barely able to make it to the shower.
Tonight I wake up just as hard, except it was different. And the dreams I had, I shouldn’t be having.
Shit was so real, so raw, it was like Seraphina was there with me. No blurry dream fragments, no fleeting impression, every detail seared through me with a clarity like no other.
I drag a rough breath into my lungs, swing my legs over the side of the bed, lean forward, and brace my elbows on my knees.
Seraphina Westwood, elegant yet dangerous.
Yesterday nearly did me in, soft honey brown hair hanging loosely down her back in soft waves, golden strands catching the light, and the smile she sent my way, disarmed me.
Amber- brown eyes that made me want to see the colors they’d turn in a different capacity.
Full berry-colored lips and a smile that could make a man drop to his knees.
The white loose blouse she wore effortlessly, the deep v giving me a slight glimpse of the swell of her breasts, high waisted black slacks hugged her long legs and full curves.
In my dream she’d been in my lap, not in the building, not behind her desk where she works just outside my office.
Nope, she’d been right here, in my penthouse.
Moonlight spilling over her milky skin while the city glows behind her, thighs straddling my hips, her fingers slowly sliding through my hair, looking at me like I’m not the demanding asshole boss I am at work, not the man with a past that still plagues, she looked at me like she wanted me.
I shouldn’t have had one single dirty thought about my assistant, except I did.
I stand up abruptly, stalking out of my bedroom and toward the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on.
My bare feet are silent against the marble floors, my body still feels too damn tight, restless muscle and restrained hunger.
I pull open the fridge door, grab a bottle of water, untwist the cap, and suck the contents down.
It didn’t help, fuck, nothing will help.
Not when my mind keeps replaying the dream in cruel, sensual flashes.
Seraphina leaning against me, chest pressed to mine, her mouth a breath away.
The delicate scent of honeysuckle and peach surrounding me.
Her palms flattening against my chest and when she said my name on a whisper, I slam my eyes closed, refusing to bring up the rest that happened.
I’m losing my damn mind. She’s my assistant, twenty-six years old, playful, confident, vibrant, and entirely off-limits.
Too damn bad the head between my legs can’t get with the one on top of my shoulders.
I brace my hands on the counter with my head lowered after discarding the bottle of water in the recycling bin.
Two weeks. That’s all it’s taken for her to get under my skin.
Two weeks of her walking into my office, takes my day by storm, floating in and out, rambling non-stop, not giving a fuck that I’ve only given her a grunt in response.
Two weeks of her soft voice cutting through the constant noise in my head, refusing to be intimidated by me.
Two weeks of my dick being in a constant state of hardness when Seraphina’s anywhere nearby. And believe me, she stayed close. Arching an eyebrow if I skipped a meal, calmly taking my whisky out of my hand after a sixteen-hour work day to replace it with either water or coffee.
Most people stumble over themselves trying to please me, entire boardrooms are stunned silent when my temper snaps, and when I’m walking down the hall, others give me a wide fucking birth.
Not Seraphina though, she looks directly into my eyes when she speaks to me, unflinching when I go dark inside.
And goddamn it all to hell, it makes me crave her more.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, I turn toward the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city, the storms clouds are finally breaking apart, and beyond the skyline, lightning flickers in the far-off distance.
My reflection stares back at me, forty years old.
Former U.S. Navy Seal, Spec Ops, short for keep your shit locked tight, get In and get out with minimal casualties and going dark for months at a time.
I’ve got too many scares, too many ghosts.
I’m standing her buck ass naked in the middle of the night aching for a woman who smiles at me like pure sunshine.
I’m damn pathetic. Except the dream hadn’t been only lust. That’s the problem, if it were physical I could handle it.
Hell, I could take care of it, my hand never did me wrong, and if it would keep me from putting my hands on Seraphina, that’s exactly what I’d do.
I’m now haunted with dreams of her and swear to christ it felt like she was there with me.
The tips of her fingers brushing along my jaw while she whispered, “"I’ve been thinking about this—about you.
Ever since the moment I first saw you. Stay just like this, I want to memorize how you look at me when you think I'm not watching.
" My throat tightens, my balls draw tight, and my dick shows no sign of resting.
For the first time in years, I didn’t have a nightmare, I didn’t have a memory tearing me apart. I had her warmth, her softness, her mouth inches from mine, and it was the best fucking dream.
Later today Seraphine will walk into my office wearing another one of those outfits that drives me up the damn wall.
She’ll hand me my coffee, smile at me, and I’ll have to act like I hadn’t just spent the night dreaming about sliding my hands beneath her clothes and hearing her moan my name against my mouth.
I rub my hand down my face, laughing under my breath in disbelief. Combat hadn’t destroyed me. PTSD hadn’t destroyed me. It would be Seraphina Westwood and her soft eyes and sinful mouth that would ruin me, if I let her.