by Kira Blakely
“Hey,” he breathed.
“Hey,” I whispered back. “Are you okay?”
“Marry me,” Andrew rasped, and I blinked down at him in complete surprise.
“I think you have a concussion. We need to get you to a hospital.”
“I don’t have a concussion,” Andrew swore.
Chet groaned loudly and my heart hammered in my chest. No, no, no, no…
The caterwaul of sirens drew my attention away from him and toward the front door. I saw the spinning lights of red and blue through the windows. They were here. They were finally here. How long had it been?
Deputies burst through the front door and quickly lowered their firearms at the amount of carnage already visible, at the strange hush over the entire house. The foyer had a splintered, bloody lamp and an overturned table. The living room, two unconscious men and me, still wearing nothing but a slip. Chet with a bullet in his—chest? Arm? And the local mechanic with a Taser embedded in his chest…
My eyes were still on Andrew—who had lapsed back into unconsciousness—as one of the deputies attempted to take my attention and get some sort of explanation.
My eyes flicked up to this newcomer and I said, “You guys really need a more sophisticated screening process.”
* * *
I was discharged from the hospital after two hours of psych evaluation. They determined I wasn’t so badly traumatized that I couldn’t go back home. The police submitted the restraining order between Chet and I, emphasizing that I would probably need to break my lease and move. “He can move,” I asserted. “I’m not moving. I just got that house. I’m a lawyer,” I reminded them proudly. “Don’t mess with me.”
Andrew was still being evaluated—that blow with the lamp had given him a minor concussion—when my cell phone began to vibrate, and I glanced down, genuinely expecting another invasion alert. But I guessed those were probably over.
Even worse.
Incoming call: Mom...
I swiped over the screen and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hey, Mom,” I said, hoping that I sounded composed and responsible and—
“I’m going to tell you something, and you tell me if it’s true,” she shrilled. “Are you at the hospital right now?”
“Mom,” I chastised. “Are you tracking my phone again? You know I hate that.”
“So you are at the hospital!”
I dropped my forehead into my hand and gave it a gentle massage. “Mom, look, I just didn’t have the time to—”
“Are you all right?” she shrieked, and my heart warmed. Did she actually care about me? Did she just suck at showing her emotions?
“Yes, Mom,” I said. “I’m fine, actually. There was really scary break-in at my house again, but my boyfriend swooped in and saved the day. And then I saved the day again.”
“Your boyfriend?”
Shit.
“We’ve been on a few dates,” I lied. Andrew and I had only been on one date together in our entire lives, but we’d fucked enough to fill a memoir. “You would like him.” What’s one more lie? “I think he might be the one,” I added.
“I guess I can’t convince you to come back to Ohio, then,” she grumbled. “Where Allison and I can keep a close eye on you.”
Normally, the mention of Allison’s name—the favorite daughter, I always thought—would bring a twinge to my chest. But tonight, I felt warm and soft at the sound of her name. It felt good to be surrounded by family in a time of need. Mom wanted to protect me.
“I have someone here who is keeping a very close eye on me,” I promised her. “Everything will be fine, Mom. I promise.”
And for the first time, maybe ever, I actually believed it.
Epilogue:
I’m Not This Kind of Guy
It still ached when I moved my arm in certain ways, even though my body had been mending for months. The summer heat was finally draining away and leaving us with the moderate temperatures of early September, and I hoped that my injury wouldn’t come back to bite me every time it got chilly outside.
Michelle moved in with me.
All it took was being attacked by her next-door-neighbor to get her to agree to live with me.
Not bad.
I gazed across the field of white candles I had lit throughout the entryway and living room of my house. Michelle was due home at any moment.
It may have been moving a little swiftly, but I’d never been married before, and these past two months were the best of my whole life. I’d never been with someone like Michelle. I’d never been so satisfied. I wanted it to last forever. Or, at least, until these little meat machines we were driving finally popped their tires and rusted out.
The front door opened and the tell-tale tinkle of little high heels moved over the floorboards. She didn’t know yet. She didn’t know what was about to happen. She was about to become mine.
I haven’t been able to shake the image of her in a wedding veil since that fever dream I had after getting hit with Chet’s Taser.
The high heels slowed to a stop and I looked up from where I was waiting, in the center of the living room, on one knee.
Michelle stood in front of me in knee-length suede boots, dressed in a conservative, knee-length khaki skirt and a black turtleneck. There was something different about her since she’d moved in here. It started slowly, and then she had coalesced into a new—or perhaps only inner—version of herself. She warmed. She matured. She wasn’t the only one who was happier, I guess.
Her eyes beamed wetly from behind square-framed glasses and she slowly picked her way across the den, lit by the warm orange light of about fifty fucking tea candles. That was a fun trip to Dollar General.
“Michelle,” I greeted her somberly.
Tears of joy were already slipping down her cheeks as she approached, and I knew she was going to say yes.
“Andrew,” her voice warbled sweetly. My heart ached for her. She was too sweet for this world. Too sweet for me.
“You’re—uh—you’re the only woman who finally let me believe in the goodness of the heart,” I told her, trying to remember all the corny, poetic things I’d brewed in my noodle over the past few hours. Maybe I hadn’t thought this all the way through, but damn it, it felt right. I had to say it. “You make me believe in magic. In fairy tales. In the triumph of good over evil.”
I reached out and collected her hand in mine.
“Me, too,” she whispered back.
“You’ve only been in my life for three short months—unless you count that quickie we had in January—” Michelle swatted my shoulder and I winced. She knew exactly where that goddamn Taser gun hit me, and she wasn’t always sweet. “—but either way, it hasn’t been long. But it doesn’t need to be. You know my heart, and I know yours. We’ve laughed. We’ve cried. We’ve made huge, dramatic scenes and walked all the way home from the Baptist church on Route 11.”
Michelle scoffed but didn’t hit me again, even though I braced for it.
I swallowed. “Michelle Clara Harper, will you marry me?”
As she gazed down at me, sparkling tears slipping down her cheeks, I was certain she would say yes. Who cries like that at a marriage proposal and then doesn’t say yes? She was definitely saying—
“No,” Michelle answered, her sinuses becoming clotted from her tears.
“Uh,” I said. “What?”
Michelle sniffled and pursed her lips together. “We’ve only known each other for three short months,” she reminded me. In spite of her tears, she wasn’t as overcome with emotion as I thought. What the hell was going on? “You’re right, I don’t count that quickie in January, jerk.”
“So?” I said. “We’re living together! And every night, I’m excited to come home from work, just so I can come crush you on the couch.”
“I know,” Michelle said. “But we can’t get married, Ace.”
My brow dented with frustration and I staggered up from my knees. “Because why?” I demanded. “You kno
w I love you. You know it! If I don’t marry you, I’m not marrying any-fucking-one. I can promise you that.”
“There’s no reason to rush,” Michelle asserted. “We’ve been living together for eight weeks, Andrew. We can wait another year or two.”
“Or two?” I shrilled. “I’m thirty-two!”
Michelle cocked her head to one side. “Do men have biological clocks?” she wondered.
“You do!” I snapped without thinking.
A half-smile kinked at Michelle’s lip. When we first moved in together, this might have actually spiraled into a fight, but it’s harder to get her to go than it used to be. Now she knows that I just snap sometimes, and it doesn’t mean anything, except that I’m basically a Neanderthal.
“You know that’s not the issue,” she reminded me meaningfully, and a blush actually darkened my cheeks.
I did still come inside her every night. If we were fertile at all, it was only a matter of time. And it wasn’t that we thought it was the best idea in the world, an uptight attorney and her ragged mechanic trying to raise kids together...
But we couldn’t stop.
I knew I couldn’t, and I thanked God that she couldn’t, either.
“Just give me some more time,” Michelle whispered, reaching a palm to lightly kiss against my cheek.
My eyelashes kissed closed and I breathed more easily. If anyone knew how to calm this beast, it was Michelle.
“I do love you,” she reminded me.
I nodded and kept my eyes closed. “I love you, too,” I said. My arms traced over hers and slithered around the back, pulling her to settle into my arms. I lowered my head and nuzzled her neck, relishing the clean aroma of coconut and vanilla and sugar. My baby. I could pick her out of a crowd of ten thousand, blindfolded.
One of my hands fanned into an open palm and skated down to her ass, giving her buttock a tender squeeze. She murmured her appreciation and tilted her face up to mine. Our lips bumped and cracked apart, tongues tangling, and I forgot the candles. I forgot the marriage proposal. None of it mattered, as long as we had this.
“I just want this,” I rumbled over her skin, making all the little hairs stand on edge. I felt her fingernails creep under my shirt and rake my bare abdomen, relishing the muscles there. Her palm flattened and snaked down into my pants, and my member sprang immediately to attention, like he was her puppy dog. I broke our tongues apart and whispered into her mouth, “I just want this forever.”
Michelle exhaled shakily and her fingers wrapped around me, squeezing affectionately. I swallowed thickly. Didn’t she feel this? Did she really think her or I would find it again?
Michelle nudged at my ear with her lips and blessed a lobe with one delicate kiss. “Ask again later,” she whispered. “Don’t forget.”
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Untamed
BY KIRA BLAKELY
*Amazon Best-seller, 4.6 stars, 271 reviews!*
Nathan Landers, New York’s, hottest, most eligible… womanizer… just strolled up and started kissing me.
He said it was to hide from another woman, but the kiss lasted too long to be fake.
His passion, his lips, those muscular arms wrapped around my waist. It was enough to make my knees buckle and my cheeks catch on fire.
I try to escape him. But I can’t resist. I fight his power at first. But it’s useless. I’m the prey, and he’s the predator.
And once I’ve felt what it’s like to be in his clutches, I want to be devoured.
Chapter 1
Sam the Squirrel
Have you ever thought that people are not so different from animals?
Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just like to think so, because I’d rather be a wildlife photographer than a lifestyle photographer. I know, I know. I’m a woman. I’m supposed to like parties, but I’d rather be taking pictures of animals in the wild than pointing my camera at people wearing fancy clothes and fake smiles at galas.
That’s what the event this evening is — another gala. Sure, the reason for each is different. Supposedly, this one’s to recognize New York City’s top entrepreneurs but if you ask me, it’s another excuse for the poor to look rich and the rich to spend their money.
Hiding behind the lens of my Nikon D810, I can tell who’s who. That woman in the sparkly black dress, for example, is wearing sandals that are a tad too small for her, the tips of her toes over the front edge. A last-minute loan from her sister, maybe? Or a friend?
She’s like a zebra, that one. Trying to blend in with the herd so that she doesn’t get picked off and torn apart by the lurking hyenas.
Speaking of hyenas, that older woman in the lavender gown is one. She’s already had her third glass of champagne, and she’s been looking around for prey. Someone she can say a mean word to or simply turn her pointy nose up at. Maybe someone whose cheap dress she can spill her fourth glass on.
Right now, she’s eyeing the hen across the room. I say hen because she’s sticking out her chest more than usual, and because she’s been clucking the whole time. She’s got feathers on her head, too. My guess? She was born poor but married rich. Lucky for her.
Having decided on its prey, the hyena starts moving, preparing to pounce. She’s interrupted by a man in a purple suit and a golden watch, though. A peacock. He says something, and she gives a loud, fake laugh.
Definitely a hyena.
As for me, I’m a squirrel. Samantha the squirrel. I like cozy spaces. I like nuts — almonds, pistachio nuts, and chestnuts. I keep a stock of them in my pantry. I forget where I put my things. I’d rather run than fight. And you bet I can run. I was on the high school track team. I can scratch and bite, too, though. Just ask that dumbass who tried to mess with the first camera I ever owned, or that jerk who tried to feel my butt during the first party I covered.
“Quite the party, isn’t it?” Matilda, who I like to call Mattie, interrupts my thoughts as she stands beside me in her perfect green gown.
A lynx. That’s what she is — slender and gorgeous with naturally sultry eyes and dark skin.
She’s my partner at work. I shoot the pictures. She writes the articles.
“It’s okay, I guess,” I tell her.
“I have to say, this new ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton is fantastic,” she adds as she takes a sip of her martini. “Did you know they only finished this one last month?”
“Really?”
The place is fantastic. Blue crystal chandeliers hanging from a blue and gold dome. Intricately carved arches and sculpted marble pillars. Fountains in the corners. It’s a fusion of classical architecture.
Mattie leans closer to me. “So, who do we have here so far?”
I take a picture. Snap. “No one new.”
“Really?” I can tell her thin eyebrows are creased even without turning my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that blonde in the black dress.”
Snap. “You mean the zebra trying so hard not to stick out?”
Mattie chuckles. “I see you’ve turned this party into a zoo again.”
“Not a zoo. I hate zoos.”
There’s nothing I dislike seeing more than birds in cages or lions in enclosures, lazily waiting to be tossed their next meal.
“A jungle, then.”
“A savanna,” I correct. “Zebras don’t live in jungles.”
Mattie shrugs. “Well, you’re the animal expert. Seriously, I don’t know why Henry won’t put you on the staff of the nature magazine.”
I lower my camera and narrow my brown eyes at her. “Are you saying you don’t like working with me?”
“Shut up.” She takes another sip from her glass. “You know what I’m saying. He’s stupid for not putting you where you want to be.”
&
nbsp; “He thinks I’m not ready.” I lift my camera, pointing it around as I look for my next shot. “Bullshit. I had my first camera when I was three.”
“A pink toy camera that plays nursery rhymes whenever you press the shutter.”
I adjust the lens. “I’ve been taking pictures of animals since I was six.”
“Farm animals,” Mattie reminds me. “They don’t really move around, do they?”
“Says someone who’s never been to a farm.” I frown. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. So what if you have no experience? You have talent. That’s what counts.”
“Tell that to Henry. He seems to have a thing for you.”
Henry looks at Mattie the way a male dog looks at a bitch in heat.
“He has a thing for everyone with boobs and a place between their legs for him to stick his cock into,” Mattie says. “Hey, maybe he’s keeping you around because he likes looking at you.”
I snort.
“And he’s not the only one,” Mattie adds. “I’ve seen a few heads turn in your direction this evening. I can’t blame them. Your red dress is hard not to look at.”
I glance at my dress. Red. One strap over the right shoulder. A flared skirt reaching up to the ankles. Quite simple, really.
“This old thing? I haven’t worn it in ages.”
“No one’s seen it then? It’s good as new.”
“So, it’s the dress,” I tell Mattie as I snap another shot. “People are looking at the dress, not me.”
“Sweetheart, they wouldn’t look at that dress if it was on a hanger right in front of them. They only look at dresses when they have curves.”
The men in the room were staring at my curves?
Just then, I see a familiar face doing just that from a few feet away. Barry Baker. Black hair. Brown eyes. 5’5”. A little bit on the stocky side. Paparazzi by profession, if it can be called a profession. He’s been asking me out since I started, but there’s no way I’m going to let him get his greasy paws on me.
Weasel.