Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2)

by Jodi Watters

  “Christ, Hope, look at you. You take my breath away. You make me feel like superman. Like I could jump out of a thousand planes unscathed.”

  She groaned, shocked her brain was still firing. “Don’t do that. Don’t jump out of a thousand planes. Don’t jump out of any planes, at all. Okay?”

  “I’ll compromise and keep it under a hundred.” Breathing raggedly, he increased his pace, his magical fingers following along.

  Heat raced over her and she closed her eyes, darts of white lighting exploding behind her eyelids. Streaks of pleasure shot through her body and she came in a heavy, shuddering rush. Silencing the roar of her moans, she sank her teeth into his shoulder, adding another bruise to his beautiful, capable body, and the bite seemed to inflame him.

  As he pounded into her impossibly faster, she clamped down on him with still convulsing muscles and nibbled his earlobe, the gift of giving pleasure as good as getting. She felt him suddenly stiffen, his breath hissing out on a harshly whispered, “Fuck—”

  He pulled out of her body abruptly and before she could protest the emptiness, he groaned long and low into the curve of her neck, coming on her stomach, just below her belly button.

  No condom. Holy shit.

  Running her fingers along his damp spine, she cradled him to her body, comforting him as his breathing relaxed and they gathered their bearings.

  “That was close,” she finally said, because it was starting to get awkward.

  “Too close,” he agreed, lifting his dark head just enough to look at her. His eyes were tired, but the gaunt weariness he’d come home with was gone. “Sorry, honey. I stopped thinking around the time you told me to fuck you. Give me a few minutes, okay. Can’t feel my legs.”

  But, it was barely a dozen Mississippi’s later when he peeled himself off her with the groan of a man who’d put his body through a punishing week of God only knew what. She thought of that oppressive beige country and what he might have done there. She thought of the distance between the ground and the sky, connected by a rope dangling from a helicopter. And she quickly decided she hated all beige countries.

  Eyes shut and muscles protesting the slightest move, she heard Beck rustling as he pulled his jeans on. Heard him turn the kitchen faucet on and off, his footsteps soft as he walked back toward her. Then, nothing. Cracking an eye open, she saw him standing at the edge of the rug, looking her over with something close to pride.

  Propping herself up, she glanced down her body and saw what he was seeing. And felt the instinctual, animal satisfaction of being marked by her mate.

  “Gotta say, I’m liking this look on you, honey.” Kneeling down, he ran the warm washcloth across her stomach gently. “But I won’t forget again.”

  Hope grinned mischievously, finding she liked the excitement of this option on occasion. To know she could make him so crazed with lust that he forgot a condom was powerful information. As long as he mastered the pull out and remained vigilant to it, that was.

  Standing with difficulty, she grabbed the panties he held out to her. “That’s one form of birth control I could get used to. It’s thrilling.”

  “It’s dangerous,” he corrected, firmly. “And I won’t forget again.”

  “Well, if it does happen...” Her voice trailed off, giving him permission to repeat the mistake on purpose as she wiggled into her panties. “Just know that I’m okay with it, because faced with a possible pregnancy,” she raised her left hand, flat palm up, then did the same with the right hand, weighing her options, “or a little jizz on my tummy—”

  “A little?” he interrupted, sounding bruised.

  She rolled her eyes. The delicate nature of a man’s ego encompassed many things and never ceased to amaze her. “Okay, faced with a possible pregnancy,” she amended, emphasizing one hand again, then the other, “or an enormous man load of jizz on my tummy?” Pausing for effect, and to ensure he was happy with her revised quantity, she finally said, “I’m taking the jizz for sure.”

  He grinned, hooking his finger into the band of her thong. “Can you stop staying the word jizz? It’s making me want to... well, jizz.” Pulling her into him, he kissed her lightly. “On other parts of your body. Like here,” he suggested, trailing his fingers over her beaded nipples. Then he surprised her with a playful slap on her bare butt cheek. “Or here.”

  Hope laughed in delight. “Okay. But first, let me feed you.”

  She finished dressing while he watched openly, but when she turned toward the kitchen, he grabbed her hand, tugging her back to him. Seriousness masked his face.

  “I can’t believe you made me dinner.” He looked stunned. And pleased. Tapping her bottom lip with the pad of his index finger, he whispered a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

  His reaction to the simple gesture of a home cooked meal was one of amazement. As if he wasn’t worthy. And she felt the unreasonable urge to cry. The shoulder wracking, go-long-seconds-without-taking-a-breath, kind of crying that left you with puffy eyes and a migraine. And for the first time, Hope realized what a truly solitary life this man led. Nobody cooked for him. Nobody cleaned or cared for him. Nobody waited anxiously for him to return from a dangerous assignment, their nerves frayed and nails bitten to the quick. Nobody left a light on for this man.

  Nobody loved this man. Until now.

  Oh, shit.

  This wasn’t good. This was bad. In fact, this was just about the worse thing that could happen to her. Denver was her future. San Diego wasn’t. Beckett Smith wasn’t. Looking down at herself, she expected to see something. A dropped bomb at her feet. A poisonous arrow through her heart. A sign hanging from her neck that pointed back to her and read, I’m with stupid.

  Maybe it was just orgasm afterglow. Intense sexual encounters had driven many a person to do irrational things. She’d once seen a story about a woman who’d gotten stuck halfway down a man’s chimney when he wouldn’t return her phone calls. The fire department had to chisel her out brick by brick, and once they did, the soot covered woman had granted an immediate interview to the rabid on-site reporter. She’d looked pointedly into the camera and cited her two pieces of evidence with careful enunciation, saying, “I took him into my body. And he can’t call me the next day? Then I’m gonna be in his chimney.”

  The Chief of Police just happened to be female. No charges were filed.

  Yep, Hope told herself, with a decent amount of surety. That’s what her mental outburst was all about. Temporary insanity. This crazy love vibe was simply the result of a satisfying sexual encounter. Beck’s absence had sent her into withdrawal and she’d binged on Mr. Man Candy, causing an epic sugar high that would eventually fade.

  The oven timer beeped and Hope breathed easier, glad she’d dodged that bullet.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  One... Two...

  The sharp, echoing ping of the ball, bouncing off his painstakingly plastered wall, was nothing compared to the voice in his head. Drink, it said. You know you want to.

  You know it will lessen the pain of that meniscus tear in your bum knee. Loosen up the pulled muscle in your shoulder. You know it will erase the sight of abused and misled children, carrying fully automatic weapons nearly as tall as they were. Snuff the acrid, nauseating smell of dead bodies melted to the seats of burned out, still smoking Humvee’s.

  Drink. Take away your weakness. Your cumbersome need for the woman sleeping beside you. Drink and make it all go away, and silence my voice along with it.

  Eleven... Twelve...

  That merciless voice had a fucking point.

  But, the twisted thing was, he didn’t really want to drink. Sure, a simmering appetite for it still lived inside him, snaking through his veins like drops of heavy crude oil in clear, clean water. Probably would for life. But what was so unsettling is that he’d spent the last six days working an off-the-books hostage recovery detail and not once had he fought the craving. In truth, the desire hadn’t even reared its ugly head. There was no need to hide his shaking
hands or inability to sleep. No need to ignore Nolan as he watched him like a hawk, ready to catch any of Beck’s fuck up’s before Ash noticed, or before he got one of them hurt. Hell, he’d been sharper and more focused than ever. Back to the Beck he’d been in his heyday. The only thoughts in his crystal clear mind were about the mission and about his girl.

  He was pretty sure a guy lost his man card when he spent a decent chunk of his alone time comparing the sound of a woman’s sneeze to that of a newborn kitten’s meow, even though he did it while wearing camouflage, three different colors of face paint, and a myriad of firearms. But damn, he couldn’t get her off his mind. Habits were a bitch to break and while he was one step ahead of his battle against alcohol, he was losing by a landslide when it came to keeping Hope in the hook-up department. She’d rapidly become his habit of choice and giving her up wouldn’t be easy. Matter of fact, he didn’t really want to. Beck wanted to keep her. For a good long time.

  And therein lied the rub. Hope Coleson made him both a stronger man and a weaker one, at the same time. Hell, he’d brought home pet fish just so he could see her smile. As Grady would say, Beck was in a pickle.

  “Geez, what is it with you and that ball?” Her sleepy voice was muffled by the pillow, but it went straight to his heart and brought a grin to his face.

  Christ, his goddamn cheeks ached from smiling so much.

  Rolling his head to look at her, he did it again. Smiled. Long wisps of hair stuck up in all directions and a crease from the cotton pillowcase lined the side of her face. She’d been asleep for all of an hour, but managed to look like she’d been under for days. And she was so fucking beautiful he felt it in his solar plexus.

  “My way of counting sheep,” he said, tossing it one more time for good measure. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Sitting up, she tucked the sheet under her arms and crossed her long, bare legs Indian style. His knee hurt just watching. Pushing her hair back with flattened palms, she yawned. “I’m used to being at work, anyway. Why do you throw the ball?”

  It helped. Hell if he knew why. “Why did you live in your car for a month?”

  She snorted. “Because I don’t need anybody to bail me out. I take care of myself. My problems are my own.” The sheet slipped as she listed her reasons, exposing some sweet boob cleavage. “I do what I need to, so I can get by.”

  He lifted a brow in understanding. “Right. And I throw a ball.”

  Enough said on that subject.

  Reaching out, he traced a callused fingertip over the tattoo on the inside of her wrist, then threaded their fingers together in a tight hold. “Why’s your crown broken, princess?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll need to borrow your ball.” She smiled, trying too hard to be funny, then gave up the pretense when he didn’t laugh. “God, I hated being called that word. Princess. But, it feels different when you say it.”

  “How so?”

  Her look was thoughtful. “Less demeaning, I guess.”

  “Who called you that?” he asked, when she concentrated on their clasped hands without elaborating.

  Swallowing, she looked up. “My mother.” It was whispered, like a secret.

  He hid his surprise, expecting to hear her father. Ash mentioned Marshall Coleson thought his only daughter walked on water. Gave her everything she could ever want. And from the sound of it, that included a successful vineyard, if only she’d take it. But, even surrounded by things stacked upon things, Ash said she was still the loneliest little girl he’d ever seen.

  “And that was a bad thing? My mother called us hoodlum B and hoodlum G. Still does.”

  “Not bad, just...” She ran her finger across a seam in the sheet, picking at the row of stitches. “She made me pretend I was a princess locked in the tower, waiting for my prince. But she was the one who locked the door.”

  He waited. And she worked up the words.

  “She was a maid for a wealthy family and we lived in their garage. Above it, actually, in an apartment that was barely bigger than this room. It had two windows and one door. Only the small burner worked on the stove and it would glow bright red no matter where I set the knob.” Lifting up her right hand, she waggled her fingers. “Damn thing burned my fingerprints off more than once.”

  He didn’t laugh. This wasn’t a funny story.

  Making a face like he was a stick in the mud, she continued in a small, steady voice. “My mom would be in the big house all day. Cooking and cleaning, I think. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room without her permission. I had to stay there by myself. She put a lock on the outside of the door and every time she left, she would lock me in, not a millimeter of light between inside and out. Not even a playing card would fit. Remember you’re a princess, she’d say, waiting for your prince. A princess waits and she doesn’t cry, because if she does, her prince won’t come. And you want a prince to love you, right, Hope?” The sheet slipped another inch when she shrugged. “It was supposed to be a game, but I didn’t like to play it very much.”

  “Jesus Christ, Hope. What the hell do you mean, it wasn’t bad? That’s fucking terrible. It’s child abuse. It’s imprisonment. It’s a bunch of goddamn felonies, is what it is.”

  She shook her head, a curtain of dark hair falling over her shoulder. “It wasn’t so terrible. I could hear the vineyard workers outside the window and I would sit and listen. The birds would sing in the fruit trees nearby and I would play with my paper dolls. When I was seven, she died. I lived in the big house then. And I’m not a fan of fairy tales now.”

  Her tone said it all. End of story.

  Beck fought an overwhelming urge to make a hit list. “Who took care of you?”

  “Rosa. She’s a housekeeper who took care of my brother when he was little, too. She’s an angel. And my dad took care of me, too, because as it turned out, my mom was doing more than just cooking and cleaning for her boss. I didn’t get to see him much before she died, but after, I could. He was an okay guy. He let me hang out with him. As long as I didn’t talk when he was on the phone, I could sit in his office and watch him work. I learned how to balance a checkbook, negotiate the freight charges on an overseas container of goods, and string together a line of swear words that got my mouth washed out with soap. Then there was the time that he and my brother thought it would be a good idea to take an eight-year-old girl hunting with them. And I was having a great time, too. Until I watched them shoot and field dress a deer. I cried for days and refused to eat meat for two years.”

  Beck wasn’t surprised. He’d seen Ash’s skills with a knife firsthand.

  “Do you always use the word was when referring to your dad?”

  She seemed shocked that she’d done it. Or maybe that he’d noticed. “I don’t really see him anymore. I take care of myself, remember?” She smiled, her first real one since the conversation began. “He means well, but I...” She hesitated. “I guess I have baggage. I need to make my own way, you know?”

  “I know, honey.” Reaching out, he wrapped her in his arms, understanding why Ash felt the need to protect her. And why he’d said it was about as easy as herding cats. “And you will. Hell, you already are.”

  “Yep.” She nodded against his chest. “I’m making happily ever after my bitch.”

  Damn it, he was smiling again as he shifted to lie down, noticing the trusting way she curled herself into him. Heads on the same pillow, eyes locked together, he gently pushed the hair away from her face. “You don’t want the fairy tale?”

  “No.” A wrinkled creased her brow. “At least, I don’t think so. I don’t want to be saved, if that’s what you mean. Or handled with kid gloves. I see myself as an independent, kick ass kind of princess.” Eyes widening, she grinned wickedly, naughty written all over her face. “Hey, I just thought of my own personal fairy tale. You want to hear it?” Nodding, because hell, yeah he wanted to hear it, she continued. “Once upon a time, there was a horny princess, who’d dated every douche
bag in the land. She didn’t need her Prince Charming to ride in on a white horse...” she trailed off suggestively, giggling. “She just needed him to be hung like one.”

  Laughing, she buried her face in his throat, and the Hope that he knew, the confident, fun loving girl who wasn’t afraid of anything, was back in his arms again.

  Hugging her to his chest, they laid silently in near darkness, the only noise coming from the ceiling fan and the faint sound of their breathing, completely in sync. For long minutes, he stared at the swirling blades above him while Hope slept, recalling his grueling SERE training days, early in his career. Learning, as a highly trained operative, how to survive captivity and all that came with it. And he thought of her, as an innocent little girl, living it.

  Jingle Bells pierced the air and Beck sat straight up in bed, dislodging a soundly sleeping Hope. She grumbled but didn’t wake, blindly hooking a leg over his as she rolled to her back. He glanced at the clock through gritty eyes, shocked to see almost four hours had passed. He must have slept, too, because it felt like twenty minutes. The tinny sound of Jingles Bells rang out again and he cursed quietly, reaching over her to grab the offending phone off the nightstand.

  The message icon was blinking and he knew what it was before he tapped the screen. There wasn’t a picture attached to the threat this time, but much worse. High resolution video showed a completely topless—an mostly bottomless—smiling and dancing Hope Coleson, the catcalls of an entertained audience providing a quality soundtrack.

  The sender had been kind enough to attach a note. Which headline do you prefer? Rich Girl Gone Wild -OR- Coleson Creek Vineyards Owner dies of Heart Attack while watching eleven o’clock news.