JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3)

by Kristina Weaver

  “No. Why should I? I’ve gone three bloody months without the feel of you in my arms, in my bed, surrounding my cock. Why should I give it up now that I have you again?” he asks, circling precariously close to the wet heat building in my core.

  An inch closer and he’ll know how much I want him, and that I cannot have. Not yet, not till I have this damnable desire under control.

  “You can’t give up something you don’t have, asshole. Now get your hands off me and leave me alone. I want to go back to work,” I hiss, planting my sneaker-clad feet against the door and shoving, managing to scoot back to the seat and my little corner of safety.

  “You are not going back there. We’re going to the airport where my jet is waiting, and then we’re headed to your parents’ place so that you can see your father and bloody well reassure him that you are fine. Then we’re going home, and you are not to say one more bloody word!”

  The biting warning in his voice freezes me to the spot, and I cringe, feeling every nerve tense when he spears a hand into my hair and jerks our faces together.

  The violence is so startling I can do nothing but breathe and stare deeply into his eyes, now the color of dew-moistened moss.

  “We are going to talk about what you walked in on three months ago, and then, when everything’s cleared up, I’m fucking taking my wedding night.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Oh, Sissy! I’m so glad he found you, sweetheart, Daddy’s been so worried.”

  My eyes mist as Mama pulls me in for a bone crushing embrace. The scent of her perfume and the baby powder she uses is so comforting I have no choice but to hug her back, clutching at her like she’s a lifeline.

  I’d missed her so much it’s unbelievable that I’d gone three months without hearing her voice or feeling the quiet strength of her love. Now that I’m back and enfolded in her loving embrace it’s all I can do not to break down and tell her why I’d run in the first place.

  Thanks to Vincent’s non-stop commentary on the plane ride over, I know that my coward father hadn’t told Mama the truth about my runner. She thinks I’d gotten cold feet about my marriage and run away because I couldn’t get a grip.

  I’d tell her the truth and relish the way I know she’ll go at him, at them, if not for the fear that Beau’s health would take a sudden turn for the worst. He loves Mama with an intensity that is scary, and I know that if she ever looked at him the way I now look at Vincent, he’d be broken.

  “Hey, Mama.”

  It’s all I can say as she pushes me away and takes in my waitressing uniform and mussed hair.

  “Glory, child, you look like a hobo. Go on upstairs and freshen up. I’ll let Beau know you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Mrs Bennet,” Vincent says, clamping a hand to my forearm in warning. “We’ll be down in an hour.”

  He lets go only when the door closes firmly behind us, and I watch in shock as he locks the door and pockets the key, his eyes a steely green that leaves me shivering.

  This man is the same man I’d seen on the roof the night he saved me from Eric, and I’m thrown back to that morning just before Thanksgiving when Mom had called him a bad boy.

  I see it now, that hard, roughened interior instead of the suave, polished man I’ve known thus far. This Vincent is not about to manipulate me or trick me into doing what he wants. No, what I see is a man who knows what he wants and is more than willing to use force to get it.

  I still feel safe though, ironically, and that takes the sting out of his next words.

  “You can be the brat you are and throw tantrums and yell at me, I don’t give a shit, but if you so much as breathe a hint of our issues in front of your mother I will tan your hide. She’s had enough stress. She doesn’t need more.”

  “She’s my mother. She deserves to know what an asshole she’s married to,” I spit, putting more distance between us while keeping him in my line of sight. “I’m not here for him; I’m here because I know she needs me.”

  That’s such a monumental lie and I know it. So does he, if the skeptical expression is accurate. Who am I kidding here? I’d almost died at the thought of my daddy being…I can’t even say it.

  What if he’d died or been seriously ill while I’d been sulking and licking my wounds in Georgia?

  “Look, dove, I realize we have a lot to discuss and that right now you don’t understand everything. That’s my fault, and I take full responsibility. I’m just asking you to let that go and give Beau the comfort and love he needs from you. Just for today. Tomorrow you can go back to being pissed off and defensive, just—”

  “I get it, okay? I’ll pretend that he didn’t rip my heart out by selling me like a piece of meat. Can I go shower now?”

  The sigh he lets out is a show of weary frustration that does absolutely nothing to defuse the resentful ache brewing deep within, and he nods once, turning away to walk to the bed and his luggage.

  Feeling slightly let down—not that I wanted him to make a move on me or anything—I close the bathroom door and strip down, letting out a groan when the shower jets roar to life, the strong pulsations loosening some of the tension I’ve been carrying around since I’d looked up and seen Vincent sitting in the diner.

  It’s as I’m rinsing shampoo from my hair that he makes his move, confirming my estimation that Vincent the gentleman is nowhere in sight for the foreseeable future.

  “Move up.”

  That’s all the warning I get before a large hand lands on my ass, gently nudging me into the wall before his big body crowds in and takes up every inch of space.

  “What are you doing?” I squeak, covering my boobs like a Victorian era ninny before I can stop myself.

  Give me a break; I have to, lest he see the effect his nudity is having on my nipples. If I could find a way to cover my vagina without fear that my fingers would start moving just for a smidge of relief, I would.

  Feeling off kilter and strung tight with hate-filled lust, I take a deep breath and concentrate on soaping myself, screamingly aware of Vincent and every inch of water-slicked skin.

  When something nudges into the small of my back, leaving a warm stream in its wake, I spin around, slack jawed, to see him palming his thick erection with a smile of predatory delight.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jesus, be a little more inventive, Cecelia.

  “Taking care of business. Unless you’d like to?” he drawls, his pupils dilating with pleasure when his fist tightens and starts a slow up and down stroke over satiny flesh I’m dying to touch.

  I resist the urge and sniff delicately.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Like I just said, be a little inventive.

  I groan when he grins wolfishly and thrusts his hips forward, his eyes glued to my face as I take in every pull of his fist.

  “I am, dove, though I would really rather fuck you.”

  I want out of the shower, out of this house, right now, this very minute, but I’m trapped and enthralled and so stupidly needy I can do nothing but stare and clench my legs together as he plants his left hand beside my head, giving me an unobstructed view of his cock.

  “Yeah, keep your eyes on me, dove,” he grunts, speeding up his movements when I lick my lips and keep staring.

  I can’t breathe or think past the need and hunger invading me when he reaches down and grabs one of my hands from my breast—God, I’ve been feeling myself up this whole time—and wraps it around his shaft, using his own to tighten my grip and start gliding it over his flesh.

  I could pull away right now and walk out, leave him in this state of need and lustful desire, but, and it kills me to say it, even if only to myself, I’ve craved this as much as I have the feel of him filling my empty spaces.

  I’d become addicted to his pleasure as much as my own, and feeling him thicken beneath my hand in that second before climax is as much a rush as anything he can ever make me feel.

  So instead of walking, I do what I shouldn’t and
grip him tighter, controlling the movements even as I wrench my eyes back up to his and watch his pleasure.

  They dilate further, turning almost completely black before he thrusts against me and stiffens, pouring himself onto my hand and belly. Afterward, as we both breathe in pants and moans, I realize he hasn’t shouted my name, not once, as he usually does in the throes of passion.

  The thought wrenches me back to earth as nothing else can, and I pull away, feeling utterly cheap and foolish, violated somehow. Not by him, because, even as I feel it, he starts peppering kisses across my face and neck, his hands stroking down my hips to rest at the juncture of my thighs.

  “Open up.”

  Chapter Thirty One

  For the rest of my life I will never be able to say how I managed to resist the feel of his hands between my legs long enough to rinse his come off and leave the shower stall, my body screaming with unfulfilled desire.

  I’d done it though, feeling bitterly proud that for once I’d been the one to give pleasure and walk away instead of just taking. After everything, all the betrayal I’d felt, it’s surprising to be left with nothing but a hollow numbness.

  He hadn’t yelled my name. So stupid, and yet I feel like he’s stolen something from me that’s not his to take.

  I dress, ignoring his probing looks, and make my way downstairs, hyping myself up for the coming ordeal and the confrontation I know I’m in for with Justin. And maybe Bee too.

  They’ve gotten more than cozy in the last months, and according to Vincent they’re serious enough that he’s heard them discussing wedding plans a time or two.

  Does it make me happy that they’re in love? Well, yeah. I just wish that didn’t mean that two of the world’s most judgmental and sanctimonious people will soon be procreating together.

  That thought, and the recent scare over Beau, has me stopping in my tracks as an unexpected twinge of loss hits me. My own kid would have been growing safely in my belly and kicking by now.

  “Dove?”

  That voice brings me crashing back to the present, and I ignore the question in his eyes, choosing instead to walk into the kitchen for an early dinner and what turns out to be the freaking Spanish Inquisition.

  Beau, as usual, sits at the head of the table, looking supremely satisfied when Vincent takes the seat beside me and proceeds to lavish me with attention and husbandly affection.

  By the time dessert rolls around—a chocolate mousse I usually love but which only makes my stomach iffier—I’m just about ready to blow my top and start screaming as my family, and goddamned Bee, tries to assure me that cold feet after a wedding is totally normal.

  I want to scream that my feet had been piping hot and tapping to the tune of love up to the moment I’d become aware of Beau and Vincent’s treachery.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell them all how I’d been sized up and bought like a freaking cow, my only value to either of them as that of a pawn in some sort of business transaction.

  I can’t, of course, because despite the anger I still feel, I can see that Beau isn’t exactly as hale and hearty as he’d previously been, and I just can’t do that to Mama.

  It’d break her heart to know that her perfect husband had done that to her beloved daughter.

  So I keep my mouth shut and instead content my vengeful streak by digging my nails into Vincent’s thigh, relishing his occasional winces of pain and his ineffectual shifting to dodge my hands.

  His pained smiles as he talks to Mama give me a wicked idea, and I smother a grin as I gentle my fingers and feel him relax before he stiffens with a muffled groan.

  “So, Sis, you planning on finishing that series you started last year?” Justin asks just as my hand encounters Vincent’s crotch.

  His strangled cough is priceless, and I manage a smile for the first time since sitting down.

  “I haven’t started it yet.”

  Vincent squirms and attempts to bat my hand away from his junk for the first time ever, and I giggle, covering my mirth behind a cough as I take a sip of white wine.

  “Yeah, you did. It’s upstairs in your studio room.”

  Cursing my own brother to hell and back is probably not a very Christian thing to do, but as I feel Vincent still and turn his gaze on me, my previous table games well and truly forgotten, I curse him and his wayward tongue to hell and back.

  “You’ve a piece here? From when?”

  “Oh, Thanksgiving,” Mama trills, unaware of the undercurrents between the two of us as I attempt to ignore his eyes. “She painted non-stop that whole month, but all she got out of it was one canvas. None of us have seen it yet, of course, not without her permission. Isn’t it part of your next stuff, baby?”

  “Well, of course it is!”

  I swallow and look over at Beau. Goddammit, I see immediately from the calculating look in the old man’s eyes that he’s done the unthinkable and invaded my space.

  He knows what’s under that sheet. My ultimate humiliation.

  “No, it isn’t,” I grit out, keeping my eyes off Mama and Justin.

  Bee knows me well enough not to push the issue, thanks to the harsh tone of my voice, so all I’m left with is Vincent on my right and Beau, his blue eyes sparkling wickedly as he keeps me pinned.

  No matter how upset or hurt I am, I can never forget that my father knows me better than anyone on the planet, and if he’s seen that painting he now knows exactly what’s going on inside me.

  Thank God Vincent had never gone back to Parker’s place when he’d come for me, or I’d be even more humiliated now. Nobody can ever see that painting, not if I want to keep what little part of me I have left hidden.

  “But Sis—”

  “I’m real tired. I think I’ll turn in early. Please excuse me.”

  With that I make my escape, not surprised when the door bangs open and closes, the lock clicking ominously. I ignore him and grab pajamas, since it’s way too late to fly now and I’m quite frankly too exhausted to even try.

  When I exit the bathroom he’s still standing exactly where I’d left him.

  “Why are you so upset?”

  “I’m not, I’m just tired,” I mutter, flipping back the covers with a repressed snarl.

  “Dove, I know—”

  “You know nothing about me! All you know is what you want to see, what you saw when you and my father made that goddamned deal! Leave me alone.”

  There’s so much more to say, but not now, not yet. I feel raw and exposed and so vulnerable that dealing with any of this now is not—

  “When we get back to the city I’m filing for divorce,” I mutter, getting into bed and turning my back on him.

  I’m mad and sad enough that I’m looking for a fight, anything to get rid of this feeling creeping its way through my blood. I let out a mirthless laugh and what feels like a sob when the only reaction I get is the click of the lock and then silence, signaling his departure.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Vincent

  The flight home is an interminable replay of every moment I’d spent with dove since first laying eyes on her. Not that I revile the memories, no, in fact they’re all I have left as she sits across the aisle, staring blankly out of the little window at her shoulder.

  Divorce. The word sends shivers of real dread through me because I know she means it. She wants nothing more to do with me—God, just remembering the pain and horror I’d seen on her face when she’d looked up and seen me sitting in that dingy little diner will haunt me for the rest of my days.

  Nothing kills a man quite like the realization that his wife despises him. For me it’s worse because, though dove is not a pushover, she is one of the kindest, most forgiving women I’ve ever met, and the fact that she hates me despite her good nature makes the feeling so much harsher.

  My first reaction to her declaration had been denial. I’d wanted to yell the words at her so fiercely I felt my muscles tremble with the effort to keep my mouth shut.

  Of
course, I’d also wanted to throw her down on the bed and fuck her senseless, just to prove to her that no matter what she says, I know that she still wants me, still needs me, even if just in that elemental quest for sexual satisfaction.

  I hadn’t, though, because frankly the thought of hurting her, more than my coldly calculating deal already had, is abhorrent to me. So I’d done what I’d known she needed and left her alone.

  That had left me at odds because no way was I walking downstairs and letting everybody know that my own wife can’t stand the sight of me. So I’d done something even worse and gone into her studio, feeling like a thief but unable to stop myself as I peeled back the sheet.

  What met my gaze almost killed me, not because it wasn’t absolutely one of the most beautiful pieces of art I’d ever seen, because it was. The canvas was covered in dark splashes of blacks, grays, and charcoals.

  Dark storm clouds filled the top half, alluding to a tempest above, while a man walked in the distance, merely a black dot on the horizon.

  I’d assumed—no, I know that the man is me, because in the forefront stands my wife, her shoulders slumped, one lone tear coursing down her pale cheek.

  That canvas had told me, even if she never did, of the love she feels and how heartbroken she’d been by my betrayal.

  How much worse must she feel now, after she’d walked in on Beau and me discussing something I’d never been that involved with?

  I have no answers, can only hope and pray that with enough effort, and if she still holds even the tiniest kernel of affection for me, I’ll find a way to convince her to give me a second chance, to re-gift me with the love I’d taken for granted.

  God, when I remember the lust and reluctant need in her eyes when I’d walked into that shower and forced her hand onto my dick it still makes me harder than hell. That is hands down one of the best experiences of my life because I’d seen her, my old dove, for the briefest second before she’d locked me out again.

  The only thing to sour that memory is her refusal to let me touch her afterward, something I’d take any day over even my own gratification. God, I miss her taste, her scent, the feel of her warmth melting into me, and I bloody well want it back.