Thrive (Guardian Protection)

by Aly Martinez

  I’d longed for that woman too many years for it to be anything but feral.

  And not with need.

  But with punishment.

  She’d wasted my entire fucking life. And I knew this because she’d been back not two days and that was all it had taken to realize that, for the last seventeen years, I hadn’t been living.

  And I fucking hated her for that.

  Because I loved her so goddamn much that it had only been two fucking days and I was already scrambling trying to figure out how I was ever going to let her go.

  So, no.

  If I got her pants off, I was going to fuck Mira York with every ounce of hate I’d ever felt for her.

  Raw.

  Brutal.

  Savage.

  Her breasts would be covered with bruises.

  Her neck with my teeth marks

  She’d scream my name until they became the only three syllables her mouth knew how to produce.

  She’d come, I’d make sure of it—not stopping until that fucking wet silk of hers covered my hands. And then my mouth. And, finally, my cock.

  And then, when it was all said and done, she’d beg me for more.

  Day after day.

  Night after night.

  And I’d give it to her.

  Any way she wanted it.

  A willing victim.

  Because, unlike the last time, I knew what I was signing up for.

  She’d come.

  She’d go.

  Only, this time, she wasn’t taking my entire fucking life with her.

  “You want to pause the talk?” I asked, grazing my finger over the swell of her chest.

  Her mouth fell open, and her lids fluttered closed. “Jeremy.”

  Dipping my finger inside the front of her shirt, I only needed one sweep to find her pebbled nipple. “Not an answer, Mir.”

  Her answer was a moan as she threw her head back and offered more access. But it wasn’t enough. She still had that fucking shirt on. Those fucking tight-ass jeans. And God only knew what beneath.

  Knifing up, I took her with me. Her legs opened to straddle me, her knees to the cushion, her heat rocking over my thickening cock, her body swayed back, her breasts thrust toward me, her hand at my neck, her fingers in my hair, her eyes dark with desire, and her cheeks pink with anticipation.

  Fuck. That was beautiful. All of it. And I felt every point of connection like an electric current.

  I ignored the stabbing in my chest. The one that told me to kiss her. The one that told me to give rather than take. The one that told me that fucking would never be fucking with Mira. The one that screamed that she had always been a part of me. The one that had caused me to wither. The one that had been reborn the moment my eyes had landed on hers. The one that made no fucking sense because it had never stopped loving her no matter the time or distance.

  I ignored all of that completely. It had no business in this moment.

  Pushing that shit out of my head, I latched my mouth on her delicate neck, working my way up with long strokes of my tongue.

  Every swipe was followed by a nip.

  Every nip was followed by her gasp.

  Every gasp was followed by a roll of her hips over my painfully hard length.

  And every roll forced a symphony of groans from both of our mouths.

  Continuing my assault on her neck, I asked, “You gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

  “Please,” she panted, circling her hips to grind down on my denim-covered shaft.

  Moving her hand up the back of my neck, she attempted to angle my head and take my mouth. Her lips skimmed mine, but that was all she got before I dipped low and snatched the front of her shirt down, her two perfect fucking tits pouring out of the worthless, black bra pressing them together. I wasted exactly zero seconds before sealing my mouth over one, my hand going to the other, eager to explore.

  I kissed and sucked my way over both of her breasts, losing myself in the swells and the valley. Teasing and plucking her nipples with my fingers while my tongue swirled and soothed. She cried out when my teeth grazed her sensitive flesh, but she followed me forward, asking for more each time I tried to pull away for a breath of air.

  “God, Jeremy,” she cried, threading her fingers into the top of my hair. “I need more.”

  She was not alone in that. My body was buzzing like a broken streetlight, her body being the only repair.

  Moving fast, I laid her down on the couch, rose to my feet, and peeled my shirt over my head. Then I started on her: first her shirt, then her bra. And then…I stalled.

  “Jesus, woman,” I breathed, taking in the sight of her lying on my couch.

  Heavy, full breasts, honey-tanned skin, deep dips and curves in all the right places, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and those rich, brown eyes peering up at me, worry shining bright as if she had no idea that she possessed the power to bring a man to his knees with a single blink.

  And then she blinked.

  And, just as I’d suspected I would, I landed on my knees.

  Frantic and fevered, I shot my hands straight to her jeans, where I snatched the button open, gripped the denim on either side, and roughly tore the zipper down in the same fluid movement I stripped them down her legs. I was sure there were panties involved, but I hadn’t known when or how they hit the floor, because with one look at her, all conscious thought had tumbled into extinction.

  My vision tunneled, and my mind swirled in a heady combination of anger and desperation.

  Need and longing.

  Possession and defeat.

  I slid a finger through her slick heat seconds before I found her clit, and then seconds after that, my tongue found it too.

  “Oh, God,” she choked.

  Her body arched off the couch and a melody of blessed curse words tumbled from her lips as I ate at her wildly, recklessly, and relentlessly. I was a man on a mission. Bitter and hungry, determined to simultaneously punish and worship her.

  “Jeremy!” she cried, her hands flying into my hair.

  Using both of my hands on her ass, I lifted her up to my mouth, twisting and turning her to devour her from every angle with a fierce possession I had no right to feel.

  But this was primal. Born in the depths of a man who needed his woman to know who she belonged to—even when she didn’t.

  Hooking my arms under her legs, I dug my fingertips into her soft flesh, and I bit the inside of her thighs, branding what was mine.

  Her cries, reverent and pleading, were music to my ears. Her writhing body was damn near folded in half, only her back still resting on the leather. Her legs were draped over my shoulders, shaking as though she were being splintered in two, lost somewhere between ecstasy and oblivion.

  And I…did…not…slow.

  I sucked.

  And licked.

  Savoring and coaxing.

  “Jeremy,” she chanted, my name slicing through me almost as much as it sent me soaring.

  “Say it again,” I growled, punctuating it with a firm flick of my tongue over her clit.

  But she didn’t say it. She didn’t say anything. Her whole body tensed, the muscles in her legs flexing as she bared down, her heels digging into my back as her release roared to the edge.

  Screwing her eyes shut, she slapped her hands down on the couch and fisted invisible sheets. “Oh, God.”

  And like a ton of bricks, panic I’d never felt before crashed over me. My vision flashed red, and my pulse thundered in my ears.

  Her eyes were closed.

  Her fucking eyes were closed.

  She could have been anywhere.

  With anyone.

  But she wasn’t.

  She was with me.

  She was mine.

  She needed to know that.

  “Noooo,” she cried as my head snapped up and I suddenly released her legs.

  With frenzied hands, I took approximately three seconds to undo my pants and free my cock. I didn’t get
them over my ass before I drove inside her, hard and rough, planting myself at the hilt.

  A strangled cry tore from her throat, and her hand flew up to my chest, her nails raking down my pecs as if she were searching for purchase.

  Only she wasn’t trying to get closer—she was trying to get away.

  “Fuck,” I rumbled as her body took the slow path to stretching around my length. Jesus, she was tight.

  “Don’t…move,” she panted—and not in a good way.

  Instinctively, I drew out.

  Her hand slapped on my forearm. “I said don’t move!”

  I froze and stared down at her, rational thought finally breaching through the madness in my head.

  As my tunnel vision expanded, the red faded, which allowed the woman in front of me to return to focus. She was naked, hanging half off the couch in an awkward position that couldn’t possibly have been comfortable. Her legs were wide, my fingerprints welted on her inner thighs, and her breasts were red and raw from my attention. Her neck was covered in hickeys and bites, her eyes wrenched shut and her face twisted in pain.

  And I had done every bit of it on some fucked-up rampage to finally possess her.

  “Oh, fuck,” I breathed, shoving off of her. Scrambling away, I fell to my ass and slammed my back into the coffee table.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed. “What part of don’t move did you miss?”

  My hands shook as I watched her sit up. When she winced, my gut soured. What the fuck was wrong with me? I’d lost it. In some crazed attempt to soothe the conflicting need to both claim her and protect myself, I’d lost control.

  Scrubbing my palms over my face, I boomed, “Fuck!”

  “Jeremy?” she whispered, concern thick in her voice.

  I barked a humorless laugh. I’d manhandled her like a whore and she was concerned about me.

  “Jesus Christ,” I cursed, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to forge my way through yet another Mira York–induced nervous breakdown.

  “Baby,” she whispered from somewhere close.

  When her hands landed on my thighs, my whole body jerked and my lids flew open. Those big, brown eyes were staring at me with the most heartbreaking mixture of fear and embarrassment.

  I pulled her against my chest and tucked her face into my neck—probably too roughly, given the marks I’d already left on her. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “For what?” she asked timidly.

  Leaning us both forward, I snatched a throw blanket off the corner of the sofa and wrapped it around her nudity. My chest heaving with labored breaths, I kissed the side of her face and replied, “For coming at you like that.” I paused and smoothed down the back of her hair, pressing another kiss to her temple.

  She tipped her head back, and I braced for another slash of guilt her innocent eyes would surely inflict before meeting her gaze.

  An unlikely smile tipped her lips. “Are you freaking out because you think you hurt me?”

  I palmed both sides of her face. “No. I’m freaking out because I did hurt you. Your neck looks like you were mauled by a fucking animal.”

  Resting her forehead on mine, she murmured, “Best mauling of my life.”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Don’t do that. That shit just now did not come from a good place.”

  She traced a finger down my chest and it felt like a hot knife carving into me. “Then where’d it come from, Jeremy?”

  Grabbing her wrist to stop her descent, I lied. “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know it wasn’t a good place?”

  “Because you’re gonna be covered in bruises tomorrow.”

  “Look at me,” she ordered, her voice quiet but demanding.

  My eyes opened immediately.

  Both of her hands came up to frame my face, another goddamn smile pulling at her lips. “Baby, I’ve been covered in bruises for a lot of years. They were just on the inside, and most of them were self-inflicted, but they still hurt.” She took my hand and intertwined our fingers before resting them on her breast. “These bruises will be gone in a few days, nothing but a memory. But tonight, being with you, feeling you, being in your arms.” She paused, her mouth curling playfully. “Passing beers, talking, and laughing. Baby, those bruises inside me finally started to fade.”

  The stabbing in my chest returned as she moved our joined hands to rest over my heart.

  “But, now, I’m starting to see that I’m not the only one who still carries the wounds of the past. Maybe I should be the one apologizing.”

  My stomach twisted as I confessed, “I’m not sure I want to be the man to make those bruises on the inside of you fade.”

  Her body jolted as if I’d slapped her, but I gripped her hips to prevent her from moving off me.

  Anger building inside me all over again, I cut my gaze away. “I’m really struggling with all of this. I have hated you for so long. For choosing him. For breaking me. For taking away my family.”

  “Your family?” she breathed, trying to shift off me, but like everything else with Mira, my need to keep her close overrode any desire I had for space.

  “Mira, I can’t talk about the Bentons because I lost them the same day I lost you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped, shoving on my chest, but I tightened my grip on her hips. Fuck, probably leaving more marks.

  “Clean break. It was the only way I could move on. Growing up, the Bentons were more like parents to me than my own. I probably could have dealt with the fallout of losing Kurt. They wouldn’t have cared if he and I hated each other. Hell, his dad probably would have been on my side. But, dammit, knowing you were a Benton. It was too much. So I stayed away. Swear to God, Terry practically stalked me for a few years, calling so often I had to change my number. Few years later, Max tracked me down at a strip club I was bouncing at downtown and beat the shit out of me.” I laughed at the memory. “I looked like such a bitch, but it wasn’t like I was going to fight back against the old man. He made me swear I’d come home. I quit my job and moved the next day.”

  Her mouth fell open, and tears filled her eyes. “You avoided them because of me?”

  I shrugged. “Sitting around a Thanksgiving table, you wearing Kurt’s wedding ring, possibly one day carrying his baby, smiling and laughing without me, was not something I could handle.”

  Her beautiful face got hard, and her eyes narrowed. Then, suddenly, the air between us changed in a way that made my lips twitch when it should have been impossible. She was naked, wrapped in a blanket, and cuddled close in my lap, but a snit fit was coming. And it might have made me an asshole but I waited with humor-filled, rapt attention.

  “I haven’t been at the Bentons’ Thanksgiving table in eleven years, Jeremy. And Kurt hasn’t been there for at least six,” she declared.

  My twitching lips suddenly stopped. “Eleven years?”

  She swayed away and crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her boobs in such a sexy way that had I not been absolutely stupefied, my cock would have probably stirred back to life.

  “Yes. Eleven years. And I remember the day Max found you because he walked into my bar, jotted your phone number and address in Chicago down on a cocktail napkin, slid it across to me, and said, ‘Baby doll, I highly suggest you use that. Seriously doubt my boy’s going to like the idea of you living under Kurt’s thumb.’”

  I blinked, the oxygen in the room disappearing.

  Too much had been said in those few sentences, and I couldn’t decide which part to focus on first.

  Eleven years and Mira hadn’t sat at the Bentons’ table. No fucking way Terry would have let her daughter-in-law be anywhere else on a holiday. That woman made Martha Stewart look like a novice when it came to a celebration.

  And then Max had called me his boy and Kurt just fucking Kurt. It didn’t matter that I was forty years old. That shit hit me deep, right in the heart of the kid who’d never had a real family, and knowing that, even
when I’d turned my back on them, they still considered me a son.

  And lastly, and most importantly…

  “You were living under Kurt’s thumb?” I asked gruffly.

  She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “Yep. Right up until the day I turned him over to the cops.”

  I thought there was a solid chance my eyes were actually going to bulge from my head for as wide as they flared.

  Caleb had briefed me about Kurt while I’d been at the hospital. But never had he mentioned Mira’s being the one to turn him in. And, quite honestly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about this little revelation. However, the stirring in my chest seemed a whole hell of a lot like relief—and elation.

  “You turned him in?” I accused in the best way possible.

  She swayed her head from side to side. “Well, yes. But that stays between me and you. Technically, it was one of the waitresses at the bar, who I paid six hundred bucks to call and turn him in. But I damn sure made it happen.”

  The smile that split my face was unrivaled. I didn’t know why I found this so humorous. Kurt was a fucking idiot. Proof being that he’d had a woman like Mira and he’d cheated on her rather than selling his soul to the devil to convince her to make beautiful brown-eyed babies with him. If that wasn’t dumb enough, he’d managed to get himself locked away instead of spending the rest of his life on his knees, praising the Lord that she had miraculously seen enough in his stupid ass to have allowed him to slide his ring on her finger.

  “You turned your own husband in to the cops?” I laughed.

  She shot me a glare. “Hey, don’t you dare get all judgy. He wasn’t my husband and he hit me.”

  And that felt like she had hit me. My chin jerked to the side, and my laughter abruptly died. My voice dropped low and ominous as I leaned into her face and seethed, “He what?”

  She pressed a hand in my chest. “Relax. First and last time. I was done taking his shit. He’d been harassing me, controlling me, and being an all-around dick for too long. So, the minute his hand hit my face, I decided I was done. I knew where he stashed his supply.” She cut her gaze over my shoulder, lifting one of her own. “Or at least I thought I did. I paid Wendy six hundred bucks so I didn’t have to risk my neck. She made an anonymous call and Kurt was arrested the next day.”