OVULATED: Pregnancy Romance Collection

by Snow Novels

  SCORCH: THE LOVE AND HONOR OF AN OUTLAW

  Chapter 1

  Dean Asher slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the pool hall. Few heads turned, they were used to angry doors in this place. Dean didn't know much right now, but he knew he needed a drink. Something to get his mind off the bullshit he'd just come out of in his commander's office. Therapy? Were they fucking kidding him? Green Berets didn't need therapy. He hadn't joined the army right out of high school and spent the next ten years climbing the ranks in Special Ops to go to therapy.

  He stepped up to the bar and ordered a round of hard, amber liquid to burn his throat and help him forget what was happening. When that was gone, he ordered another. Dean looked around the room, full of military brats and officers who seemed to be having a good time. He hated himself for envying them.

  Dean walked over to an empty pool table and grabbed a stick.

  "Hey man, wanna join us?" A couple of guys called out from three tables down. Dean glared at them and they went back to their game. He wasn't the first guy to come in here with a chip on his shoulder.

  He sank a few balls, dicking around, replaying the last words his commanding officer had said before Dean left his office. "You need help Dean. You're off active duty till you get it." Then he'd slipped Dean a paper with a name and address scratched out in his captain's chicken scrawl: Dr. Brooke Shannon.

  What the hell kind of name was that for a shrink anyway? How was a woman, who'd almost certainly never been in the military herself, supposed to help him get over his best friend's death? No one could do that. That was a magic trick filled with illusion and lies. What Dean needed was real magic. He needed to go back in time and find a way to stop Mike from dying. Not just Mike, but all five of them. None of them deserved to die that day.

  A warm breeze blew across Dean's cheek and the door to Tuttle's Pool Hall slammed shut. This time, several heads turned. A woman with long dark hair and legs up to the ceiling strutted into the room. Her body was full of curves, just the way Dean liked them, and when she moved to the bar several pairs of eyes followed her, including his own.

  She bent over the bar just enough to reveal well-formed breasts with the type of cleavage only a voluptuous woman could ever have naturally. The few skinny chicks who were in the room eyed her with caution, putting a protective hand on their man's shoulder. He didn't blame them. This was the type of woman who had enough sex appeal to turn gay men straight.

  Dean watched her order and swallow a shot of vodka before turning her liquid blue eyes around the room. Her eyes stopped moving when she got to Dean, then flicked past him to the empty table on his left. Her hips swayed as she walked towards him, her ass showing itself off in the skin tight jeans she wore. He wanted to run his hands over those curves and feel her full body against his skin. He liked a woman who was confident with her appearance.

  When she got to the empty table she threw him a glance but didn't say a word. She pulled a stick off the wall and started shooting. Dean watched, mesmerized, as she sank her first three balls. The bartender brought her another shot and she threw her head back without a grimace. She was drinking hard stuff too.

  Dean ordered another drink for himself, and walked around to the three ball. It was near the rail about a foot from the corner pocket. He snuck a glance to see if the girl was watching, then made a cut shot, spinning the cue ball down the rail and rebounding it at an angle. The three ball traveled far down the rail and dropped into the corner pocket. He looked up to see if she was duly impressed, but she just raised her eyebrows at him and smiled coyly.

  The rounded waist of his newest desire moved to the left middle pocket. The one ball sat in the bottom right corner, the two in the bottom left, and the three at the top. She hit the cue ball and struck the one ball off the two, sinking into the middle pocket. The two ball rocketed into the corner, followed by the three ball in the same pocket. She looked up at Dean, smiling creamy pink lips and flashing her white teeth. It was the best shot Dean had ever seen anyone make.

  "Your shot," she purred.

  Chapter 2

  Brooke didn't know what she was thinking. She started her new job in the morning; she should be in bed asleep instead of showing off for the hot Special Ops guy at the table next to her. But it was her first night in town and she was bored. Besides, he was seriously cute. She'd always preferred the tough ones. It wasn't just the muscles that gave him away as Special Ops—all military men had muscles—it was his tattoos. She watched them climb their way up his golden arms and caught the shadowy look in his mahogany eyes. That was another Special Ops giveaway—the dark undertone of having seen too much. It was always reflected in your eyes. She'd had a case once when she was interning where the guy refused to look at himself in the mirror because he couldn't handle the darkness that stared back at him

  He was checking her out the moment she walked into the pool hall. Nothing new there. Her father had dragged her and her brothers to every military base in the country (and some that weren't), and she'd grown up with military men checking her out—though they always tried to hide it when her dad was around. You didn't want to be caught checking out the general's daughter.

  "Your shot," she said to the guy at the table next to hers. He'd thought he was so clever with that cut out shot, but she'd been playing pool before she could walk.

  "Why don't you come over here?" he asked. "One table for one game."

  His voice hit her like a bag of bricks. She had expected deep and sultry, but not the melodic saxophone that hummed from his throat. Sound waves turned into shock waves; they crawled up her skin and made her shiver. She smiled, shaking her head and laughing at how foolish she was being.

  She grabbed her pool stick and joined him at his table. The bartender, noting her empty glass, brought a refill. "On the house," he said, trying to charm her. "Five bucks," he told her new partner.

  She watched Mr. Special Ops take the shot glass between his hands and hold it up. She did the same. "One, two, three," she said, then they threw their heads back. The liquid burned her throat and revved her friskiness level straight to a ten. A song started on the juke box.

  "Wanna dance?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  There wasn't a dance floor, but they found a spot between some tables and gripped each other tight. His breath was warm and his eyes gazed into hers, hypnotizing her. They danced two numbers together before she thought her heart might explode.

  "Smoke?" she asked.

  "I don't smoke," he said.

  "Me neither."

  He grinned at her with perfect moist lips and put his stick back on the wall. He placed his hand on her back as they went out the front door. It was large and warm and she liked how it felt over her clothes. She had a feeling she might like how it felt under her clothes even better.

  The second they were outside his hands were pushing her against the wall and his tongue was wrapping itself around hers. His lips tasted like bubble gum and when she pushed her core against his, the erection that was waiting for her made her thighs clench and her toes curl. She couldn't believe this was happening right outside the pool hall. The wall they were up against was dark, but not that dark. This was what she liked though, an alpha who could make her push her limits.

  It took only seconds to get her pants down and he was all ready for her. His pants pooled around his shoes, hers around her heels. His body pushed into her with a delicate balance of precision and speed, sending her mind up in sparks. Her head flew back as he dug into her with his mass, shaking the boundaries of her insides as he moved against her. It took all her strength to stop from falling, and when their heads finally snapped back together, plunging deep into the fireworks that sailed around them, she was so stunned by what she'd just done that she tripped over her shoes and almost knocked over a line of motorcycles.

  "Whoa there," he said, pulling her up, grinning. "You want to be careful there. You know what that is?" He pointed towards the machine her head had nearly hit.<
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  "A Harley," she said, pulling her pants back up.

  "Oh my God," he laughed and shook his head. "You girls are all the same. This isn't just any Harley. That's a 1971 FX Super Glide. It's fucking beautiful."

  "Oh?"she couldn't help the smile that played across her lips. "You like?" He looked at her like she was nuts.

  "Of course I like," he said. "Who wouldn't?"

  She climbed onto the seat and his eyes widened.

  "I wouldn't do that. That bike's worth a lot. No, like really, a lot." He repeated when she didn't budge.

  "Sounds like you know a lot about Harleys," she said, batting her lashes at him and laying her head suggestively across the handle bars. She was enjoying the trick she was about to play.

  He pointed towards a Harley further down the row. "That's mine there."

  "Nice," she said. "A VRSC V-Rod.Is that a 2001 or a 2002?"

  "2001," he said, awed. "You know bikes?"

  "A little. It's very nice. Almost as nice as this one." She ripped the keys from her pocket and inserted them into the ignition. The engine purred to life and the look on his face was priceless.

  "This is your bike?" he balked.

  "Last time I checked. Then again, you never know. Us girls can't really tell a Harley from a Schwinn, can we?"

  She'd thought his cheeks would burn but his eyes only submerged themselves deeper into hers.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Why ruin it with details?" she asked. "Secrets are so much more fun than real life."

  Then she blew him a kiss and let him eat her dust.

  Chapter 3

  Dean woke up when the jackhammer in his head finally got to be too much to take. He thought he might have better luck beating it back if he started walking around. His eyes were red and dark and he turned away from the mirror, not wanting to see anymore. He hopped in the shower, hoping the cool water would soothe the hangover that slithered around inside him. It just made his stomach churn.

  None of it mattered. It was worth feeling like crap now after the evening he'd had. He had no idea how he'd gotten so lucky. That woman had been incredible. The way she drank and shot pool... it was like she was one of the guys, but with killer curves and sweet breath he could still taste on his lips. Pool wasn't Dean's best game, but he was still pretty good at it. She'd made him look like last night was the first time he'd touched a pool stick. And he still couldn't believe the way she'd left him standing in a fog of exhaust fumes staring after her like a dumbass as she rode away on her Harley. Why didn't I get her number? He knew why though—he'd already answered his own question. Because I'm a dumbass.

  "I'm also incredibly fucked up," he mumbled to himself. He didn't deserve an amazing girl like that and he knew it.

  He stared at the paper his commander had given to him. He'd crumpled it up and thrown it away, then retrieved it from the trash can. His commander had already made an appointment for him. He should be stepping up to the doctor's office in about an hour. He sighed. Maybe if he talked to a shrink, he'd be able to ask the girl for her number next time he saw her. If he was lucky enough to see her again, that is.

  The sunlight hit his eyes all wrong and made him tear up. The wind felt good though as it rushed through his hair. He wondered if he should let it grow out a little since he wasn't even allowed back into the war game till this psychiatrist gave him the okay. He cursed his commanders for forcing him into this. They knew he'd never take an honorable discharge. He wanted back in the action, back in the fight. Maybe this doctor would be okay. Maybe they'd seen some action themselves and would let him get back to it. You never knew. Predicting anything in this life was impossible—he'd learned that after what happened with Mike.

  Outside, the VA building looked plain and unassuming. Red brick mixed with an American Flag flying high at the walkway. Inside, it was a virtual tapestry of hero worship. War pictures and veterans' flags covered the walls; the founding fathers' portraits hung above each hall; and a giant American flag, bigger than the one outside, draped languidly over the vaulted ceiling. Dean looked around, uncomfortable in a place that he knew was supposed to have been built for him. He was an Afghanistan veteran, after all. But all it did was remind him of Mike and the others.

  A man at the desk, clearly retired military, directed him down a hall and up some stairs. It was carpeted and the walls were a crisp blue that made him shudder. He stepped through a door with the shrink's name on it: Dr. Shannon. The shrink's room was even worse than the war plastered halls outside it. He felt like he was in a regular doctor's office, only this one was covered with pictures of Freud and Jung. He tried not to laugh as he was given some forms and asked to take a seat.

  "Dr. Shannon's running a little behind today," the secretary said. "They make all the newbies fill out a ton of paperwork before they start clocking in." The secretary smiled ingratiatingly at Dean, who's blood ran cold.

  "Newbie? Is this shrink I'm seeing even old enough to be a doctor?" The secretary just smiled.

  He grimaced but sat waiting. Nothing was worse than waiting for a doctor. A picture of Mike crossed his mind, his head splattered with blood and his arms going limp as Dean held him tight. Well, almost nothing.

  "Look, maybe I'll just come back if the doc's behind, alright? I've got things to do. Can't wait all damn day."

  The nurse opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by the creak of a door opening. "Here's Dr. Shannon now," she said.

  Dean's mouth dropped open as the woman from the pool hall stepped into the waiting room. Same long legs, same voluptuous curves. "What are—" she cut herself off, shooting a glance to the nurse who was more preoccupied with her nails than with them. "Mr. Asher?" she asked. "Mr. Dean Asher?"

  Dean nodded and picked his jaw off the floor. His lips turned up in a smile.

  "Hiya Doc," he said. "The pleasure's mine."

  Chapter 4

  Brooke's heart went wild as her eyes fell on Dean Asher. For half a second, she thought she was seeing things. Then he spoke, and his voice hit her like a drug. She felt the blood drain from her face and took a deep breath to stop her legs from giving out.

  "Come in, Mr. Asher," she said. Her mouth was bone dry. For Christ's sake! What did you do? The first night in a new town before her first day at a new job, and she'd banged her first damned patient. If anyone found out about this she'd lose her job for sure, maybe even her license. She hadn't even had it that long!

  Dean followed her into her office, and she felt his eyes on her backside. She closed the door behind them and he grabbed her waist, pushing her against the door and pressing his lips to hers. She had to force herself to resist the temptation the bubblegum flavored lips of his provided her. Finally, she pushed him away and went to stand in front of her desk.

  "Mr. Asher," she said.

  "I think it's okay if you call me Dean. I never did catch your name." His smile was so genuine that Brooke had a hard time being angry.

  "Brooke Shannon. Doctor Brooke Shannon." His eyes lit up.

  "Brooke huh? You know what? That's my most favorite name in the whole wide world." He laughed and came towards her. She sat back on her desk and stuck her foot out like a barricade, preventing him from getting too close.

  "You can sit and talk," she said, "or you can leave."

  His face fell ever so slightly and Brooke felt a smidgeon of guilt hit her. "I'm your therapist," she continued, now that he was actually sitting in a chair. "That's all. What happened last night, well..." What she wanted to say was that it was amazing. Incredible. The kind of sex she'd like to have again and again. But instead of saying those things, she shut up and blushed.

  They sat in silence for a bit. Him in his chair, Brooke still in her defensive posture by her desk. Finally, she broke the silence. "Look, why don't we start with a little ice breaker? You tell me something about yourself, I'll do the same."

  "Well," he said, jumping right into the conversation. "I met the hottest girl in town last night. Only
she blew me off before I could get her number."

  "I did not blow you off," she said, then realized that he was baiting her. "I mean..." She knew she was stammering but couldn't seem to stop. "I... why don't you tell me why you're here," she said, hoping she sounded sufficiently professional.

  "You've got my folder," he snapped."You tell me."

  Aha. I've touched a nerve. Brooke's training, as well as her own experience with her dad and brothers, who were all in the army, had taught her to tread carefully when hitting upon the touchy subject of death in war. Still, sometimes it was best to just jump right in.

  "Tell me about Michael Rivers," she said.

  "I'd rather tell you how your eyes are bluer than any river or ocean I've ever seen," he said, leaning forward like he was about to get out of his chair.

  Brooke threw her clipboard and pen down. "This won't work if you don't try," she said, exasperated.

  He leaned back into his chair and his face changed. No longer playful, his lips set into a thin line and his eyes went hard as stone. "There's nothing to say about Mike," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Mike's dead. I'm not."

  "Do you feel guilty about that?" she asked, hoping to prompt something more from him.

  Instead he stood up and without a word walked out her door.

  Brooke sat, staring after him, her face set in shock. Things couldn't have gone more wrong. If she was going to help him, she was going to have to find a way to make him talk.

  Chapter 5

  Dean's nights were sleepless and wasteful. Memories of Mike and the rest of his men dying in front of him interchanged with memories of Brooke and the way she'd felt as he pressed her against the wall outside Tuttle's. He laid in bed for three days, barely moving, eating only enough to keep him alive, and even then wondering what good it was. But then he'd catch a whiff of Brooke's scent—strawberries and lime—or a spot on the ceiling he stared into would remind him somehow of her velvet skin, and he thought that in Brooke he had his reason for living.