Thrive (Guardian Protection)

by Aly Martinez

  Like an adorable weirdo, she opened one eye and looked over at me. “Jesus. You’re still there.”

  I chuckled. “You hoping I was going to fall out of the car while you were asleep?”

  She sat up and twisted from side to side, stretching her back. “No… Well, maybe a little.”

  I laughed, and her gaze snapped to mine, those damn innocent eyes of hers blinking at me as if she’d seen a ghost.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. She seemed excited about having seen that ghost. Her lips curled up, and her gaze dropped to my mouth, where it lingered for too long. But only too long because it allowed my gaze enough time to fall to her mouth.

  I remembered how those lips felt when they’d moved with mine. The way her tongue twisted and teased. The way her soft moans tasted when I took it deep. The way her hands would slide into my hair as she…

  My chest tightened, and suddenly, that SUV became suffocating.

  “Don’t move,” I ordered, swinging the door open and angling out.

  Quite possibly for the first time in her entire life, she obeyed and waited for me to round the hood and open her door.

  Scanning the periphery, I led her up the sidewalk to my front door. She remained tight at my side as I ushered her inside and turned the beeping alarm off before resetting it.

  Flipping the lights on, I walked into my living room, headed straight for my kitchen, assuming she’d follow. I stopped when I didn’t hear her feet against the hardwood floors.

  I turned, finding her still standing in the foyer, her wide eyes sweeping through the room, up, down, and back again.

  “You coming in?” I asked.

  She looked to me, her dark eyebrows drawn together. “This is your house?”

  I glanced around the room. “Last I checked.”

  “It’s so…empty.”

  I barked a laugh. She wasn’t wrong. Short of three boxes that hadn’t migrated up to my bedroom yet, a backpack I used to carry my laptop to and from work, and my overnight bag that was always locked and loaded next to the door, it was all pale-gray walls and wide, gray, planked hardwood.

  I walked around the long, polished concrete-top bar that divided the living room from the kitchen and shrugged. “Thanks for noticing. I was going for minimalist chic. But empty works too.”

  “Are you moving?” she asked, tipping her head to the boxes.

  “In. Yeah.”

  “In?” she asked, thoroughly perplexed. Which only served to thoroughly perplex me.

  “Um…yeah. Why do you seem surprised?”

  She shook her head entirely too many times. “No reason. I just got the impression you’d lived here for a while.” She waved me off and made her way over to the bar. Then she planted herself on one of the two barstools across from me. “Anyway…ignore me. It’s been a long day.”

  I smiled, but something didn’t sit right. I hadn’t remembered talking about my house at all. “What gave you that impression?”

  She smiled. Wide. White. Fake. “I don’t know.”

  Christ, she was still shit for a liar.

  “So, how long have you lived here?” she asked.

  I propped my hip against the counter. “On and off for five years.”

  “On and off?”

  “Lived here for a few years. Moved out for a few. Now, I’m moving back in. My wife and I bought the place a while ago.” Yep. That was exactly what I’d said. And, when I’d said it, I’d kept my gaze on her, waiting for a reaction.

  She looked down at the counter and gave nothing away. “Your wife?”

  “Ex-wife,” I clarified.

  Her head came back up. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Another fucking lie. Only this one felt like I’d won the lottery.

  I quickly reminded myself that I didn’t even want a ticket to play the Mira York lottery.

  “Don’t be. It’s been over for about two years. Hence why I moved out. She got the house in the divorce. My choice. I didn’t like the idea of her uprooting the kids.” Yep. I’d said that too. And I watched for that little news to sink in.

  She fought a good fight, her face remaining unreadable for the most part. But I knew Mira well enough to see I’d gutted her.

  “You always wanted kids,” she whispered, her forehead crinkling as if it were taking a great deal of effort to keep her emotions locked away.

  “Yep. Got two girls. Twins. Sophie and Amelia. My whole fucking world.”

  She smiled, and I swear to God it was genuine. That gutted me. She was happy for me. Happy I’d gotten something I’d always wanted. We’d talked about kids. Never specifically with each other, as that would have implied a level of commitment we’d never had. But I knew she wanted a family too.

  “What about you? Kids?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Decided not to have any.”

  Fuck. Why did that feel like I’d been cut? I didn’t have a lot of fond thoughts of her making babies with Kurt. But knowing she never got to…

  “That a choice you made based on his career or a decision you and Kurt made together?” I asked more roughly than I had planned.

  Her tired eyes softened. “It was a decision I made for myself, Jeremy.”

  At least there was that, but it still pained me.

  I nodded and glanced at the clock on the wall; it was nearing midnight. “It’s late. Let me show you to your room.”

  She rose to her feet, and I shoved off the counter before walking around to meet her. We were inside, the doors locked and the alarm on, so I didn’t have to fall to her side for protection or keep her within arm’s reach. I did it anyway. And, as I stepped in, confining her in the space between my body and the bar, I told myself that it wasn’t because I loved the way she arched into my touch each time I rested my hand on the small of her back. I also told myself that it wasn’t because I loved the way her breathing sped and her cheeks pinked when I got close. And I swore to myself that it wasn’t because I loved the way her round ass felt as it brushed against me when I guided her from my right side to my left, yet…

  “Other side, baby,” I murmured, shifting her in front of me. I could have moved. I could have put her on my left from the start. But why take the easy route when I could torture myself?

  I sucked in through my teeth as she sidestepped, stopping when her right shoulder brushed my left pec. Fuck, even that felt good.

  “Stairs,” I directed, applying pressure to her back.

  She arched.

  I bit back a curse.

  And we moved together.

  “Uhhh,” she drawled when we stopped at the door to my bedroom.

  The California king bed was unmade, and my workout clothes from that morning were strewn across the floor near the hamper, my hoops skills obviously not what they’d once been. However, the rest of the room was clean, the linens clean-ish, fresh towels in the master bathroom. She’d be comfortable there. I, on the other hand, would have to torch that damn mattress before I’d ever be able to sleep in it again.

  Tipping her head back, she aimed pink cheeks up at me. “Is this your room?”

  I ignored how breathy she sounded.

  I also ignored the way she raked her teeth over her bottom lip.

  And I definitely fucking ignored the way my cock stirred to life.

  With the casual coolness of a man on fire, I hurried deeper into the room.

  I kept my back to her as I went to my dresser and started pulling out clothes. “I’m gonna crash in the girls’ room.” I pulled the second drawer open. “T-shirts and shit you can sleep in are in here. Doubt any of my sweats will fit you.” I pulled the third drawer open. “But they’re in here if you wanna try. If you make me a list, tomorrow, I’ll see about getting out to your old place and picking up some of your stuff.”

  “Jeremy,” she whispered from somewhere close.

  Too close.

  I kept rambling, wondering if Guardian really had turned me into a babbling sorority girl. “
I got a laundry room near the back door. Feel free to wash what you’re wearing now so you have it for tomorrow. Soap’s in the cabinet on the left.”

  “Jeremy.” She was closer. So close that I felt her at my back.

  I put my chin to my shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “I’m not kicking you out of your own room. How about you point me to the couch?”

  “You heard the part about how I was just moving in, right?”

  “I did. But you’re a man. I’m assuming you bought a massive sofa and a big TV before you bought shower curtains.”

  I grinned, the nerves I was also forcing myself to ignore ebbing. Pivoting on a toe, I faced her. “You’d assume right. I furnished the den in the basement first, but you’re not allowed to go in there until I’ve had a chance to clean it up. I had my girls a couple nights ago. Swear to God, a Shopkins war broke out. It was a miracle I was able to get them out of there alive. I haven’t been brave enough to open the door since. You go in there now, you’re liable to lose a foot to a landmine.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” She giggled and snaked a hand out to touch my arm. There was no ignoring the bolt of electricity that traveled over my skin.

  Yep. It was time for me to go. I needed to take a shower and fist my cock—first to make sure it was still there after all the bullshit that had been happening in my chest throughout the course of the day, second to wrestle that bastard into submission. I was a forty-year-old man—there was no fucking reason her hand on my arm should send sparks anywhere. And then, once that was done, I needed to crawl into one of the girls’ tiny twin beds and spend the rest of my night replaying every single bruise she’d ever given me, all in an effort to keep my feet from carrying my ass back down the hall, into her room, and into her bed.

  Not that I thought she’d want me there. Or maybe she would. Mira and I had always been spectacular together. My length buried to the hilt, her milking me through countless orgasms. It was all the other times, when I had been fully clothed and she’d been naked, in bed with my best friend, that had really seemed to be our problem.

  And, just like that, the heat consuming me turned to ice.

  “No,” I clipped. Long strides carried me to the bathroom, where I collected toiletries like a tornado before heading straight for the door. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Jeremy,” she objected.

  But, much like I did with the stabbing pain in my chest, I ignored her.

  It had taken forever for me to fall asleep that night. I’d tossed. I’d turned. I’d seen her face on the backs of my eyelids. Though that wasn’t new. I’d felt her hand on my arm. My heart had raced as I’d remember that asshole trying to drag her into a car. My heart slowed when I remembered how right she felt pressed against me—safe and secure. My stomach ached as I thought of her losing it when Braydon scared her. My stomach rolled when I thought about the fact that I’d failed her, thus owning that fear. My skin tingled when I remembered how it felt to have her soft, naked body moving over mine. My skin burned when I reminded myself why I could never go back down that road.

  And it had never even been my road to travel.

  I woke when the sound of a glass breaking permeated my slumber. I was on my feet before my eyes opened.

  “Mira!” I yelled, snatching the bedroom door open.

  “I’m okay!” she yelled back. “Ouch. Shit. Fuck.”

  Jogging down the stairs, I repeated, “Mira?”

  “Never mind. Not okay. Nooooot okay.”

  I rounded the corner and found her standing in the kitchen—or, more accurately, hopping in my kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Her head snapped up and then her mouth fell open as her gaze landed on my bare chest. “Oh, wow,” she breathed.

  I ignored that too.

  I only made it one step into the kitchen before she threw an arm up to stop me. “Don’t come in here!”

  She was wearing one of my plain, black tees, which damn near swallowed her, and a pair of gray sweats that somehow managed to mask even her roundest curves. She looked absolutely ridiculous and yet, somehow, absolutely gorgeous. She was holding her left foot. Blood was dripping onto the travertine, her every hop bringing her closer and closer to the broken remnants of what had to be the majority of my coffee cups.

  “Shit. Stay still,” I ordered, hurrying to the hall closet. After sliding a pair of running shoes on, I waded into the mess after her. “What the hell did you do?”

  She draped her arm around my neck as I hooked her under the knees and swept her off the floor. “I was trying to get a mug, but I didn’t realize I needed to be outfitted to climb Mount Everest to reach one.”

  I snagged a roll of paper towels off the counter and then carried her around to one of the barstools. “I’m not exactly short, Mira.”

  “No. But the top shelf? Assuming a person is not properly caffeinated, that is a highly dangerous location to store the coffee cups.”

  “I’m seeing this,” I replied, crouching to get a better look at her foot.

  She winced as I put pressure on it. “How bad is it?”

  “Well…I don’t think it needs to be amputated.”

  She glared and it stirred a smile to my lips.

  “It’s not too deep. Let me grab some Band-Aids.” Still grinning, I stood from my crouch and walked to the first-floor bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit Melissa had purposely left behind when she and the girls had moved to be closer to her job. “All right. I’ve got My Little Pony or Dora. Pick your poison.”

  She laughed. “Definitely My Little Pony.”

  “Excellent choice,” I replied. With the bleeding mostly stopped, I tore the plastic off the bandage and sealed it over her cut. “I personally have never been a fan of Dora’s belly shirt. The child’s, like, four, for God’s sake. Put some damn clothes on her.”

  She rewarded me with a laugh that felt like the breath of life to a dying soul. Not even I, King of Denial City, could ignore the way my body came alive. And then I made the grave mistake of looking up at her. Her blinding, white smile was aimed down at me, the pure beauty radiating out of it enough to destroy a man’s life and still leave him thanking her for it.

  That was the exact moment I knew I was fucked.

  Because I felt it—that magical spark that turned into a wildfire and melded people together. Time wasn’t a factor. It didn’t deteriorate or fade. Nor was it a physical thing you could break or a feeling you could get over. I’d found it—whatever the fuck it was—with Mira York when I was twenty-three years old. It didn’t matter that our half-ass relationship had only lasted six months. It didn’t even matter that she’d never felt that spark for me. It was still fucking inside me, taunting and tormenting me, craving her in any and every possible way I could have her.

  And I didn’t really want to ignore it at all.

  “Are you okay?” she whispered, staring down at me.

  “Not at all,” I replied more honestly than I’d ever been even with myself.

  Her smile fell and her face took on the most beautiful concern I’d ever seen. Inching forward on the stool, she reached out and rested her hand on my face. “How ya feeling? You’re pale all of a sudden.”

  I gave it a seriously less-than-stellar attempt to stop my head from turning into her hand, absorbing her touch.

  Her short nails bit into my neck as she flexed her fingers. “Jeremy, baby. You’re bleeding through.”

  “What?” I breathed.

  She slid off the stool and kneeled in front of me. “Let me change your bandage, and then maybe you need to go lay down for a while. You seem…off.”

  I was. But it was nothing a nap was going to fix.

  Taking her to bed. Forcing her to stay. Living out my days at her side… Maybe. But not a nap.

  Jesus. I needed some kind of intervention. This nonsense was ridiculous.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I did my best to pull my shit toget
her. Turning my gaze down to my chest, I saw the nancy bandage the doc had slapped on at the hospital had red seeping through. I snatched it off.

  “Jesus, Jeremy! That is not a scratch! It’s a gouge.”

  “It’s fine,” I assured, standing up, still trying to shake her spell off.

  She caught my arm, that damn electrical charge from the night before humming inside me all over again. “It’s going to leave a scar.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll talk to my plastic surgeon on Monday.”

  She blinked. “You have a plastic surgeon?”

  Finally, a smile pulled at my lips, and I shook my head. “No, crazy. It was a joke. Besides, even if I did have a plastic surgeon, I sure as hell wouldn’t be calling on him”—I leaned in close to whisper—“about a scratch on my shoulder.”

  Her sexy eyes narrowed. “Sit!” she ordered, snatching the first aid kit from my hand.

  I held her challenging stare just for entertainment before giving up and sinking down onto the stool she had evacuated.

  “Do you have any real bandages in here? I’m not thinking Dora and her offending belly shirt are going to cut it.” She set the box on the counter before riffling through it.

  I sighed, folding my hands in my lap. “Don’t know. It’s your turn to be the doctor. You tell me.”

  She flashed me a heart-stopping smile that radiated over my entire body. “I’d hardly call myself a doctor, but I have seen Outlander. So I guess that’s close enough.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I admitted, wincing as she dabbed a healthy layer of antibiotic ointment on the scratch, which she was right about. It wasn’t a scratch at all. The bullet had taken a nice little chunk out of me. But it’d heal. Though, as her breasts brushed my arm, I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.

  She pressed a piece of gauze to my shoulder before tearing off a piece of tape with her teeth. “Of course you don’t. You’re a straight man. Starz hasn’t been able to ensnare you with the fine specimen of a man that is Jamie Fraser. That man’s ass is hypnotizing.”

  “Good to know,” I replied absently, staring at her mouth and thinking that it had a few hypnotizing qualities of its own. “I’ll be sure to pass that information along to Johnson.”